Cuts Like a Knife: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 1) (4 page)

The girls are actually having a lot of fun, and I’ve only had one run-in with a parent. Tiffany’s dad would like to see more scoring—especially from Tiffany—and was getting quite loud from the sidelines the first couple of games. He explained to me he was just encouraging the girls. When I explained that screaming at seven-year-olds wasn’t encouragement in my book, he tried to intimidate me with the knowledge that he had played soccer. I just pulled a concept from my cop training on him: repeat if necessary, but never explain. He backed off.

I look at my watch. I’m going to get Kendra and me to the fields on time for warm-ups, thank God, without having to do more than ten miles over the speed limit. I’m five minutes away from Kaylen’s and switch to a news station. A young woman has been murdered. I wonder which precinct has the case. If it’s ours, I wonder who Zaworski and Czaka will give the lead assignment to. Zaworski knows Don and I get the job done. But Czaka doesn’t like me and his commander rank wins tiebreakers.

Then I again recall the punk we collared and Internal Affairs. It’s conceivable I won’t be working for the next month or so. Then I think there’s no way I’m going to be in serious trouble for it. Incaviglia has a couple of misdemeanors on his record—and now he is facing major assault charges and resisting arrest. I have a bruise on the end of my chin and a couple butterfly stitches on my wrist, which should give allowance for me cuffing him with, ah, enthusiasm. But you never know when IA gets involved. I didn’t push his face down that hard, did I?

As I pull in the driveway to get Kendra, I hit another preset button on my radio. The murder story is getting a mention on the classic hits station, too. The last thing I hear before I turn off my engine is, “Police are reporting that Sandra Reed has been found dead in her Washington Park apartment, the result of a dispute with her boyfriend . . .”

Good old domestic violence. We’d be out of a job without it.

4

April 3,
8:19 a.m.

I COULDN’T
SLEEP
last night. Even popping that little blue pill
from her cabinet couldn’t temper my happiness. I’m still wired this morning.
My pulse rate must be at
120 sitting still. Oh, how I’ve missed this. I
feel . . . euphoric.

I like that word.
Euphoria.
Wish
it would never wear off. But it always does.
That’s when the thoughts,
the cravings, the all-consuming need starts up again. It’ll be time
to find a new girlfriend, then. Maybe blonde this time. One I saw at the coffee shop was
quite attractive. But
her tattoos were repulsive.
What kind of mental
illness would make someone
mar what is supposed to
be pure? I like skin
that is smooth, without barbaric markings and piercings. It’s the clean slate I require for my art.

The media has
it all wrong. Par for the course. Sandra was
killed by her live-in
boyfriend in a case of
domestic violence? Is it any wonder so many newspapers are going out of
business? They apparently hire only the lazy and inept. I would call them
idiots but that would be an insult to idiots everywhere.

My work is my legacy and I dislike seeing
such shoddy reporting
on it. It’s been that way everywhere I’ve gone.
To know that my accomplishments might be lost
forever makes me feel sad . . . wistful.

When
I was a teen, my assigned therapist said I should start keeping a journal. I
had problems with self-aggrandizement and
self-delusion, he said, and perhaps writing it
all down would help me
“sort it out.” But
is what you believe
and say about yourself
really self-aggrandizing if you’re truly
better than everyone else? My deeds prove it.

What did that therapist know, anyway? He wanted to keep me a prisoner
of the state forever.
Probably just to make
sure he had a full caseload and job security.

But the thought of keeping a journal appeals
to me now. Maybe I’ll pick one up and start writing my story.
That way it will never
be lost.

I could even send
a copy to the FBI when the time is right.

They don’t have a clue. Literally.

5

“NO, KENDRA! The other way! That way! Kendra! Dribble the ball that way!”

I bellow and wave my arms like a crazy woman. Tiffany’s dad is watching me, his arms folded and a smug look on his already smug face. Better take the volume down a notch. Or three.

The score is tied, 3-3. According to my stopwatch, we have only two minutes before the ref blows his whistle to end the game. We need a win. I need a win. I could deal with a tie, but a win would be so much sweeter.

Kendra has scored two of our goals. Since then she’s been getting mugged. The other team is tugging on her jersey even now. She’s been tripped four times. These are sweet little seven-year-old girls, so the other coach has got to be instructing them to foul. No way are they thinking of this on their own.

I’m giving the coach a piece of my mind in my imagination when Kendra, who has lost the ball, steals it back and becomes a yellow streak set to score a breakaway goal. She’s not old enough to keep dribbles close to her feet, and the other coach—Attila the Hun—is screaming for his goalie to leave the box and charge the ball. Apparently her name is Olivia, as anyone within a mile of the soccer complex can attest.

“Charge the ball, Oliviaaaaaa.”

I might charge Attilaaaaaa.

It’s going to be close. Kendra isn’t quite in control of the ball. It’s about equal distance between her and the goalie with the speed of the roll. I’m praying, really praying for a miracle, for a win. Does God hear the prayers of sports fans? What if two people rooting for opposing teams are praying equally hard? I’m not a theologian, so I just keep praying—even if God is laughing at me or just not listening.

Please, God, help her to be
first to the ball.

Maybe it was my prayer that did it. Kendra redirects the ball with the outside of her left foot—and any coach of seven-year-olds will confirm that this is a miracle, especially when you consider she is right-footed—leaving her all by herself in front of the goal. She taps the ball in for the winning score just as an opposing player tackles her from behind.

The goal counts. I feel a tingle in my surgically repaired knee as I start to run out to check if Kendra is hurt. She bounces up instantly and appears to be fine. The girls high-five her and jump in the air and attempt to do butt bumps as they head back for the other side of the field. As the Snowflakes line up for one more kickoff, the ref, with everything his ample pot belly can muster, blows the whistle to end the game. We get the win, but I’m still furious with the other coach. After the girls form a line, hold their arms out and slap hands with the other team, run through the tunnel formed by two lines of parents who have linked outstretched hands into an arbor, and then head toward the cooler for juice pouches—the highlight of the game for many of my girls—I am in the other coach’s face.

“Hey, pal, you better get your girls under control before someone gets hurt,” I say as I poke his chest with my finger.
Not smart. Kristen. Don’t touch.

“What are you talking about, little lady?” he storms back, taking a step into my personal space.

Little lady? Who calls anyone that these days? Maybe his license plate is expired and I’ll arrest him in the parking lot and cuff him.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,
big guy
,” I answer, not backing off an inch. “I’m making sure my girls don’t get injured because some Neanderthal is teaching seven-year-olds to trip and push.”

“Teaching girls to push and trip?” he nearly sputters. “How would I do that? You’re out of your mind. Is this your first time coaching youth soccer? They all trip each other without any coaching help.”

Do they? I don’t know if that’s true. It is my first year to coach little girls. I do know I’ve blown it again. What gets into me? Sometimes I excuse myself as the victim of an occupational hazard.

The ref, who has no sense of the drama unfolding right before his eyes—almost as oblivious as he was in the game—walks up and we both back up to let him stand between us. He sticks a game card in my face.

“Need your ‘John Hancock’ on the bottom line,” he says.

I sign. Attila signs.

“Good game, coaches,” he says as he trots toward the referee hut. I look over at my Snowflakes. They are contentedly slurping juice and munching on granola bars. Jimmy’s arms are folded and he is unhappy, though he won’t make eye contact with me. Kaylen does.

And she is scowling.

I know it happens in professional sports all the time, but I wonder how often volunteer soccer coaches get fired mid-season.

6

“KRISTEN, YOU’VE GOT to get your temper under control,” Kaylen says to me. We have our own table at Pizza Palace for the Snowflakes’ celebration lunch. It is only late morning, so I guess we’re having pizza brunch.

Eleven girls are munching greedily at a long table we’ve created by pushing several tables together. The parents, including Jimmy, have morphed into groups of four or five at surrounding tables.

I guess I’m at the time-out table because it’s just Kaylen and me. I have an untouched piece of pizza in front of me and have taken just a couple of sips of my Diet Coke as I get chewed out by my older sister.

“Kendra could have been hurt,” I protest. “That guy is ruining things for the girls.”

“Maybe so, but he wasn’t the one trying to start a fight with you, and the girls seem no worse for wear,” Kaylen says. She points to the Snowflakes who are laughing and shoveling food into their mouths. Kendra is now standing on her chair and is rotating her hips like she is twirling a hula hoop. I hope that’s what she’s doing at least. She is explaining to the other Snowflakes how she scored the winning goal. I guess that’s her celebration dance.

“Kendra!” her dad barks and she is immediately back in her seat, a sheepish expression on her face. I can tell she’s trying not to smile. I’m doing the same thing because I know how she feels. I’m in trouble, too. No smiling allowed.

“Where did she learn to do that?” I ask Kaylen, hoping to change the subject. Doesn’t work.

“Kristen, I’m serious. You’re thirty and this in-your-face anger has got to stop. You were almost as bad as Tiffany’s dad today.” She looks over her shoulder to make sure he didn’t hear her. “Check that, worse,” she continues in a lower tone. “He was very well behaved and only cheered today, per the coach’s order.”

Ouch.
I’d argue some more, but the problem is, she is right. I’ve always had a temper. I’ve always been in your face. But it’s never been so relentless and as personal until now.
For a while now,
actually,
I admit to myself. And I’ve never lost it in front of the kids. Never before. I’m a good girl. I don’t smoke and I don’t chew, and I don’t go with guys that do. What’s happening to me?

I start to apologize when my phone begins playing Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture.” I am going to ignore the call, but I recognize Captain Zaworski’s number. The boss rarely calls on the weekend. I’m hoping this doesn’t have anything to do with Internal Affairs and the punk.

“Conner,” I answer, turning away from Kaylen and putting a finger in my free ear to buffer the noise. She is watching me with suspicion. She obviously thinks I’m trying to escape this conversation by slinking away. And she would be right most days. I listen for half a minute, tell him it will take me twenty—my eyebrows furrowed enough to cause permanent wrinkles—and hang up.

“Kristen, you can’t get away this easily; we need to finish this conversation,” Kaylen begins. I knew that was what she was thinking.

I cut her off. “But not now. There’s been a murder and I’m on the case.” I’m on the case? My language skills sound like a B movie.

I’m already standing up and pulling car keys from my purse. I’m about to leave without a word, but I stop myself. “I’m sorry,” I say as I turn and hug Kaylen close. “I am. Honestly. Just say a prayer for me and don’t be mad. I’ve got to go right now.”