What was good now was that Anna called me as much as Jer did, and I was glad. What was even better was that she adored Cel and they got along so well. He even had her class out to the CBC, and she gushed about it for weeks. She told me often she was so happy to have another couple to spend time with.
“You know what you need to do to get that asshole in there,” Jer said, breaking into my wandering thoughts. “You need to make yourself at home.”
I chuckled.
“Feet up,” he went on. “Maybe take a nap.”
Excellent suggestion.
As soon as we hung up, I went around Stanhope’s desk and sat down in his chair. Less than a minute later, he threw open the door.
“What the hell’re you—”
“Oh,” I said innocently, not moving, smiling wide instead. “I thought you wanted me to make myself at home, given how long I’ve been in here.”
He opened his mouth to say something, and I leaned back in his chair and crossed my arms, waiting.
“Fine,” he grumbled. “You got the shit ’cause you’re the one who showed up.”
Translation: I was the marshal he had control of at the moment, thus me being the one he could punish by making me wait. I was the scapegoat, the punching bag, for all the marshals he thought had wronged him. I was standing in for my boss and my friend.
“And now?”
“Get out of my chair and tell me what the fuck you want.”
“You don’t have to be nice to me,” I reminded him.
“I know that,” he barked, sounding more than a bit annoyed.
I knew he did. Because yes, the USMS was the enforcement arm of the federal courts, and the marshals service had the most authority to make arrests among federal law enforcement agencies, but that only meant we could take prisoners away from others. We weren’t the FBI; we couldn’t just take over an operation someone else had worked on for months. It was why we hated the Feds; they just did that steamroller maneuver over everyone. So technically, he could tell me to go right to hell, and there was nothing I could do about it.
“However, not being friends with the marshals service could bite you in the ass the next time someone flees your jurisdiction and winds up in…say, Mexico,” I reminded him.
He groaned loudly and gestured me out of his chair.
“We have contacts all over the world,” I explained as I got up. “I mean, you know, fugitive apprehension is kind of our thing.”
Once I was around the desk, he retook his seat, which wasn’t great because now I was standing and he was sitting, looking up at me.
“And,” I continued, “do you really want to have this combative relationship with a federal agency? What will your boss say? Or the mayor?”
He stood up so he could look me in the eye.
“Us getting along is for everyone’s benefit.”
He was trying to stare holes through me, I could tell.
“You have to admit, Commander, the whole part about us not needing warrants does tend to come in handy when pursuing dangerous felons.”
“Take a seat,” he ordered, but there was no power behind the demand.
“Lastly,” I began cheerfully as I retook the chair I’d been sitting in for almost an hour, “you must agree that being on bad terms with the Chief Deputy is problematic. Yes?”
His sigh was long. “Please, Deputy Marshal, tell me what the fuck you want.”
Patience, my mother always said, was a virtue, and I had actually learned that when I was young. In this case, being a prick to the commander would get me nowhere. Some bridge-building was a better idea. I was taking a page out of Ian’s book—the new Ian, who was all about interagency cooperation. The old Ian would have punched him.
“All I need is a little backup,” I explained kindly.