Bone Rattle by Marc Cameron (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

“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,