“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s Zeus,” she said, looking glum.
“That was going to be my first call,” Cutter said. “What are you hearing?”
Lola sat in one of the two chairs in front of Cutter’s desk. The other was piled high with blue warrant folders. Both hands in her lap, she fidgeted, uncharacteristically nervous.
“Nancy says it’s bad. Theron took him straight to the animal emergency hospital off Tudor last night. It sounds like he’s got swelling on the brain. The vet put him in a drug-induced coma. He has to be on a respirator. I didn’t even know that was a thing for dogs.”
Cutter sighed. “Thanks for letting me know. Is Nancy coming in?”
“I don’t think so,” Lola said. “She’s with Theron right now.”
The phone rang. Cutter looked at the number and then picked it up. “Morning, Chief.”
Lola mouthed, “Want me to leave?” He waved an open hand, motioning for her to keep her seat.
He listened a moment, and then hung up.
“Chief wants to see us.”
Lola raised a wary brow. “Both of us? Did she say why?”
“Something about Judge Markham.”
“What did I tell you?” Lola threw back her head and stared at the ceiling. “I really don’t like that guy. Did she say what she wants from us? Scott Keen handles judicial security. We stay plenty busy hunting bad guys, thank you very much.”
“Keen’s in the chief’s office now. For some reason, Jill wants to talk to us too.”
Cutter felt the familiar tickle on his neck that said something unpleasant was about to go down. Federal judges could be funny animals. Grumpy often said that the difference between God and a federal judge was that God didn’t believe he was a federal judge.
“Markham . . .” Teariki said, her voice taking on an uncharacteristic whine.
“Do you two have some kind of history I need to know about?”
“He chastised me once for yawning during a trial,” Lola groused.
“In open court?”
“Well,” Lola said, “he didn’t really chastise out loud. But he glared at me so everyone could see. The prisoner thought it was all pretty hilarious. I think Markham’s dad was a judge in New York. Not a real judge, but a parking-ticket judge kind of deal. I think he’s outdone Daddy and has gone and turned all purple with his terrible cosmic power of the federal bench. You’ll see what I mean.”
“We’ve met,” Cutter said.
“Then you already know.” Lola closed her eyes and gave a mock shudder. “We are soooo stuffed.”
* * *
Jill Phillips, the chief deputy US marshal for the judicial district of Alaska, sat poring over a stack of photographs at her cherry-veneer desk. It was a nice enough piece of furniture, but still held the slightly chintzy look of government-issue. Large windows ran the length of the wall to her right, giving her a view of Eighth Avenue. During the summer, vendors sold reindeer hotdogs from umbrella pushcarts along the quiet street that ran between the federal building and the social security annex. In winter, the occasional moose stopped by to rest on the bark mulch beneath landscaped birch and spruce. The southern exposure lit various marksmanship trophies, challenge coins, and photographs—mementos of the chief’s career and her personal love of horses. An eight-by-ten photograph of her husband and new baby got center stage.
Scott Keen, the judicial security inspector, or JSI, stood at the end of her desk, examining each photograph. He was on the back side of his forties, having been promoted to the rank of senior inspector later in his career. A quiet man, Inspector Keen was an expert at dealing with judicial whims while still maintaining a high level of security. He had the thinning silver hair of a grandfather—though his own kids were still in middle school—and, like many deputies in Alaska, the callused hands of an avid outdoorsman. As a supervisor, Cutter and he shared the same rank, though Cutter ran a task force of people while Inspector Keen oversaw the judicial security program. Keen liked the JSI gig—managing a program instead of subordinates. He was good at it, and would likely stay there until he retired.
Chief Phillips flicked her hand at the two lavender paisley chairs in front of her desk without looking up, and then chuckled, turning the photographs on her desk so Cutter and Teariki could take a look. Her brunette hair was longer than when he’d first met her, as if the new baby made it too difficult to find time to cut or style. She was about Cutter’s age, freckled, which he found attractive but would never say out loud since she was his boss. He suspected she was the only person in the district who could routinely outshoot him. Her Kentucky accent was pleasant, reminding him of folks he knew from rural Florida. More important, she was a damned good boss.
Where the position of United States Marshal is filled by presidential appointment, changing with the tides of whichever political party is in the White House, the chief deputy is the top career boss in each district, protected from the vagaries of political change by civil service rules. Cutter had worked under several different US Marshals. Most were seasoned law enforcement professionals, but a couple were businessmen who got the gig because of their political connections. Gaining the rank of chief deputy was different. Climbing up the career ladder didn’t make all chiefs perfect—Cutter had worked for some real winners—but at least they knew the culture and had enough contacts at headquarters to provide top cover for the deputies in their respective districts if they wanted to. It was often said (though rarely within earshot of the Marshal) that the gold badge was given; the silver badge was earned.
Jill Phillips had certainly earned her promotion. More leader than manager, she proved to be the type of straight-shooting boss that the A-type souls who were likely to become deputy marshals craved—even if they didn’t care to admit it. If you screwed up, her tune-ups were excruciatingly direct, but done privately and face to face. When you did well, the whole district—and maybe the entire Marshals Service—heard the praise. She was famous throughout the agency for being an incredible mentor, the kind who helped her direct reports become chiefs themselves—which was the last thing Cutter aspired to do. He spent too much time at his desk as it was. Being chained to a chief deputy’s office would be the lowest circle of Hell.
Phillips tapped the eraser of a gray Blackwing 602 pencil against the photograph. “What does this look like to you?”
Lola studied it for a moment and then looked up, frowning as if her time was being wasted. “It looks like some teenage boy drew a dick pic on a dusty tailgate.”
The chief gave a low chuckle. “That is exactly what I said.”
“The problem,” Keen said, “is that this particular dusty tailgate belongs to Judge Markham’s Suburban. His grandkids saw it too, which has him ready to hold everyone in contempt.”
“Okay,” Cutter said, leaning back in his chair. “I doubt a juvenile drawing rises even to the level of criminal mischief.”
“All true enough,” Phillips said. “But I didn’t call you over to discuss lewd artwork. According to my contact in the Central Violations Bureau, there’s a guy with a warrant, living near the village of Stone Cross.”
The Central Violations Bureau, or CVB, was the repository for citations issued by various government entities in national parks or other federal lands. Generally unpaid tickets for offenses against regulations dreamed up by some bureaucrat behind a desk rather than laws set forth by Congress, CVB warrants were not in the bottom of the pile for a deputy’s enforcement priorities. They were in an entirely different pile, in the bottom of a forgotten drawer, under a bunch of other things that no one wanted to do. Ever.