Nanny 911. Julie MillerЧитать онлайн книгу.
Miranda had come to KCPD’s indoor firing range in the basement of the Fourth Precinct building to blow off steam.
All that touchy-feely stuff Dr. Kilpatrick wanted her to talk about got stuck in her head and left her feeling raw and distracted when they were done. Randy Murdock was a woman in a man’s world. Her brother, John, a KCFD firefighter who’d reupped with the Marines after the love of his life had married someone else, had raised her to understand that when the job was tough—like being a part of KCPD’s SWAT Team 1—that what she was feeling didn’t matter. Four other cops, and any hostages or innocent bystanders, were counting on her to get the job done. Period.
No warm fuzzies allowed.
Nodding with satisfaction that her kill rate had been 100 percent, Miranda sent the target back and cleared her weapon.
“What are you thinking?” Dr. Kilpatrick asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.
“That I’m not the only person with such a nonexistent home life that I’m available for an appointment the afternoon before Christmas.”
“Ouch.” Observant though it was, Miranda regretted the smart-aleck remark as soon as she’d said it. But the therapist let it slide right off her back with a poised smile. “There you go deflecting the focus off yourself again. Deftly done, too. I could write an article about your classic avoidance tendencies. Always striving to please someone else instead of working toward your own goals. Using work or physical activities to avoid thinking about your feelings or dealing with the loneliness.”
Sharp lady. Miranda hated that the police shrink might be onto something there. “So why are you here at four o’clock on Christmas Eve, Doc?”
“To see you, of course.”
“Sorry about that.” Miranda pushed herself up out of the cushy seat. “We’d better wrap things up then, hmm?”
“Miranda, sit.” Dr. Kilpatrick wore a maternal-looking frown now. And though she’d never known her own mother, or maybe because of that, it made Miranda feel so unsure of how she should respond that she sank back into her chair. “You’re just as important as any of the other officers, detectives and support staff here in Kansas City.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m the low man on the totem pole on my team.”
The maternal vibe became a supportive pep talk. “That’s nonsense. You’re a highly qualified sharpshooter. You passed all the same rigorous physical and mental exams as the other members of your team. Other than chain of command, you know it takes all five of you working together equally and complementing each other’s strengths to make SWAT Team 1 the success it is.”
Miranda released the magazine from the Glock’s handle and pulled out the remaining blanks. Then she reloaded the clip with 9 mm bullets from the ammo box on the shelf in front of her and ensured her gun was in proper working order before returning it to the holster strapped to her right thigh.
She was in the locker room showering when more of the conversation she’d had with the psychologist started replaying in her head.
Dr. Kilpatrick had the patience of a saint. She could ask a question and wait. But the ongoing silence in the psychologist’s office finally got to Miranda, and she blurted out one of the few things that scared her. “Holden Kincaid is coming back.”
“Kincaid? I know several Kincaids on the force. Which one is he?”
“He’s the guy I replaced on SWAT Team 1 when he went on paternity leave. He and the guys are all pretty close.” The random confession had sounded like polite conversation to fill the silence at first. But once one insecurity was breached, others came out. “I mean, even if I prove I’m as good at this job as he is, possibly even better, what good does that do me? If Captain Cutler and the guys resent that I’m there instead of him, that messes up our efficiency. I’d feel like a real usurper for being there. But if I transfer off the team, or get cut because Kincaid is a better man…”
She turned off the hot water and hugged her arms around her naked body as the water ran down the drain and the locker room’s cool air raised goose bumps across her skin. If Dr. Kilpatrick wasn’t so good at her job, then Miranda might not still be shaking from the embarrassing accuracy of the psychologist’s next question.
“Do these self-esteem issues go back to that incident this summer when the Rich Girl Killer attacked you?”
“He wasn’t after me. He wanted Sergeant Delgado’s girlfriend—his wife now—because she could ID him.”
“I read Delgado’s report myself. He said you slowed down the RGK long enough for him to get there to save his wife from being murdered.”
Backhanded praise was no better than a reprimand. “My job wasn’t to slow him down. It was my job to stop him. I failed. He got the drop on me, bashed my head in and I failed.”
“There’s a reason it’s called a team. It takes all of you, working together, to complete your mission. You’re there to complement each other’s strengths, and, on certain days, compensate for a weakness. Every man on that team knows that. Every man has been where you are. No one blames you for having an off day.”
That indulgent, don’t-be-so-hard-on-yourself tone only made the self-doubts whispering inside Miranda’s head shout out loud. “You know it’s different when you’re a woman, Doc. ‘Good’ isn’t good enough. If I can’t perform when my team needs me to, then why the hell should Captain Cutler keep me around?”
The psychologist jotted something on her notepad, then leaned forward in her chair. “SWAT Team 1 is your family, aren’t they? That’s why you’re being so hard on yourself, why you’re so afraid of making a mistake. You don’t want to lose your family again.”
Stupid, intuitive psychologist! That was why the session with Dr. Kilpatrick had upset her so much today. She’d gotten Miranda to reveal a truth she hadn’t even admitted to herself yet.
With her parents both gone and her older brother stationed in Afghanistan, Miranda had no one in Kansas City. No one, period. All she had was this job. Being a cop—a highly select SWAT cop—was her identity. It gave her goals, satisfaction, a sense of community and worth. If she screwed it up, then she’d really be up a creek. Of course, the holidays only exacerbated that reeling sense of loneliness she normally kept at bay.
And she’d actually revealed all that to the doctor?
“Ow!” The pinch of sanity on her scalp told her that (a), she was tugging too hard with the hairbrush, and (b), she needed to get a grip. If she wanted to make the claim that she was a strong woman who deserved to have the job she did, then she needed to quit wallowing in these weak, feminine emotions that felt so foreign to her, and get her head on straight.
Decision made. Time to act. Emotions off.
“Now get out of here, Murdock,” she advised her reflection in the mirror.
After pulling her long, straight hair back into a ponytail, Miranda dressed in her civvies and bundled up in her stocking cap and coat to face the wintry air blowing outside. Night had fallen by the time she hurried down the steps toward the crosswalk that would lead her to the parking garage across the street.
Heading south for half a block, she jammed her hands into the pockets of her navy wool peacoat and hunched her shoulders against the wind hitting her back. When she reached the crosswalk and waited for the light to change, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket to check the time. Great. By this hour on Christmas Eve, none of the usual restaurants where she liked to pick up a quick dinner would be open. She tried to picture her freezer and wondered what microwave choices she had on hand that she could zap for dinner, or if she’d be eating a bowl of cereal again. Why couldn’t she remember these things before she got hungry and the stores had closed?
The light changed. She jumped over the slushy gray snow that had accumulated against the curb, and hurried across the street. That was another thing she missed with John being over in Afghanistan. Besides the