by Marc Cameron
“That would be Roy,” Cutter said after waiting a beat so he didn’t cut off the SAIC. He wanted to help, not interrupt.
“That’s the guy,” Warneke said. “He’s got a bunch of theories that are less than helpful.”
“I hear you,” Cutter said, suddenly distracted when Charles Beason marched across the courtroom directly to the jury box, where Lola was delivering Cutter’s message to the Forest Service LEO.
Warneke was still talking on the other end of the line. “…so I’d like the report of your observations of the scene ASAP.”
“Of course.” Cutter started toward the jury box as the FBI supervisor crowded into Lola’s personal space. Had it been another person, she might have punched Beason in the beak to get him to step back, but the guy was a boss at another agency – and Lola Teariki had a natural propensity to obey authority.
“My report is finished,” Cutter said to Warneke. “I’ll email it and my sketches to – Excuse me just a moment, sir—”
Charles Beason had just committed a cardinal sin of management. He’d poked Lola in the shoulder with the tip of his finger to drive home some point. Cutter was close enough to hear the last bit of his side of the conversation. It dripped with condescension.
“…already gave him an assignment. Now stop with your bullshitting and get out of his way so he can go do what I asked him to…”
Lola raised her hands, like she was either going to comply or slap Beason in both ears.
Cutter took the two steps to the jury box in one bound.
Lola saw him coming and shook her head. “No worries here, boss. I’m good.”
Cutter ignored the wave-off and spoke directly to Beason. “I asked her to stop Officer Tarrant for me while I took a phone call.”
Beason sneered. “Is that right? Well, you can—”
Cutter moved to within two feet from the FBI supervisor. Both were large men. If anything, Beason was a hair taller than Cutter’s six-three.
Cutter kept his hands at his sides. His voice was direct, but measured, like a firehose on full blast but with a focused stream. “Let me be clear. Put that finger on one of my deputies again and you and I will have a serious problem. Is that understood?”
Beason was smart enough to see the don’t-test-me look in Cutter’s eyes. He took a half step back, raising his hands in retreat. “Look, it’s been a long day and—” Beason paused, regaining his emotional footing after Cutter’s sudden appearance. “You know what? I’m not going to stand around and get schooled by a couple of court monkeys. You are here in a supporting role. The old man wants your report on the crime scene, like yesterday.”
“The old man?” Cutter asked, knowing full well who he was talking about.
“Warneke,” Beason said. “The special agent in charge. Matter of fact, I should just call him right now and have him tell your boss you’re impeding my investigation. They’ll pull your ass out of here so fast it’ll make your—”
Cutter pushed the cell phone out in front of him.
Beason flinched, apparently thinking Cutter was about to hit him. His head cocked sideways when he realized it was a phone.
“What’s this?”
“You want to talk to Warneke?” Cutter said. “Here he is.”
The SAIC’s voice spilled out of the speaker as Beason held the phone six inches away from his ear.
“Yes… I mean no… Yes, sir, I know it’s your investigation, not mine… No, sir… I mean, I may have touched her on the arm with the tip of my finger… No, sir… I only… Yes, sir.”
He passed the phone back to Cutter. Warneke gave him a curt apology and then ended the call.
Beason spoke through clenched teeth, seething. “You could have told me he was on the line.”
“Honestly,” Cutter said, “it’s lucky for you he was. You know my reputation.”
“For being a hothead?”
Cutter shook his head. “For not putting up with assholes.”
“Listen,” Beason said. “We’re all under stress. I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
“Bullshit,” Cutter whispered. “Stress doesn’t turn us into idiots, it lays bare the idiot we already are. I don’t care if you’re having the worst day of your life. Touch one of my deputies again and we’ll both be out of work.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Figure it out,” Lola said, following Cutter out of the jury box.
Chapter 24
Constance Cutter’s secret would top anything Audrey or Evelyn could dream up – but telling it was a nuclear option. Imelda clutched her knees to her chest, jaw locked like she’d rather look at her new multicolored toes or do just about anything besides play confession. All the girls were smoking weed now, even Imelda. Their game of truth or dare had devolved into tell the shittiest little secret about your life that you can think of. Evelyn was finishing up with a story about some nasty thing her jailbird uncle had done to one of her cousins. Constance would have to go next—
Her cell phone buzzed on the floor. The weed made everything foggy, surreal. She sat and watched for a few seconds. Her mom… She coughed. It was her mom! She cursed under her breath, suddenly aware that she was holding a joint in one hand. Just one more fight for her brain to wrestle with.
Constance put a finger to her lips, shushing the giggling girls, and worked hard to calm her breathing. There was nothing to worry about. Her mother was hundreds of miles away. At least she hadn’t tried to FaceTime.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Are you all right?” her mom said. “You sound odd.”
It was a test – and Constance wasn’t falling for it.
“I’m fine,” she said. She started to ask how things were going, but decided she shouldn’t sound too interested. That would arouse her mother’s suspicions for sure. “What’s up?”
“Your Uncle Arliss has gotten busy with his work. I’m bringing the boys home.”
“Tonight?” Constance said, wondering if she sounded like a terrified rabbit.
“We get in a little before midnight. You go ahead and spend the night with Audrey, but I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
“Mom—”
“Gotta go,” her mother said, leaving no room for argument. “Be ready in the morning. I’ll be there by nine o’clock.”
Constance stuffed the phone in the pocket of her pajama pants, then fished it out again to make sure it was locked and not about to butt dial her mother back.
In some small way, she was glad her mom was coming home. It gave her a good excuse not to try the tab acid. Someday maybe, but not yet. She’d made plans for weed, though. Audrey had loaned her a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt. Her own clothes were in a plastic garbage bag. She’d shower in the morning and then put on her fresh clothes right before she left.
Evelyn reached the end of the story about her uncle. Audrey curled her nose and called him a perv. Imelda nodded slowly, her face passive, as if such gross behavior was commonplace.
Sitting on the floor, Constance bounced the back of her head against the couch cushion, dizzy from the marijuana. Mulling over her secret.
Arliss had wasted no time in moving to Alaska after her dad died. Constance had seen the way he looked at her mother, knew the stories about when they were kids. The more she was around him, the more Constance saw certain resemblances, mannerisms – things she couldn’t ignore.
The thought of it made her sick.
She desperately wanted to fit in with these girls, but this wasn’t the kind of secret you just threw out there – or maybe you did and that’s what made you cool.
She stared at the smoldering remnants of her joint on the saucer beside her and leaned back to stare at the ceiling, blocking out Audrey and Evelyn’s goading.
She’d have to make something up. Up to now, it had only been a suspicion, but the weed made everything so much clearer. The evidence was all there in living color. Still, there was no way she was going to tell her new friends that
her uncle Arliss was her real father.
Chapter 25
Skip Warneke divided the ad hoc task force into squads, all but one of them led by an FBI agent. Charles Beason was subdued if not contrite. Still acting as Warneke’s field commander, he put Cutter in charge of a small team that included Lola, Detective Van Dyke from JPD, and Forest Service LEO Tarrant.
This investigation was likely to be a marathon, not a sprint. They would eventually work in shifts, but the first few hours were crucial, so everyone expected to pull an all-nighter. Most of them wouldn’t have had it any other way. Warneke began to rotate squads out to grab a quick meal a little after ten p.m.
Cutter’s squad was one of the first to go.
The Hangar restaurant was normally closed at that hour, but Rockie Van Dyke knew the manager. Under the circumstances, he’d agreed to stay open until midnight. Three squads would have time to walk over and eat in-house. He’d make to-go boxes for everyone else.
Cutter wasn’t hungry, but he’d learned long ago that food, sleep, and bathroom breaks should be taken whenever and wherever they were offered.
A hostess with smudged mascara around drooping eyes waved them in with a stack of menus. She stared at the floor as she moped her way to a corner table. The large influx of clients was a windfall to the restaurant, but the mostly to-go orders meant the staff would lose out on tips. Rockie reminded the hostess that most of the task force was from out of town, on government per diem, and she would personally ensure that they sent over a large tip envelope to thank the staff for their extra effort. The girl brightened, some, but still slogged back to her station.
A waiter came over next – long beard, man bun, skinny jeans, and checkered flannel shirt. To each his own, Cutter thought, but he’d work hard to make sure that if the twins decided to grow beards and wear flannel, they’d have calloused hands from an axe. Soft hands or not, Fake Lumberjack was much more chipper than the hostess.
Lola and Officer Tarrant went with Detective Van Dyke’s recommendation and got halibut and chips. Cutter ordered a bowl of clam chowder and twice the normal amount of oyster crackers. Mixing crackers into his soup until it was more cracker than soup was his guilty pleasure. It had driven Grumpy crazy.
Van Dyke, Tarrant, and Lola chatted quietly, discussing investigative theories and performing the crucial initial steps of any ad hoc team by testing the water and getting to know one another’s personalities. Cutter let Lola carry the water on the butt-sniffing stage and let his eyes drift around the restaurant. The two-story blue Wharf building that housed the Hangar restaurant and a few other shops was located directly on the water. Floor-to-ceiling windows along the seaward wall looked out over the Gastineau Channel and the twinkling lights of Douglas Island to the west. Cutter was sure there would have been a killer view of the water if it hadn’t been dark outside. A few locals had wandered in as well, taking advantage of the later hours. Management didn’t care. So long as they were paying their staff overtime, they might as well be making money.
The same sad-sack hostess who’d seated them now hovered over a man sitting in the corner booth, facing the wall. She spoke in hushed, but highly animated tones. Cutter could tell from the tension in the hostess’s body language that they were having a disagreement. The man, obviously agitated by something she said to him, stood up quickly and tried to push his way past. The hostess hip-checked him, blocking his exit from the booth. She covered her face with both hands – and began to cry.
Cutter was on his feet in an instant, barking from across the restaurant.
“Hey! Everything okay?”
The hostess nodded. “I’m fine. He’s a friend of mine…”
The young man waved Cutter away. “We’re good,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. He rubbed his face and collapsed into the booth. The kid looked like a star football player who’d just lost the championship. His eyes were red from crying – and crying men were often the first to shove a pencil in your eye.
“I gotta be honest,” Cutter said, watching the man’s hands, his pockets, the area of the waistline that was visible. “You don’t look fine.”
Cutter heard footsteps padding up behind him. Before he could turn, Lola said, “Just us, boss.”
Detective Van Dyke stepped beside him, tilting her head sideways to whisper, “That’s Levi Fawsey. Senator Fawsey’s son.”
“Senator Fawsey?” Cutter said. He knew his federal reps but wasn’t up to speed enough on Alaska politics to know more than a couple of state senators.
“He represents Juneau,” Van Dyke said. “Bazillionaire owner of a couple of auto dealerships here and in Anchor-town.”
“Ah,” Cutter said. “That Fawsey—”
Senses heightened, Cutter caught a glimpse of movement at the entry with his peripheral vision. Lori Maycomb stood by the hostess podium, neck craned, scanning. She zeroed in on Levi Fawsey at once and marched across the restaurant, looming over the table. She ignored Cutter and her former sister-in-law as if they weren’t even there.
Both hands on the table, she leaned in close, nose to nose with the cowering young man. “Where is she?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Tell me what you’ve done with her!”
Rockie Van Dyke stepped forward and grabbed the reporter’s elbow. “Hey, now. Come on.”
Lori jerked away. “He’s done something to her, Rockie. I have a witness who saw her leave with him in his boat earlier this evening.” Her chest heaved as she fought back tears. “She’s not picking up or answering texts. No one’s seen her…”
Van Dyke folded her arms across her chest. “Seen who?”
The hostess spoke next. “Donita Willets. That’s who I just asked him about. Donita called me earlier. She was really upset about something. Now she won’t answer my texts.”
“Maybe she’s out of range?” Lola offered.
“Donita loves her phone too much to go out of cell service,” the hostess said. She turned to Fawsey again. “Please, Levi. Just tell us where she is. She’s in trouble. I can feel it.”
He leaned forward, banging his forehead on the table. “I… I’m sorry…” He began to weep in earnest now. His hands dropped to his lap.
“Levi,” Van Dyke said. “You’re making me really nervous. Keep your hands on the table where I can see them.”
He complied, but kept crying, his face sideways on the table in a growing puddle of tears and snot.
Lori Maycomb moved closer again. “She called me too, Levi.” “Do you know where she is?” Cutter asked, bile rising in his throat.
Head still on the table, as if he was waiting for someone to cut it off, Levi blurted: “She fell, okay! We were out on the boat… and she just fell out.”
The hostess gasped. Lola caught her as she sank to her knees. “I tried to save her,” Fawsey croaked. “But it was just… too cold. She went under…”
Detective Van Dyke held her radio to her lips, ready to get a rescue going that direction. “Where did she go over?” Van Dyke banged her free hand on the table. “How long ago?”
“North,” he sobbed. “It’s been too long. I’m telling you, she’s gone. I tried to save her… Nobody can find her.”
“Go ahead and stand up for me,” Van Dyke said. She kept her voice low and steady, but Cutter could tell she was rattled. “You got any weapons on you?”
He shook his head, raising his hands to shoulder height, obviously having been through this before.
Van Dyke cuffed him behind his back.
“Anything in your pockets that’ll hurt me? Needles? Fentanyl?”
“No,” he said, sniffing, trying to rub his nose against his shoulder. “Will someone please call my dad.”
“Sure,” Van Dyke said. “You’re not under arrest right now. But you were beating your head against the table so hard, I was afraid you were going to hurt yourself. I want you to listen to me, Levi. A girl’s life is at stake. I need you to tell me exactly where she fell out of your boat.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I… I can’t remember.”
“Where were you going?” Van Dyke asked. “A particular bay, hangout spot? Anything?”
“She’s just… gone.”
“Okay,” Detective Van Dyke said. “Now you’re under arrest. Let’s go.”
Lola helped the teetering hostess to a seat in the nearby booth before she collapsed. She kept the one that was covered with Levi Fawsey’s snot and tears secure for a possible sample of “free-flowing” DNA.
“I’m sure JPD will have a few questions for you,” she said.
The young hostess gave a shuddering nod and buried her face in her hands.
Lola stepped back and whispered to Cutter, “What do you think, boss? Girl goes missing on the same day an AUSA is murdered. You always say you don’t believe in coincidence.”
“It’s not a coincidence,” Lori Maycomb said.
“And you know this how?” Cutter asked.
“Because Donita Willets called me this morning. She was paranoid about something. Would only talk in person. She was supposed to get in touch with me around lunchtime to schedule the specifics of a meet. Then the judge made us leave our phones outside the courtroom, so I missed her calls.”
“Wait,” Lola said. “This missing girl was a source?”
“She was,” Lori said. “And I’m betting that when she couldn’t get hold of me, she set up a meeting at the shrine with Van Tyler.”
Lola watched the door where Levi Fawsey had been led away. “Pretty damned convenient for her to jump in the ocean and drown.”
Chapter 26
The throw rug in Dean Schimmel’s filthy apartment was too dirty for him to notice the muddy boot print.
A near-constant adrenaline dump throughout the day left him too exhausted to be jittery.
He kicked the door shut behind him, slouching under the enormous burden of the bone rattle. It may as well have weighed a hundred pounds. At least a dozen times he’d considered throwing the damned thing into the sea, but the notion of a half million – or even half a thousand dollars – made him hang on to it a little longer. Things weren’t going so well since he’d scooped up the rattle from the shaman’s grave, but then, they hadn’t been all that great beforehand either. Maybe it wasn’t the bone rattle that was cursed, but Schimmel himself. If that were the case, then maybe the rattle was a good thing.
