SK01 - Waist Deep (10 page)

It connected on the fourth ring
.
I felt a brief moment of panic and a small catch in my throat at the sound of her voice before I realized it was her voice mail.

“Hello.
You’ve reached Detective Katie McLeod of the River City Police Department.
I’m unable to take your call right now, but please leave a message and I’ll
get back to you
as soon as I can.
If this is in reference to an active case, please include your case number.
Thanks for calling.”

Her voice sounded professional and detached until the end when it lilted almost girlishly during the words “thanks for calling.”

There was a tone and I knew I had four minutes of digital space to leave my message.

“Hi, Katie,” I began.
“It’s, uh, it’s Stef.”

I paused, wondering what to say next.

Hey, I know I screwed up as a cop and I know I messed up with us
more than once
, but hey!
I need a favor.

I tried to swallow but my throat was dry. I wished I’d taken a
another
swig
of the soda.
No time now. I pressed on before I lost my nerve.
“I’m trying to help an old friend find his runaway daughter as a favor.
I was wondering…I was wondering if you might be able to help me out a little.
With some information.”

I imagined her face
while she listened
to this message.
The image hurt.

No stopping now, I thought.
I rattled off Kris Sinderling’s name and
birth
date
, as well as Matt’s.
On a whim, I threw in Gary LeMond’s, too.
All she could do was say no.

“Anyway, if you can, that’s great.
If not, I understand.
You can call me back at—“ I looked for the number on the payphone.
In the place of a number was a bold message that read, “No Incoming Calls.”

Years ago, pay phones in high drug traffic areas were used to make drug deals so often that the police department and the communities asked the phone company to turn off the function for incoming calls.
A few years later, cell phones became so prominent and inexpensive that the practice tapered off, but some phones still had that limitation.

I glanced quickly at the other two phones and saw the same bold message.

“Damn,” I said out loud.
When I realized that I said it directly into the phone I almost repeated the word.

“This phone doesn’t take incoming calls.
Listen, uh, I’m going to walk over to Polly’s Café.
I’ll stay through lunch.
If you can make it, you can.
If not, like I said, I understand.
Maybe I’ll try you back tomorrow or something.
”

I paused again, words sticking in my throat, just like they always did when it came to her.
Finally, I said a hurried “thanks” and hung up.

18

Polly’s Café was nearly empty by the time I arrived.
The
thick
smell of syrup and grease
hung
in the air
.
An old rock song I couldn’t quite remember the name of was playing through tinny speakers.
The sign next to the register directed patrons to seat themselves, so I chose a small booth in the corner where I could watch the door.
My feet ached from walking in cowboy boots.

A bony-hipped waitress with sagging jowls brought a glass of water and a menu.
I put her in her fifties and her poofy hair had the thin, frail look that matched my guess.
Her name was sewn on a patch above her left breast.
It read, “Phyllis.”

“Anything to eat, hon?” she said, her voice warmer than I expected.

“Coffee,” I said.

She jotted a quick ‘C’ on her notepad and looked up at me expectantly.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “Special today is pretty good.”

“What is it?”

“T
wo eggs, bacon & toast
.”

I shrugged.
“Sure.”
It’d work for a lunch, too.

“How you want those?”

“Scrambled.”

“And your toast?”

“Sourdough.”

She scrawled my order and tipped me a wink.
“Be right back with your coffee.”

My initial image of her as a sourpuss quickly dissipated.

I tilted my head back and closed my eyes.
It’d been about thirty or forty minutes since I’d called Katie.
Even if she’d received my message shortly after I left it for her, it’d still take her time to decide whether or not to help, then some more time to run the names I sent her.
More yet if she decided to print anything off or pull a report.
Then the time to drive down here.

The clock on the wall above the cash register read 10:14.
I said on my message I’d wait through lunch.
That meant one o’clock at least.

I opened my eyes again as Phyllis put a cup of steaming coffee in front of me.
“Food’ll be up in a few minutes, hon,” she said.

“Thanks.”
I sipped the hot brew.
It was a lot better than what I had in my apartment.
“Is there a newspaper box around here?”

She held up her finger and walked away toward the breakfast bar.
When she returned, she plopped a newspaper on my table.
It had be
en folded and re-folded and the sections were
out of order.

“Customers leave ‘em behind all the time,” she said.
“You’re welcome to it.”

I thanked her.

“Not a problem, hon,” she said and hurried back to the kitchen.

I sat and drank my coffee while reading the paper.
I started with the sports section and read the local writer’s take on the River City Flyers’ chance of making the playoffs.
After the game I went to, they’d traveled up to Creston the next night
for the second half of a home
a
nd
home
and dropped another game.
That one was a more respectable 3-1, but it still counted the same in the standings.
The local sports writer blamed the coaching and called for the head coach’s dismissal if the Flyers didn’t make it into the post-season.

The reporter played Monday
morning quarterback with the coach.
Here he was, in the midst of the good fight, and someone on the sidelines was filleting him in the press.
I knew how it felt.
After the shooting at the Circle K, there were a couple of articles that suggested racism on my part.
As if I had somehow chosen to have a gangbanger attack me.
But logic didn’t seem to matter much to the press when it got in the way of their agenda.

And it wasn’t just the press.
A number of letters to the editor accused me of the same thing.
Later, when I really had messed up
in the Amy Dugger case
, these same people were able to say “I told you so.”

I moved from the Sports section to the Entertainment section and found I was unfamiliar with
more than
half the celebrities that were being written about.

Phyllis returned after a few minutes and slid a hot plate of food in front of me.
I surprised myself by being hungry and I ate while I read.
The eggs were too soft, but the bacon was crispy and the sourdough wasn’t soggy with butter.

I made my way eventually to the front page and scanned through national and international news that barely held my interest.
I read them anyway.

When I finished my meal, Phyllis took my plate and re-filled my coffee and called me “hon.”

The Region section of the newspaper was the part I always hated when I was a police officer.
All the local stories not worthy of front page status were printed in that section, along with editorials and letters to the editor.
After the initial
shootout at the Circle K
, which had been front page material, most of the potshots the newspaper took had been in the Region section.

Today’s section was fairly mild, however.
A few letters in favor of the President and a few opposed took up most of the letters to the editor section.
The Police Beat detailed a few arrests and a search warrant executed by the Sheriff’s Department.

I flipped to the
c
lassified
s
and reviewed
what people were selling without much interest. My mind kept catching on the past. Snapshots of moments and small pulses of emotion distracted me from the tiny words on the newspaper page.

The Circle K shooting. Me getting loaded into the back of an ambulance. Katie there, refusing to let go of my hand even as the medics worked on me.

That year
together
. That wonderful year where the world seemed right. Even with the pain of rehabbing the shoulder and the knee, things were the best I could remember. Mostly because of Katie.

Then, when it was my turn to be there for her, I wasn’t able to do it. She had faced an impossible situation and lost, but I was too caught up in my own self-pity over the Amy Dugger affair that I pushed her away. I chose painkillers and booze over her. When the painkillers ran out, I chose the booze because she wasn’t willing to listen to my bullshit anymore. Looking back, I couldn’t blame her.

Never let it be said that the universe doesn’t offer second chances. I had my shot at redemption with her. When she ran up against
an event every bit as bit as tragic as Amy Dugger, she surprised me by calling. I was probably the only one who could understand what she was going through. That’s what she said, anyway. And I grasped at that chance. For a while, it worked. But I was still a drunk, and drunks are clumsy.

I blew it.

The last time I saw her, she had an expression on her face that I don’t think has a word to describe it. Part anger, part disappointment, part hurt. But where her expression was mixed, her words were clear.

“Leave.”

I did. I left and I went on a bender for the ages. I still don’t remember parts of those days and weeks that followed.
And when the dust settled and I tried to call her a few weeks later, her number was changed.

Like I said, who can blame her?

I stopped
trying to read
half-way through the c
lassified
and turned instead to the comics.
At least Snoopy made sense.
And he was a hockey player.
Maybe the Flyers should offer both him and Woodstock a contract.
Charlie Brown could coach.

“This is how you spend your retirement
now
?”

I jolted upright. Katie stood next to my table , a cautious smile on her face. A frantic flutter raced through my stomach.
I cleared my throat. “How’s that?”

She motioned toward the newspaper with her hand. She held a manila
folder
.
“Drinking coffee and reading the funny papers?”

I swallowed. I’d forgotten how beautiful she was. “Just waiting for you,” I said, and instantly cringed at how stupid I sounded.

She motioned to the empty booth across from me. “May I?”

“Yeah, please,” I said. I scrambled to
fold
the p
aper and set
it aside.
Why did she still have this effect on me?

Katie slid into the booth.
She set
the
thin manila folder next to her
on the table, but I
barely noticed it.

I was watching her eyes.