Catherine Coulter: Split Second

They stopped by Lucy’s black Range Rover in the Hoover garage, and she shrugged into her leather jacket she kept in the backseat. She paused for a moment, eyeing the jacket. “I wonder if the cleaners can get blood out of leather?”

“What did you do?”

“Me? Nothing. I was thinking about Dillon’s leather jacket, the one he put over the head of that woman robber at the Shop ’n Go.”

“I don’t think I’m going to ask him. How’d you come by that Range Rover?”

“My dad gave it to me when I graduated. He said an FBI agent couldn’t have too much muscle, car included.” Coop led her to his blue Corvette with its black-leather interior that smelled like a million bucks.

Lucy ran her fingers over the shining hood. “This is a very sexy car.” Not that I’m surprised; a cool car would be a must to maintain your rep.

He lightly tapped his hand on the top of the car. “I had to put the top back on two weeks ago for the winter. In the summer, though, cruising around as a convertible, she’s something else. The color is called jet stream blue.”

“Not a girlie blue, yet not so dark it’s nearly black. It’s nice. The metallic finish gives it a kick. Jet stream blue? Neat name. Yep, very sexy, Coop.” She couldn’t help it, she smiled at him. Was she nuts?

“That’s what my mother said. She presented her to me on my last birthday.”

A laugh spurted out. His mother gave him this car? What kind of line was this? “Your baby is a her?” Well, why was she surprised?

“Her name is Gloria. The day after I got her, she was sitting here in my slot, singing out her name to me.”

“And you’re saying your mom gave Gloria to you?”

He nodded. “She said I was getting too staid, too set in my ways, and here I was thirty-one years old, and she wanted some grandkids. When I told her she already had eight rugrats from my prolific siblings, and that I was only on the very first day of my thirty-first year, she said that wasn’t the point. When I asked her what the point was, she smacked me, told me the point was I was to go cruising around D.C., looking hot, and getting myself some action. The salesman, she assured me, said the Corvette Grand Sport was just the ticket. She’s got high hopes for Gloria.”

Lucy eyed him. He sounded legitimate—self-deprecating, charming, really, not like the playboy of the Western world at all. She ran her hand over the hood. “Given Gloria’s cost, your mom must really want a grandkid from you.” Then she reached out and stroked his ego, to see what he’d do. “And, Coop, you already are hot. Everybody in the unit knows that.”

He opened his mouth, stared at her, then shook his head. “You’ve been listening to people you shouldn’t, haven’t you? There’s nothing to it, just some of the guys pulling my chain. No, wait, it’s Shirley, isn’t it?”

“Come on, don’t try to pretend you’re some sort of hopeless nerd.”

“I know it’s Shirley. I heard her tell Ruth I had to add pages to my black book, it was so crammed. Then she was going on about Annette in the forensics lab and Glenis in personnel. They’re friends of mine, that’s all, just friends.”

Lucy said, “Yeah, right, you’re no philanderer, you’ve just got lots and lots of ‘friends’ who happen to be female.”

“Shirley was looking over my shoulder when I was thumbing through my address book to find a sheriff’s number in North Dakota. As for—well, both Annette and Glenis? They really are friends, nothing more.”

Lucy laughed at him. It felt good, but it died quickly enough, and she swallowed and looked away. Her cell rang. It was one of her friends, Barb Dickens. Lucy knew if she answered it, she’d start crying at Barb’s sweet concerned voice. She let it go to voice mail.

He said nothing more and helped her into the Corvette. Then, whistling, he walked around to the driver’s side. He thought there was a bit of color in her thin face, at least until she felt guilt about laughing. Coop hoped she liked couscous.

Chevy Chase, Maryland

The Carlyle Estate on Breckenridge Road

Tuesday

No time for another load; it would be dark in an hour. Lucy hefted the last cardboard box she’d brought over, this one filled with shoes and workout clothes, closed the door of her Range Rover with her hip, wondering idly if she should name him—or her? She didn’t think so. Gloria? She was smiling as she walked up the elaborate flagstone pathway, lined with flowers that were fast closing down for the winter. Huge maples and oaks filled the front yard, and their colors were amazing, all oranges and reds and bright browns, happily tossing their leaves to the ground. Why hadn’t Mr. McGruder cleaned up the leaves? She’d have to ask. Odd, she couldn’t remember either of the McGruders’ first names. They’d been a constant in her life until she’d left for college. Silent, for the most part—grimlooking, really, she’d always thought. Very proper, giving her a look whenever they believed she’d smart-mouthed her father or come in later than they’d thought proper from a date or made too much noise when her friends were over.

Lucy paused for a moment before climbing the six wide wooden steps up to the huge wraparound porch that encircled the entire house. Pots of flowers were scattered haphazardly along it, the plants beginning to lose hope now that winter was close. Hanging pots of ferns and ivy streamed down from the overhead porch beams. All this work to maintain a house that no one lives in? “Yes,” her father had said, and laughed. “You never know.” He’d been right.

Lucy loved that you could sit out on a spring day and watch the rain come down on all the beautiful flowers surrounding the house. It was only mid-October, still time for some more warm days, she hoped.

She realized she’d missed this house, missed the feel of it, the warmth of its memories, even though it was at least ten thousand square feet and the heating bills to keep it warm had to approach the national budget of some small countries. She’d lived here since her mom had died because, her dad told her, he’d needed help to raise her, and who better to help than her grandparents?

She’d lived here until she’d left for college at eighteen, and that was when her father had bought his own house and left as well.

She was twenty-seven years old, and here she was, moving back to the home of her childhood.

The main rooms were huge, with beautiful crown moldings and coffered ceilings, filled with Low Country antiques. The large Persian carpets sported lustrous blues and reds and yellows despite their age, or maybe because of their age. Everything felt settled and old and comforting.

All except the kitchen. It was brand-new, remodeled six years before by her grandmother, and so modern it was a shock walking into the room. There was a large island in the center, a breakfast section that could seat eight people, and enough sparkling high-tech appliances for a French restaurant. The walls and cabinets were painted a soft light yellow, the floors umber Italian tiles, and the tall ceiling was barreled, the beams a light ash.

Mrs. McGruder had stocked the pantry and refrigerator for her with lots of cold cuts and cheeses, a couple of casseroles, flavored water, vegetables—actually, anything she could wish for. She’d need to tell Mrs. McGruder she would see to things now, maybe ask if she could come to clean every couple of weeks.

She pulled out some ham, a slice of Swiss, and homemade rye bread, and ate standing at the island. After she washed up, she went upstairs. Her old bedroom simply hadn’t felt right, and so she decided to take over her grandmother’s huge suite. Along with updating the kitchen, her grandmother had redone her bathroom. It was an incredible space now, done in greens and cream, the tiles on the sink and floor green and yellow with splashes of pale blue, with matching towels and rugs. The Jacuzzi was nearly as large as her bed at the condo.