SK01 - Waist Deep (3 page)

I slowly nodded.

Bates motioned for Matt to unlock the cells.
Mullet-man exited his, but Bates held up his hand and stopped me.
“You wait.
This guy goes first.”
He took Mullet-man by the arm and started for the door.
Matt stepped into the cell doorway and handed me my jacket.

“Thanks for the rhythm, Glen,” I said after Bates, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Bates stopped and gave me a look I couldn’t quite decipher.
“You used to be a good cop, Stef.
Now look at you.”

I felt that flicker of anger again.
“What about me?”

He shook his head.
“Getting into a fight?
With this guy?
Come on.”

The flicker flared.
“Kiss my ass, Glen.”

Bates’ face flushed.
He let go of Mullet-Man and took a step in my direction. Matt mov
ed between us.
“I’ll walk him out, Glen.
We’ll take a different exit.
That way, y
ou don’t have to come back.”

Bates considered. Finally, he
nod
ded
.
“Fine.”
He looked at me again and shook his head.
“What happened to you?” he asked, then turned and walked away, dragging Mullet-man with him.

My mouth was open to reply when Matt gripped my arm.
It was firm but not too hard.
“Let it go,” he whispered.

I took his advice and as soon as Bates was out of sight, I regretted it.

4

Matt led me through the tunnels that the teams used to go from the locker room to the ice.
After we cut through a few doors and an office, I was lost.

“Where’d you park?
I can let you out a door near your car.”

“I didn’t drive,” I told him.
I didn’t tell him it was because I didn’t have a car.

“Okay.
We’ll go out the exit by the statues.”

We emerged from the tunnels and into the main concourse.
Aside from concession workers and security, only a few fans milled around.
I wondered how the game was going.

“If it was up to me,
”
Matt said, “
I’d just move you to a seat o
n the other side of the arena.
But I’m onl
y the assistant team leader. Besides,
we’ve got a zero tolerance policy on fighting.
I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.
I’m the one who got in a fight.”

We walked in silence for a few yards.
A loud, collective “ahhh!” from the crowd drifted through the walls and
I
guessed that the Flyers had missed a scoring chance.

A shot of pain, stronger than the rest, blasted through my knee.
Our pace had been quick, at least for me.
My limp became more pronounced, forcing me to slow down.

Matt noticed and slowed, too.
“You get hurt in the fight?”

“Old injury,” I told him.
“Fight didn’t help, though.”

“You want to stop for a second?”

“How far is it?”

He pointed at a set of doors where the corridor curved left.
It was about forty yards away.

“I can make it,” I said.

Matt nodded and kept walking, but he had slowed down even further.
I didn’t complain.
My knee felt like shattered glass grinding together.
I heard another outburst from the crowd.

“So
is it true what Glen said?”
Matt asked me quietly.
“That
you’re not a cop anymore?”

“It’s true
.”

“What happened
?”

“Long story,” I told him.
“Not one I can tell in twenty-five yards, even if I wanted to.”

“Fair enough.
So what kind of work do you do now?”

I stopped walking and turned to face him.
“What’s with the interrogation, Matt?
Couldn’t you have done this back at the cell?”

Matt swallowed hard.
“No…I mean, sorry.
I just –“

“I’ll show myself out the rest of the way,” I snapped at him.
I turned and began striding purposefully toward the doors, ignoring the pain in my knee.

It took about three seconds for Matt to catch up.
“Wait,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”

I ignored him and kept walking.
I’d already had to deal with Bates and his condescension tonight.
I wasn’t about to spill my life story to some guy I hadn’t seen in almost twenty years just because we went to the same high school.

“Stef, wait.
Please.”

Something in his voice made me slow down.
Maybe it was the hint of panic that rang out when he said my name.
Maybe it was the desperation that turned his words into a whine.
I don’t know for sure.
But I stopped and looked him dead in the eye and waited.

He seemed surprised.
“I…I need your help.
I need you to look into something.”

“I told you.
I’m not a cop anymore.”

“I know.
But you were, right?”

I nodded.

“Then maybe you can
still
help.
I don’t know who else to ask.”

I watched his eyes as he said it and knew he was serious.
I didn’t know what he needed, but decided right there that the least I could do was listen to him.

“Okay, Matt.
Ask.”

He took a wavering breath.
“It’s my daughter.
I’m worried something bad has happened to her.”

“Like what?”

“Well, she—”

His radio squawked,
“
-21 to -2.
”

“Damn,” Matt muttered.
Then, into the radio, “-2, go ahead.”

“
We’ve got a code 9 to deal with in 114,”
came the reply.

Matt keyed the radio.
“Copy,” he said, then looked up at me.
“Some fan heckling the visitor’s bench that needs to be removed,” he explained.

I shrugged.

“Listen, do you have a card or something?
I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“No.
No card.
No phone, either.”

He gave me a strange look.
“You mean no cell phone?”

“No.
I mean no phone.”

Questions came into his eyes and I cut them off.

“Look, Matt.
I usually eat breakfast at the Rocket Bakery at 1
^st
and Cedar. We can talk there.”

Matt thought about it, then nodded his head.

We walked the remainder of the distance to the doors and he swung them open.
Cold air spilled in through the opening, making my knee hurt worse.

“All I’m promising is we’ll talk,” I told him.

“That’s all I’m asking,” he said.

I stepped out into the cold and began the long limp home.

5

The next morning, I woke early after a fitful night’s sleep. T
he throb in my shoulder and arm and the needles in my knee kept me always on the edge of wakefulness.
I took two
extra strength pain relievers
from my
giant
jar of
three thousand
,
which I’d bought in bulk when I still had a membership to Costco
.

The hot water from the shower helped work out the stiffness in my shoulder, but my knee wasn’t going to cooperate.
Not yet.
I flexed it slowly under the steaming water, wincing.
The jagged exit wound in the center of the knee was in marked contrast to the straight, surgical lines all around it.
I had matching exit wounds on my left arm and left collar
bone, courtesy of a gang
member who took a personal dislike to me one night in late August almost
eleven
years ago.

Looking at my knee made me start to remember and remembering everything
from that time in my life
made me want to drink
. D
rinking was a bad idea, so I finished washing up before the hot water in my little apartment gave out.

After my shower, I slipped on some jeans and a t-shirt.
I found my running shoes and put them on.
Walking, even the seven blocks to the Rocket Bakery, required preparation.
The running shoes were the only expensive thing I owned.

As I tied the laces, sitting in the only chair in my
tiny
living room, I looked around at the place.
For the first few years, I’d been disgusted and embarrassed that I lived here.
I’d been a cop, making good money and living in a nice, new apartment on the north side of town.
Only losers and college kids lived in Browne’s Addition then.
Now, it was losers, college kids and me.

I put on my leather jacket and
slipped out of the apartment.
I hadn’t bothered to look at the time, but the sun wasn’t up over the downtown buildings yet, so I figured it was around eight.
The air was crisp, but not deadly cold and the streets and sidewalks were bare of snow, except for a few small salt-and-pepper patches that used to be large piles.

In its early days, Browne’s Addition was a wealthy part of River City.
Built on a large spur at the edge of downtown, its large homes
were near the downtown core. P
erfect for the socialites of the time.
They could live in an exclusive neighborhood, do their shopping to
the
east and drop down the hill to the west and be at the Looking Glass River, all in less than a mile.
It must have seemed like paradise to them.
But time marched on
. The wealthy moved into newer houses on the south hill or the north side of town. S
lowly
,
the large houses
in Browne’s Addition
were sub-divided into apartments. True apartment houses sprung up
on any spare lots
. Over time,
the entire neighborhood became Renter Land.
The
rich abandoned
Browne’s
A
ddition to the peasants
.

The Rocket Bakery sat on the southeast corner of 1
^st
and
Cedar
.
I started coming to the coffee shop while
I was still on the job.
I’d been assigned to work light duty in the detective’s division
while I recovered from my shooting
injuries
.
A group of detectives
went daily to the Rocket Bakery for coffee.
Or tea.
Or to ogle the young baristas.
They always frequented the new trendy places, so their loyalty to the Rocket Bakery was short-lived.
But I liked it and stayed.

The smells of fresh baked good
s
and hot coffee met me at the door.
Light jazz played over the speakers.
The place wasn’t as intentional as a Starbucks about atmosphere, but in the end, they were the same.
For all their pretensions and being eclectic and hovering almost off the grid, they were both businesses that had numerous branches in River City and both were there to make money.

I put some of mine down on the counter.
The barista behind the counter had her back to me, wiping down the espresso machine.
Her
dark
hair was in a loose, single braid and hung between her shoulder blades.
Her short
-
sleeved shirt was white and fit loosely.
I’d seen her wear it before and knew that when she turned around, it would have buttons on it that o
nly went to mid-chest and that you’d wonder if she was
wearing a bra.

Cassie turned and noticed me.
She flashed me a mysterious smile, the same one she’d been giving me for years now.
I’ve watched her sometimes to see if she gave that smile to everyone, and to a
certain
degree
she did.
It was the kind of smile that hinted at what you both might know or were about to discover.

Her face was almost square and one of her upper teeth at the edge of her smile was crooked.
I noticed that I was right about the buttons and
maybe about
the bra.
The shirt hung loosely off of her.
Cassie had the look of a thirty year old, but I couldn’t be sure.
That was some of what I found mysterious about her.
Several of the other baristas were little vixens in their own
right, nineteen or twenty year
old
spinners with
their tattoos and defiance of gravity.
They commanded the attention of most of the patrons.

Cassie commanded mine.

“Your usual, Stef?” she asked me.
Her voice was soft, but it carried through the store.

“Yeah.
But a double shot this morning.”

She nodded, casting that slight whisper of a smile at me and making my Americano.
It was the closest thing to regular coffee that they had and it was in my price range.
Her braid shifted and jumped as she worked the machine, making it hiss and spit out my coffee.
The place was almost empty, but that was temporary.
The traffic flow came in fits and starts, then continued in spurts.
It made the baristas job look easy, but in reality, they were never still.

Cassie slid my coffee across the counter and pulled a cranberry bagel from the display case.
She took my money and tried to give me change, just like every morning.

“It’s yours,” I told her.

“Thanks.”

“It’s only a quarter,” I said, a little embarrassed.

She shrugged, that enigmatic smile playing on her lips.
“Every little bit helps.”

The ease of her words and her Mona Lisa smile were supposed to make me feel comfortable about giving her a small tip, but
mostly I felt
poor.

I moved over to the table in the corner and commandeer
ed
one of the chess boards.
I set up the pieces, thinking about Matt Sinderling.
I wondered if he’d show up or not and if I even wanted him to.
I wondered what the hell he wanted and how I was going to tell him no.