Page 90 of Backtrack

Joellen’s cruise ship wasn’t scheduled to dock until half past eight, but Cutter was showered and ready to go by five thirty. He checked his phone for the inevitable string of emails from USMS Headquarters—four hours ahead on the East Coast. Most of them were nastygrams from the bean counters about stats like fuel reports on task force vehicles—and how late he was at submitting them. Lola’s footsteps outside his door rescued him from the mundane at a quarter to six.

Absent her usual bouncy exuberance, she turned and started downstairs as soon as he joined her in the hallway.

“Popongito you, too,” Cutter said, borrowing her Cook Island Maori morning greeting.

“Yep,” she said, a half-hearted grunt.

The smell of simmering chowder wafted up from Annabelle’s on the floor below, but they didn’t open until eleven. The deputies hit their go-to breakfast place a couple of blocks away on Mission Street, near the Ketchikan cruise ship dock.

Decked out in red-and-white plaid like an old-time diner, the Pioneer Cafe was remarkably crowded for six in the morning. Localswere having a peaceful bite before as many as five cruise ships disgorged over ten thousand tourists—sometimes called Q-tips because of their hair and sneakers. Cotton-white on both ends. For now, Ketchikan remained their quiet little fishing village. In an hour’s time, the locals would become part of the attraction.RealAlaskans.

Lola led the way, stopping just inside the door to read the room before choosing a window booth at the front. Cutter yielded the gunfighter seat to her and took the one with his back to the door—an incredible display of trust. Lola ran a finger back and forth across the menu, perusing it as seriously as if it were scripture. The waitress brought coffee. Cutter ordered a single buttermilk pancake, one over medium egg, and a strip of bacon.

Lola slid her menu across the table. “I’m so hungry I’m about to chew my arm off and you’re ordering the retirement home special.” She smiled up at the waitress. “At least one of us is going to eat.”

Lola tucked into breakfast with typical Lola Teariki gusto as soon as it came—head down, shoveling in nine or ten bites of chicken-fried steak and home-fries before coming up for air, her mahogany eyes fluttering in ecstasy.

Cutter couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You gonna be okay?”

“Right as,” she said, Kiwi accent on the rise. “I took a run out past the Coast Guard base this morning. Got a little caloric debt I need to repay here.”

“That’s what?” Cutter mused. “About four miles?”

“Two out, two back,” Lola said. “So yeah. I had to do something to get what happened yesterday out of my head. When we’re done checking on your ex-wife, I’d like to do a deep dive into Jessica Stone’s background. See what she has in common with our other victims from months ago. I got a hunch deep down in my liver she’s gonna be the key to solving this.”

Cutter took a sip of coffee and peered over the cup. “You got a feeling in your liver? Is that a Cook Islander thing?”

“Yeah, nah,” Lola said. “Gut, liver, you know what I mean. But I reckon the liver’s a good organ for a hunch.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Cutter said. “Anyway, I don’t expectyou to come with me for this, you know. I’m going to make sure she’s not being followed. That’s all. You go on and see what you can find on Jessica Stone. It’s the first lead we’ve had in months.”

“Nah,” Lola said between bites. “Due respect, Boss, but you’re kind of a shit magnet.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “If there’s violence, I don’t want to miss it. No, I’m sticking with you. We’ll chase Stone’s background after you’re satisfied your old sweetheart is okay.”

Cutter put both hands on the table and leaned back in his seat, exasperated.

Before he could say anything, Lola cut a three-inch slab off of her steak and slid it onto his plate.

“You know what I wish, Boss?”

“I have no idea.” There was no danger of her keeping it to herself.

“I wish I could have just two months solid to follow up on nothing but these folks with those weird brands.”

“Well, you’re not going to get that bribing me with chicken-fried steak.”

“I’m serious, Cutter. Why don’t we start a task force?”

“We literally work on a task force—”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “One that focuses on these murders.”

“Budget, staffing shortage, Marshals Service priorities … The list is long, deep, and wide …”