by Marc Cameron
Deputy Lola looked in the rearview mirror. “Yes?”
“Can I ask what you are?”
Her eyes were stones in the mirror, unreadable.
“What I am? I’m a deputy US marshal.”
“No,” Nicky said. “I mean, I was just wondering if you were Samoan or Hawaiian or what.”
She made a buzzer noise. “Wrong,” she said. “None of the above. Cook Island Maori.”
“Maori,” Nicky said, giving a little nod like he understood, though he did not. Then it dawned on him. “Like the New Zealand guys with those scary tattoos, who do that dance.”
“Very good,” Deputy Lola said.
“I read they were savages until the eighteen hundreds, when the missionaries came.”
“Savages?” Lola chuckled.
“That’s what I read,” Nicky said. “I read they were cannibals.”
“You know,” Deputy Lola said, staring at him in the rearview mirror. “Those are my people you’re talking about. I’m one of those savages.”
Nicky gave a nervous chuckle. “But you’re not a cannibal.”
Deputy Lola’s eyes grew wide as saucers in the mirror, showing their whites. At the same time, she drew her lips back in a horrifying grimace that nearly made him piss his pants.
“I could be,” she said.
Ranucci looked away, then gave the chains another rattle.
“How about it, Marshal? What do you say about the cuffs?”
Cutter looked him in the eye long enough to make him uncomfortable—which didn’t take very long—and then gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, less than Mount Rushmore moved in the wind. “You’re doin’ great.”
Lola spoke over her shoulder again. “Sure you don’t want a burger?”
Yeah, she was hot all right. She looked like she could kick his ass, but it would almost be worth it for the physical contact . . .
Deputy Lola snapped her fingers to bring him out of his stupor. “A Big Mac or something? Jailhouse bologna can’t be very tasty.”
“I’m good.” Ranucci used the shoulder of his tan scrubs to wipe mustard off the corner of his mouth. “Guys in my cellblock would smell it on my breath and beat my ass. Snitches get stitches. Know what I mean? They’d figure I did something to earn the reward.”
Ranucci’s mouth watered at the idea of an actual hamburger. He closed his eyes and tried not to imagine food beyond what he got in Cook Inlet Pretrial. Life inside was hard enough for a wigged-out junkie. It would be impossible for a snitch with a burger on his breath. He groaned, and craned his neck again to reach the last of his sandwich, since he wasn’t about to get any help with the chains.
Deputy Cutter was obviously the boss, but for some reason the big guy had opted to sit in the back of the SUV with the prisoner and let the pretty Hawaiian drive. Maybe the two of them had something going. Ranucci had enough experience with cops to know that the senior guy rarely took a seat next to a junkie. Hell, Nicky Ranucci wouldn’t have sat next to himself if he could have avoided it. And there was the whole partner thing, friends, confidants, badges with benefits . . . He’d heard about the PD’s no booty on duty policy. Policies like that didn’t happen without a reason.
Deputy Lola shrugged, working something out in that beautiful head of hers as she made the block.
“So,” she said, “Twig’s cousin owns that car lot?”
“As I understand it,” Ranucci said. “They’re not close or anything. Fact is, Twig don’t trust him. You know—”
The big guy cut him off. “Does Sam deal heroin?”
Ranucci chuckled. “Nah. He just has the poor luck to be related to an asshole like Twig. I never even saw the guy until a couple of days ago. Twig was trying to score some black tar from my dealer for resale, earn a little money to live on. Know what I mean? My dealer thought he might be a cop, so we followed him to Sam’s . . . you know, to establish his bona fides.”
Cutter raised an eyebrow. “And they trust you enough to let you come along?”
“I needed a ride to midtown,” Ranucci said. “APD put my Nissan in car jail after my last DUI. They get you every which way. Know what I mean?”
Lola slowed, swerving around one of Anchorage’s numerous car-eating potholes. “You sure Twig’s still with him?”
“I think so,” Nicky said, forehead knitting in concern that his information might not buy his freedom. “He was before I got arrested. Twig makes sure they’re attached at the hip so Sam don’t rat him out. You find one, you find the other, but you better do it quick. My dealer says Sam’s wife wants Twig gone, so he’ll be moving on any day now.”
“Tell me more about Sam,” Cutter said.
“Twig is big, but Sam’s bigger. Know what I mean?”
“You mean fat?” Lola said.
“Kind of,” Nicky said. “Sure, Sam’s got some weight on him, but he’s got the muscle to carry it around. He seems harmless enough. Twig, on the other hand, I once saw him bite the head off a guy’s pet lizard. For the sport of it. Know what I mean?”
“That’s stuffed up,” Lola said under her breath. There was a hint of Kiwi there, which made Ranucci catch his breath a little, even with the scary faces she made.
She took a painfully slow right off Arctic beside the car lot. “Looks like the shop is locked up tight,” she said. There were a half dozen cars on the lot, dusty, rained on, unkempt, like all the other cars in Anchorage at this snotty time of the year. “Maybe this place is just a front. You know, money laundering or something.”
Ranucci wolfed down the last of his sandwich.
The big deputy’s phone buzzed. He checked it, then looked out the window at the dealership. At length, he raised a handheld radio, keeping it low enough that casual passersby couldn’t see it from the street.
“Hello, Sean.”
The radio broke squelch. “Go ahead, boss.”
“That hearing in front of Judge Markham is still going strong.”
“I just saw,” the other deputy said.
Cutter spoke again. “We’re taking our guest back to the courthouse so he can catch the late jail run. You two keep an eye on this place while we’re gone.”
“Copy.”
Ranucci began to bounce in his seat, twitching at the prospect of going back into lockup. His words came out whinier than he’d intended. “Hold up, now . . . I thought we had an arrangement.”
“We do,” Cutter said. “I’ll call your probation officer and tell her you helped us as soon as we get Twig in cuffs.”
“What if you don’t?” Ranucci felt tears welling up at the prospect of spending another night in lockup. “I did my part by showing you where Sam works.”
“That you did,” Cutter said. “If things pan out, you could get out by tonight.”
“Tonight?” Nicky nodded. “Tonight would be good.”
Cutter poured him another cupful of water, which he sucked down immediately.
“But things have to pan out,” Cutter said. “Know what I mean?”
CHAPTER 2
Along with a Colt Python revolver engraved with the seal of the Florida Marine Patrol, Supervisory Deputy US Marshal Arliss Cutter inherited his grandfather’s natural aversion to smiling. Arliss had not been able to say “grandpa” when he was a boy, and had instead called his grandfather “Grumpy.” The name so fit the elder Cutter’s personality that it stuck at once. He became “Grumpy” to everyone who knew him, friend and foe alike—and he had plenty of each. Neither Arliss nor his grandfather seemed to be in possession of the facial muscles that allowed normal people to grin without looking slightly dyspeptic. Arliss would have inherited the name as well, but his older brother, Ethan, had rightly observed that though there were two grumpy Cutters, there could only be one Grumpy Cutter.
Arliss’s grandmother died before he was born; judging from the photo albums, she was one of the few people on earth who could make Grumpy smile. Everyone who knew her described Nana Cutter as a patient Christian woman w
ho practiced what she preached, and gently chastised her husband for being so judgmental in the way he went about his law enforcement duties. Grumpy often told stories about his bride, as he called her, when he had the boys out on his boat. Hate the sin, love the sinner was her motto. Can’t argue with the Good Book, Grumpy would say. Damnedest thing, though. I put the sin in jail, the sinner always hitches a ride.
Cutter smiled inside at the thought, but his face remained passive.
It was completely dark by the time they dropped Nicholas Ranucci at the Marshals cellblock in the James M. Fitzgerald US Courthouse and Federal Building, and returned to Honest Sam’s Honest Cars off Arctic Avenue. Cutter was in the front seat now. His partner on the Alaska Fugitive Task Force, Lola Teariki—Fontaine until her recent divorce—remained at the wheel. Her father was Maori and had grown up in the Cook Islands in the South Pacific near Tahiti and Fiji and a whole load of other places Cutter wanted to visit someday. Lola’s mother, a handsome woman of Japanese heritage, had met Mr. Teariki when she’d stopped in Rarotonga on her way to spend a gap year tramping around New Zealand. She made it no farther, instead staying in the mysteriously beautiful Cooks long enough to get Lola’s father to fall in love with her so she could lure him back to California. As it turned out, his mother was originally from Nebraska, so immigration wasn’t a problem. Lola spent nearly all of her summers growing up on her father’s island—Raro, they called it. They spoke English there, with a beautiful Kiwi accent that had, more or less, rubbed off on Lola over the years. She used phrases like “right as,” meaning right as rain or good to go, “yis” instead of yes, and referred to bad situations as “stuffed up” instead of more colorful words. Although Cutter never admitted it, the accent made him enjoy hearing Deputy Lola speak—most of the time.
Her cell phone sat on the center console. Deputy Alfredo Hernandez from the District of Nevada was on speaker. He and Lola had gone through Basic at the US Marshals Academy at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Brunswick, Georgia. Hernandez seemed particularly interested that Lola was now Teariki and not Fontaine, as he’d known her in training. Cutter sensed he might have a little crush on his former classmate. After going through the obligatory pleasantries of people who’d sweated through the rope runs and other hellish tortures the training cadre dreamed up for five long months, they got down to the business of discussing Twig Ripley.
“Okay, Smurf,” Lola said. “Tell me what you got on this guy.”
Cutter had no idea what had earned Hernandez the nickname of Smurf and resolved not to ask—though he was certain Lola would tell him anyway milliseconds after she ended the call.
“I been looking for Twig Ripley for nearly a year,” Smurf Hernandez said. “This lead of yours, you think it’s solid?”
“We’ve got some info on his cousin,” Lola said. “But our informant says your guy will be on the move anytime now.”
She rolled to a stop along the grimy curb across the street from a municipal park, half a block farther away from Honest Sam’s. Idling in front of a park didn’t draw quite as much attention as sitting at a car lot.
Cutter spoke next. “Have you dealt with Twig personally?”
“I’ve arrested him twice,” Hernandez said. “Had him in court a half dozen times or more.”
“He ever fight?” Cutter asked. “Cause you problems?”
“No and no,” Hernandez said. “He’s got crazy eyes though. Always looks like he’s a split second away from going apeshit.”
Rain spattered on the windshield, falling harder by the moment. A sudden wind buffeted the SUV, driving the downpour and making it seem as if they were in a car wash.
“How about weapons?” Lola asked.
“No again,” Hernandez said. “Like I said, he’s never fought me, or any cop as far as I know, but he’s kicked the crap outta assorted baby mamas. Las Vegas Metro is pretty sure he smashed his exwife’s hand with a hammer, but she says she shut it in a car door, so he skated on that one.”
“Sounds like a peach,” Cutter said.
“Hope you can scoop him up,” Hernandez said. “Give me a call later, Lola. Fill me in. It’ll be good to catch up.”
“Oh, we’ll get him,” Lola said. “Be safe.”
She ended the call, made certain the screen was locked so she didn’t accidentally butt dial Hernandez back, and dropped the phone in her vest pocket.
“He seems like a good guy,” Cutter said.
She laughed under her breath. “He is. Kind of goofy sometimes, but who isn’t, right?” She shook her head, remembering. Here it came. Cutter sat back to listen to the story, thankful he’d at least be able to hear it with a bit of Kiwi accent.
“So,” she said. “Hernandez bought this bright blue shirt at a Brunswick mall. Then he wore it to a party one weekend at Pam’s. You’ve been there, right?”
Cutter nodded. Pam’s was a local watering hole that catered to FLETC students. Everyone went to Pam’s at least once, if only for a class graduation party.
“Well,” Lola continued. “The dye in the stupid shirt turned his whole torso blue. Everybody had knocked a few back already and a bunch of ’em started yelling at him to strip—”
“I get the picture,” Cutter said.
Lola gave a mock shudder. “I’m sure you don’t . . . Anyway, he is a good dude. I imagine you did some wild stuff in the academy.”
Cutter just stared at her.
“Okay, boss, I get it,” she said. “No need to curse me with your eyes.”
Cutter zipped the neck of his fleece vest a little higher and then reached down to retrieve a dark blue Helly Hansen raincoat from beside his feet. Originally from Florida, he still wasn’t quite used to the chill of Alaska. Summer had been lush and green, if a little rainy for his tastes. Alaskans tended to go on and on about their long days in the summer, but Cutter wasn’t quite sold on that either. He was a man who felt guilty if he wasn’t up and doing something with the sun. Short nights wore him out. October had gotten back to a more reasonable cycle, but now the days were getting shorter fast, so that wasn’t going to last.
“I’ve been here for almost four years,” she said, “and I’m still not used to it.”
“Used to what?”
She nodded at his coat. “The cold. Seems like Alaska has two seasons. Winter and July. I love the work but I wouldn’t mind a little longer summer. I’m a warm-weather girl. My mom says I’m like a paina—one of those Cook pines.”
“How’s that?” Cutter asked, knowing Lola would tell him anyway.
“They’re not really a pine, I guess, but from some islands near Australia. Anyway, they’re all over now, even in California. In the south they bend to the north. In the north, they lean south—like they’re always looking for someplace a little warmer.” She turned toward him and grinned, showing her teeth. “Just like me.”
“I know what you mean,” Cutter said honestly. Alaska was great, but he missed the warm-water beaches of Florida. “Still, this is a beautiful place.”
“True enough.” Lola’s brow furrowed, the way it did when she was deep in thought. She pushed the sleeve of her jacket up enough to check her watch. “I can’t believe Markham held court so late.”
Cutter shrugged. He made it a point to listen to his deputies when they bitched, just in case there was a bona fide complaint, but he rarely joined in. He had to admit that Judge J. Anthony Markham was a piece of work though.
“I walked past the chief’s office this morning,” Lola said. “Scott Keen was in there talking about some kind of threat. He shut the door when I walked by. All very hush-hush. He likes to make everything double top secret.”
“Must be,” Cutter said. “Because it’s news to me.”
Being out of the loop might have bothered another supervisor, but Cutter didn’t care to know every little thing going on in the district. That was the chief’s job. There was plenty to worry about in his own wheelhouse. His own “swim-lane,” the bigwigs in DC called it. P
rotective investigations were all well and good, but he’d leave those to the judicial security inspector and spend his energy hunting fugitives.
“Mark my words, boss,” Lola said. “If we don’t get Twig tonight, we’ll be yanked away to work some protection detail.” She threw her head back against the seat and stared up at the headliner like she was in agony. “Let’s get this show on the road. You know we have our FIT test next week. I was supposed to run tonight.”
“I thought you ran this morning,” Cutter said. He enjoyed a good workout, but when it came to fitness, Lola Teariki was beyond maniacal.
“I did three miles,” she said. “But like you said, I am putting in for SOG this next go around. You know how hard they look at your shooting and FIT scores.”
SOG—the Special Operations Group—was the Marshals Service’s version of SWAT.
Cutter almost smiled. “You want exercise? Then let’s get some exercise.” He keyed the radio. “Lola and I are going to do one more drive-by.” He let off the mic so he was just talking to Lola. “And then we’ll go for a walk.”
“In this crap?” Lola peered across the seat in the dim glow of the dash lights. Her brows were raised, eyes wide and slightly crossed, like she was staring at the tip of her nose. Her top lip curled in the grimace of her Maori ancestors’ haka war dance.
“Hold on to that face,” Cutter said. “We may need it if this works out.”
“You mean if it doesn’t work out,” she corrected.
“Nope,” Cutter said. “I mean if it does.” He nodded down the street. “But first the drive-by. When you get in front of the car lot, I want you to punch it so you peel out.”
Lola threw the Expedition into gear. “Peel out?”
Cutter shrugged. “When I tell you, I want you to hit the gas like you’re fleeing the scene.”
Lola did as instructed, stomping on the accelerator to send up a rooster tail of gravel and sludge in front of Honest Sam’s.
Cutter pointed a half a block down with an open hand. “Pull up there and then flip a U-turn.”
The Expedition’s headlights reflected silver-black off the rain-soaked asphalt. Wipers thwacked back and forth against a backdrop of hissing rain and crunching gravel.
