Stone Cross (Arliss Cutter #2) - Marc Cameron Page 0,8

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 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