Nanny 911

by Julie Miller

  Fiona stared.

  Quinn gradually relaxed his protective stance. Not everyone got small children, nor knew how to communicate with them—and he suspected Miranda Murdock was on that list. But he could see she was doing all she could to allay Fiona’s worries.

  “Not that your dolly—Petra, is it?—would do that. She needs to stay close to you. On the ground.” Seemingly as flummoxed by his daughter’s fascination as she’d been with Louis’s idle flirtation, she looked to her captain for help. “Sir?”

  Michael nodded a dismissal. “Prove to me that you can get back out through that heating duct, and I’ll have Trip check the sensors there to see if they’ve been triggered by anyone else in the last twenty-four hours.”

  That, apparently, she could do. Needing no more encouragement, the twenty-something female officer climbed up on the desk and pulled herself back up into the ventilation duct in a skilled combination of pull-up champ and gymnast.

  “She’s…different, isn’t she?” Quinn observed.

  “Like I said, Murdock is gung ho. She’ll get the job done.”

  “Michael.” Quinn usually found his instincts about people to be unerringly accurate. “I have another favor to ask of you. Just how much faith do you have in Miranda Murdock?”

  Michael’s blue eyes narrowed. Perhaps he’d just had a similar brainstorm. “You’ve supplied my team with nothing but the best equipment since we first started working together. Your vest design saved my life from a bullet once. I figure I owe you.”

  “Then I have a proposition for you.” Quinn scooped Fiona into his arms, drawing her attention away from the dusty blonde angel and the grate that had closed over their heads. “We do.”

  Chapter Two

  Miranda stilled her breathing, calmed the twitchy urge to blink and squeezed the trigger of her Glock 9 mil, landing five shots, center mass, through the paper target’s chest. Then just for good measure, and because the accuracy score of her shooting range trials was one thing she could control, she angled the gun and put a hole through the paper target’s head.

  “You shouldn’t be alone at Christmas,” Dr. Kate Kilpatrick advised. The police psychologist was always full of advice during their sessions. “If your brother is still over in Afghanistan—”

  “He is.”

  “—then maybe you could volunteer at one of the city mission shelters, visit a shut-in in your neighborhood or invite a friend over for lunch.”

  And just which of her friends would be available on Christmas Day? Certainly none of the men on her team. They all had families—wives, children, in-laws. They’d be real gung ho about giving up holiday family time to keep the “odd man out” on their team from being alone on Christmas Day. Lonely was one thing. Pity was another.

  Miranda pulled off her earphones and pushed the button to bring the hanging target up to the booth for a closer inspection. Instead of heeding Dr. K’s recommendation to find some company after her mandated counseling session that afternoon, 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 b
lames 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 bear hugs and patient advice, the man could cook. She’d never really had to learn because he had the gourmet talents and interest in the family. Miranda could easily recall the ham, mashed potatoes, baby asparagus, fruit salad and thick chocolate cake John had fixed for Christmas dinner last year. Her mouth watered at the memory of silky, semisweet frosting and light, moist layers of pure fudge heaven.

  Her bowl of cereal was sounding pretty sad right about now.

  She entered the parking garage and jogged up the ramp to the second level, where she’d parked her red pickup that morning, long before they’d gotten the call to the Gallagher Security Systems building. As the morning’s events passed through her mind, her thoughts took a left turn and landed on the image of GSS’s boss, Quinn Gallagher, running the show in his poshly furnished, high-tech penthouse office.

  The tailored suit and way he spoke, straightforward and concise, as though he was used to people jumping at his word, were clear indicators of his wealth and power. But the short dark hair with that one shaggy lock falling out of place onto his forehead, and those Clark Kent–ish black glasses said science geek. Surprisingly, there’d been muscles under that suit coat. She’d seen them flex and push at the seams of his jacket when he picked up his little girl. Quinn Gallagher was an odd combination of a man—a nearsighted nerd with guns and pecs hidden beneath his suit and tie.

  Miranda grinned at the inside joke of her own making. Did Mr. Gallagher even know that he resembled a famous comic book character?

  “What’s so funny?”

  Stifling the startled gasp that tried to escape, Miranda halted at the big man climbing out of a truck parked in the row across from hers. The black KCPD sweats marked him as a friend, but recognition made it difficult to keep her feet from dashing to her own vehicle. Talk about lousy timing.

  “Hey.” Lame greeting, but sufficient. Holden Kincaid needed no introduction. She shrugged off the sappy grin that had caught his attention. “Private joke. About a comic book.”

  “It’s Murdock, right?” He pointed to the proportionately sized silvery malamute circling the bed of his truck. “Yukon, stay.” Amazingly, the dog sat on his haunches as his master crossed the driving lane to extend his hand. “Holden Kincaid.”

  “I know who you are, Officer Kincaid.” There was nothing but polite friendliness in his demeanor, so running away from the man whose return to duty was giving her such fits about her job would only broadcast the insecurity she needed to hide. With the work-out sweats, stocking cap and scarf tucked around his neck, she could guess he wasn’t here to take her job this evening. “Going for a run?”

  He nodded, thumbing over his shoulder at the dog. “Ol’ Yukon there loves the snow, so any chance we can do a winter run, we go for it.”

  Keep it natural and conversational. “Even on Christmas Eve?”

  His laugh clouded the chilly air. “Liza said I needed to get out of the house for a couple of hours. I take it there’s some Santa Claus stuff in the works with her and my son. So I took the dog out for a run, then came here to lift weights in the fitness center. I figure they need about another thirty minutes before it’s safe for me to go home.”

  Liza must be the wife. Friendly man. Obedient dog. Family at home. Miranda’s isolation burned like a giant hole opening up in her belly.

  “Well, I won’t keep you from Santa Claus.”

  “Wait a sec. Murdock?”

  “Yeah?”

  When she turned to face him again, his smile had turned into a wry frown. “I’m glad we ran into each other.”

  Right. So she was naive to think she was the only one who felt there was a competition between them. He was trying to make the best of an awkward situation. She should be mature enough—confident enough—to do the same. She pulled her ponytail from the collar of her coat and tossed it down the middle of her back, busying her hands for a moment to calm her nerves. “Yeah, well, it was bound to happen. I mean, you’re back from leave, and I’m…always here, apparently.”

  With something like a sigh of relief, Kincaid’s smile returned. “Captain Cutler said you were a bit of a workaholic.”

  Guilty as charged. “I like the rush of the job, I guess. I feel useful. I’m in my element.”

  “I know what you mean. I love being home with my wife and the baby, but I’m anxious to get back to it.”

  Great. So she and Holden Kincaid were kindred spirits with similar talents. They might have been friends under other circumstances—if he wasn’t gunning for her job; if she hadn’t taken his in the first place.

  She glanced around the nearly deserted garage and tried to make an exit again. “Well, um…Merry Christmas.”

  “Murdock.” This time Miranda kept walking. “Look, I just wanted to say this isn’t how I wanted it to happen.”

  She opened her truck door, but stopped at the odd remark. “Wanted what to happen?”

  Her cell phone rang in her pocket, but she was more concerned about deciphering the apology stamped on Holden’s expression.

  He nodded toward her coat pocket. “You’d better take that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your phone.
It may be Captain Cutler.” He started backing away. “If so, it’s important.”

  “How do you know…?” An ingrained sense of duty pushed aside the ominous vibe that this chance meeting with Holden Kincaid had nothing to do with coincidence. Too many phone calls in her life meant a summons to an emergency, and seeing Michael Cutler’s name on the screen of her phone indicated this was a call she couldn’t ignore. She climbed into her truck, closing the door as she hit the answer button. “Yes, sir?”

  With a “Merry Christmas, Murdock,” Kincaid turned and jogged down the ramp and disappeared around the garage’s front gate into the night.

  “I didn’t catch you in the middle of dinner, did I?” her commanding officer asked. The friendly greeting told her this wasn’t an emergency.

  So Miranda took the time to start her truck and get the heater running before answering. “This is a good time to talk. What’s up?”

  “We’ve had a situation develop over the course of the day at Gallagher Security Systems that requires your…unique expertise.”

  “A situation?”

  With a muffled curse, the captain cut the chitchat and got straight to the details. “I talked to Sergeant Wheeler about your schedule this week. She said you volunteered to take some extra patrol shifts over the holidays so that some other officers could spend more time with their families.”

  He was calling her on Christmas Eve over this? “I’ve already cleared it with the desk sergeant. It won’t count as overtime. I’m just trading my vacation days for another time.”

  “It’s an admirable gesture, but I took the liberty of clearing your schedule for the next week. I’ve already talked to Holden Kincaid, and he’ll take the shifts you were going to cover so no one else has to change their plans. The team is on On Call status this week—if something comes up, he’ll fill in for you.”

  A bolt of icy electricity rippled down Miranda’s spine and her gaze shot to the black pickup in her rear-view mirror. This isn’t how I wanted it to happen. Kincaid’s words made sense now. He’d already known he was replacing her—not on SWAT 1, not yet—but that was what the preemptive apology was about. Cutler had already made the arrangements to get her out of the picture.