“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 who 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.