by Marc Cameron
He liked the chief, though, and didn’t mind at all when she called with her summoning phrase, even with the ominous tone that meant something was up.
“Come see me,” she said. “Bring Lola.”
Lola was her customary bouncy self as they walked, brimming with the energy of an excited puppy. “Maybe this is about that headless torso APD found this morning,” she said. “I’ll bet they’re putting together a task force to find the killer and the chief wants us to be on it.” She elbowed Cutter in the ribs, earning a solemn side-eye. Her bubbliness subsided but didn’t go away completely. “Wouldn’t that be cool, though?”
“We have plenty of work in our own swim lanes,” Cutter said.
“Still,” Lola said. “It would be pretty great to catch a serial killer.”
“I’d be careful about using that phrase before APD does,” Cutter warned. “Anyway, not our job. We’ll leave the who-done-it stuff to APD. They figure out a suspect and we’ll help hunt him down if they ask.”
“I know,” Lola said. “But you’re constantly pushing the boundaries. If you have any theories about the killer, do me a favor and tell me, okay?”
“I won’t,” Cutter said, nodding to the two court security officers as he walked by. Both were retired APD. He held open the glass door to the Marshals Service suite so Lola could go ahead of him.
“You won’t tell me?”
“I won’t have a theory,” Cutter said.
Chief Jill Phillips’s office was down the hall to the right, past the administrative officer and the marshal’s office. It was directly across from the men’s restroom – something she noticed at least once a week the day after Deputy Glen Little’s wife made Mexican food for dinner.
She looked up from her desk when she saw them coming down the hall, and motioned them in.
“How’s Sean?” Phillips asked, motioning for them both to take a seat in her two lavender paisley side chairs.
“He’s home,” Lola said. “Probably got one of those orthopedic ice machines strapped on his leg.”
“Figures,” the chief said. “He gets hurt so much I imagine he has all kinds of braces, crutches, and ice machines floating around his garage.”
Phillips looked at Cutter. “Are you smiling?”
“Told you,” Lola said. “It’s weird.”
“Outlaw’s pet scorpion,” Cutter said. “I’ll be fine.”
“You say so,” Phillips said. She pushed her chair back and swiveled to face them. It was performance evaluation time, and stacks of personnel files covered almost every inch of real estate on the desk. The chief was a practical woman who wore practical clothes. Her mouse-brown hair was just off the collar, short enough she didn’t have to fool with it much after a shower. A healthy splash of freckles covered a smallish nose. She had the look of a pioneer woman who’d been sun kissed, but not yet sun damaged by a life under tough conditions. Cutter thought her attractive, but chose not to say so out loud since she was his boss. She’d gained a tiny bit of weight since her baby was born the year before. He didn’t mention that either.
Chief Phillips scanned the folders on her desk until she found the one she was looking for and then leaned back in her chair to peruse it. Her bourbon-smooth Kentucky accent came through loud and clear when she spoke. “I swear, Sean Blodgett is like a bumper on a pool table. He just lets the bandits bounce off him so you can arrest them.”
“He works hard,” Cutter said. “Gets a lot of bad guys off the street.”
Lola Teariki nodded in agreement.
Phillips eyed them both over the top of the folder and then pitched it on the desk. Her gaze settled on Lola.
“Well,” Phillips said, “you can blame Sean’s mishap for the rest of this.”
Lola sighed. “So I guess this isn’t about an ad hoc task force to find a serial killer.”
“What are you talking about?”
Cutter gave her a quick thumbnail.
“Afraid not,” Phillips said, almost parroting what Cutter had said not three minutes before. “They identify a suspect and we’ll help if they want us to. Until then, I’m sending you to work a trial in Juneau.”
“The Hernandez brothers…” Lola said, her voice glum. “Isn’t that trial already staffed up? Somebody get sick or something?”
“Nobody’s sick,” the chief said. “One of the jurors reported that she was followed home last night. Scott says the judge is leaning toward sequestering the jury.”
Scott Keen was the Judicial Security Inspector, the specialist who saw to it that judges were protected and security aspects of larger trials went smoothly.
“Sequestered?” Lola said, almost, but not quite, whining. “Do we even do that anymore? I mean, I’ve heard horror stories – babysitting jurors, censoring their media, listening in on their phone calls…” She looked over at Cutter. “Hey, what do we do about cell phones?”
Phillips rubbed her eyes and groaned. “The short answer is, we follow the judge’s order. The practical answer is that I have a call in to headquarters. I want to know what other districts are doing in this situation.”
“You’ll be fine,” Cutter said to Lola, knowing where the chief was going next before she even spoke the words.
“And so will you, Big Iron,” Phillips said. She was jealous of the fact that he carried his grandfather’s Colt Python and gave him grief about it every chance she got. “If Judge Forsberg does this, we’ll have to run two shifts just for the jury. Scott’s got his hands full with witnesses and looking after the judge’s safety.”
“A new threat?” Cutter asked.
“Not new,” Phillips said. “But the Hernandez brothers are gang bangers of the first order. Mid-level soldiers, to be sure, but they’re connected to some evil bastards further up the cartel chain. Kidnappings, trafficking, assassinations – their people are good for all kinds of bad behavior. Scott’s running a portal to portal on the judge, driving her to work, screening her mail, that sort of thing.”
“Are there even enough hotels in Juneau to hide a jury?” Lola asked.
“Not hiding,” Phillips said. “Sequestering. There’s a lot of groundwork to get done, so I want you on the early flight tomorrow.”
“Well, shit,” Lola said, hanging her head.
Phillips shot a quick glance at Cutter. “What?”
“Nothing,” Lola said. “I just… I mean, I was starting to mentor this girl out at My House this week. You know, that drop-in shelter for homeless youth in Wasilla. Poor kid’s got no family, no nothing. She was on the street until a couple of weeks ago. Now she’s working as a barista. We’re supposed to have dinner tomorrow night, talk about her future.”
“That is a laudable thing, Lola,” Phillips said. “And if I didn’t need my best people in Juneau, I’d send someone else.”
“Understood.” Lola brightened a shade at the compliment. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll go let her know I need a rain check.” She bounced a fist on Cutter’s shoulder. “I’ll set up the flights, boss.”
“Take your friend to dinner tonight,” he said.
Lola cocked her head, a wide smile blossoming across her face. “Good idea. That’s why you make the big money.”
“Pull the door to on your way out,” Phillips said.
Lola shot Cutter a you’re-in-trouble-now look and did as she was told.
“You are teaching her well,” Phillips said after her office door clicked shut.
Cutter snorted. “She teaches me, Chief. I know she can get on a body’s nerves, but she’s a bright kid. One of the brightest I’ve ever worked with.”
“I’m sure,” Phillips said. “But she’s usually such a ruthless self-promoter, always pushing for more training and assignments to further her career beyond her peers.”
“Somebody’s got to speak up for her in this outfit,” Cutter said. “I mean, no offense to you. You’re a hell of a mentor, but the Marshals Service tends to reward ruthless self-promoters.”
Phillips
scoffed at that. “Big Iron, the world rewards ruthless self-promoters. The Service hasn’t got a corner on that market. But that doesn’t make it right. Let’s take you, for instance.”
“Let’s not,” Cutter said.
“I haven’t seen your paperwork for one of the GS 14 supervisor slots.”
The Marshals Service had just bumped all journeyman deputies up a pay grade, putting them on equal footing with criminal investigators from other federal agencies. As newly minted GS 13s, every journeyman deputy was now the same grade as inspectors and line supervisors. Former mid-level managers who had competed and won their respective promotions had to reapply for one of a limited number of GS 14 spots in each district if they wanted to remain in management.
Cutter cared little about being a boss. He’d only applied for his 13 to get the supervisor’s spot in Alaska and help his sister-in-law after his brother’s death.
“You know me, Chief,” he said. “All I want to do is arrest bad guys.”
“I hear you,” Phillips said.
“All right then.” Cutter started to get up, eager to put an end to the conversation.
“Keep your seat.” Phillips put a hand flat on her desk, not quite pounding, but definitely making a point. “You know how you took up for Sean a minute ago when I called his propensity to get injured into question? And you consistently downplay your role in Teariki’s progression.” She gave a long sigh. “That’s the kind of leadership I want to see in this district. Scott Keen’s a good enough guy, but he’s all about programs, not people. The promotion is virtually automatic, but you have to do the paperwork. You won’t be able to promote to chief if you don’t get your 14.”
“The absolute last thing I ever want to do is be a chief. Again, I mean no offense, but I have more paperwork than I want right now. You’re on the phone with HQ every day. Half the people there think I’m crazy, the other half just think I’m a thug.”
“You’re a hell of a lot of things, Arliss,” Phillips said. “But a thug is not one of them.”
“Shows how much you know.”
“Do you beat the shit out of people on occasion?” Phillips shrugged. “Maybe. Is that amount of force sometimes necessary? Most certainly.” She leaned forward, using her elbows to nudge a few of the file folders out of the way so she could rest on the desk.
Cutter was rarely desperate about anything, but he was desperate to get out of this conversation.
“Too much politics.”
“You’re not wrong about that,” Phillips said. “The Marshals Service would be the perfect job if not for prisoners and politics. But here’s the deal, Big Iron. You need to put in for the slot, even if it’s only for self-preservation. If you don’t get promoted, that means someone else will be calling the shots. You could find yourself a GS 13 POD in operations because you make the guy in charge feel small. Sometimes the world as you know it shifts. When it does, you have to move too, just to stay where you are. I know you don’t want to promote, but I think you’d like that a hell of a lot more than hooking and hauling prisoners and pulling court duty every day.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Her eyes narrowed, like she was focusing on the front sight of her pistol. “Think about it while you’re filling out the paperwork.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He got to his feet, stifling the urge to groan. She didn’t tell him to sit again so he turned toward the door. “I’m going to cut Lola loose so she can go home and pack. We had an early start this morning.”
“You go home too,” Phillips said. “I’m sorry about the last-minute trip to Juneau. I know you had some leave planned to help out your sister-in-law during spring break.”
Cutter started to answer, but Phillips raised her hand, shaking a finger at him as if she’d just thought up an outstanding idea. “You know what? You should take them with you. We’re bringing in some out-of-district deputies on special assignment. You’ll be working a regular shift by the weekend. I’m also hearing there’s a chance the Hernandez brothers will plead out. If that happens, you can take a couple of days leave. Stay down there and enjoy Southeast Alaska with your family.”
Cutter stared at the floor, thinking through the ramifications of a family vacation. It sounded good, but… “I think Mim’s got something going at her church this week.”
“Good people always have something going at church,” the chief said. “And they almost always have someone to step in for them if plans change. Ask her. Maybe this is one of those times when someone can cover for her. It’ll do you both good.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.”
“Well.” Phillips sighed, giving a slow shake of her head. “At the risk of overstepping by a mile – I’ll bet Mim does.”
Chapter 7
Harold Grimsson kept a large oil painting of his late wife hanging above the fireplace. It was a beautiful piece, full of light – just as Marisa had been before he drowned her in the bathtub.
Few people visited him on his private island, South of Juneau, but he made certain those who did saw the painting.
The owner of Valkyrie Mine Holdings sank deeper into the soft leather of his overstuffed chair. An orange glow from the stone hearth reflected off the rich mahogany walls, making even the trashy spy novels in the floor-to-ceiling bookcases look like classics. Flickering firelight added dark shadows to the hollows under Grimsson’s deep-set eyes. He was a large man, with broad, if slightly stooped shoulders. A healthy layer of fat around his belly made suspenders more useful than a belt to hold up the faded jeans that he kept tucked into a pair of rubber boots. At six feet four, he could pull off a little extra weight. The twinkle in his blue eyes did little to conceal a flint-hard look that said he was happy to bury an axe in your forehead if you didn’t get the hell out of his way. A prominent brow bisected thick black curls and a matching beard, giving him the appearance of Popeye’s nemesis, Bluto. A villainous silver streak ran up the center of his chin like a skunk. Marisa had found his cruel look charming – until she realized the truth of it.
Grimsson studied the two Alaska state senators seated across from him. Their chairs were slightly lower to the ground than his, making them sit slightly knees up. Grimsson could stand with ease, while they would have to wallow to get to their feet. Ephraim Dollarhyde, seated to Grimsson’s right, had seen through the trick on their first meeting, two years before. He was smart, maybe too smart. The furnishings, the lighting, the Viking axes on the wall, they were all meant to keep everyone off balance – everyone but Dollarhyde anyway.
The painting was at once a reminder not to trust anything that beautiful – and a not-so-subtle message to those who worked for Harold Grimsson that he was not above killing a creature he dearly loved.
Her paramour had come forward after her death, revealing that Grimsson had motive. Internet warriors went insane, offering countless conspiracy theories as to why he’d never been arrested.
They’d all watched episodes of CSI and rested assured that some tidbit of a clue would turn up to put the killer in jail. It hadn’t. Grimsson had been too careful. He cooperated with law enforcement, grieved like a widowed husband was expected to grieve, blew up when they told him of his wife’s adultery. Police were trained to look for behaviors that were out of the norm. Grimsson’s performance was flawless in its normality.
Time ticked by, the news cycled, and winter came and went. The police made no headway, and Internet warriors found other things to rail against. Grimsson donated money to schools and museums. He was careful never to act as if he’d put his wife’s death behind him, mentioning her at every public appearance. Most of those who suspected him at first began to see him as a poor guy who’d lost his spouse. The few who still thought him guilty surely saw him as all the more intimidating. If they were right, he’d gotten away with murder.
He raised his tumbler of Glenfiddich toward the senators in a halfhearted toast and stifled a chuckle. That painting scared these dumb bastards s
hitless. They didn’t realize that drowning his wife wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever done. It was, though, perhaps the smartest plan he’d ever come up with.
Grimsson had been extremely careful with his approach so she didn’t put up a fight. She was already in the tub when he came in, the water lapping at her magnificent collarbones. She’d sat up, half rising the way a guilty wife would do when she thinks her husband might have found out about her lover. Grimsson kept his face passive, even as he’d slammed her head backward against the edge of the tub. The blow had caused a small contusion, no larger than a quarter, behind her right ear. It hadn’t knocked her out. Grimsson knew from experience that it was more difficult to knock someone out than Hollywood depicted. It stunned her, though, allowing him to hold her under without much fuss. She’d clawed at him, of course, and thrashed some, but the tub was slick and any bruising was easily explained away by the initial fall that had caused the injury to her head. He’d worn long sleeves – so there would be none of his flesh under her fingernails.
She’d gone limp much faster than he’d supposed she would. He suspected she might be acting. She’d always been so good at that. He held her under for another full minute – watching the gossamer trickle of blood wash away from the wound on her head while the faucet ran wide open at the foot of the tub. Grimsson had simply walked away and flown to Anchorage for business that evening. Marisa’s body had lain submerged under an open faucet for two days. The bathroom floor flooded, destroying any clues the authorities might have found. She liked her baths extra hot, meaning she’d steeped there until the housekeeper came in. The medical examiner found it impossible to pin down the time of death.
