Big Guns Out of Uniform (12 page)

“You planning to shoot it and put me out of my misery?” she asked, lifting one brow. “Or do you carry that just for looks?”

His hard mouth softened, and he took her still-extended hand. “Nick Woodruff,” he growled. “Sergeant Nick Woodruff. I live behind you.” He jerked his head toward the butchered evergreens. “On Westwind.”

Westwind Drive was a pretty street that led past Hidden Lakes' grand entrance, but definitely wasn't part of it. For the first time, Delia actually
looked
at the property that backed onto hers. Nick Woodruff lived in a rambling, rustic house on a huge lot randomly dotted with oak, pine, and mounds of azaleas rather than the perfectly placed, artificially irrigated landscaping of Hidden Lakes.

Now that the thick foliage was gone, Delia could make out the long, narrow lap pool that edged Woodruff's back porch, and the hot tub that sat adjacent. Closer to her property line stood some sort of workshop, part of it open on two sides, where Woodruff appeared to be in the process of gutting a small red sports car. A mountain of firewood sat nearby—the real stuff, too, not those prissy little plastic-wrapped packages from Kroger.

“Look, Mr. Basham,” drawled Woodruff, nudging Delia back into the present. “Eventually you're going to have to let these utility people do their job.”

Bud was now cradling the battered orange chain saw as if it were his favorite grandchild. “Not today, Nick,” he said in an unrepentant tone.

Woodruff shrugged, as if his big black gun were chafing him. “Well, it's almost quitting time,” he said with authority. “You folks go on back to SP&L, and tell 'em somebody's gotta explain this policy. I'm real sorry for what happened today, but they can't just go sending you folks out with no word or warning.”

The utility workers shrugged, hefted up a couple of serious-looking power tools, and headed for their truck. The excitement over, Bud Basham trudged back up the hill with his chain saw. Delia shrugged, too. To hell with the dead pines. Like the house itself, the trees had been Neville's idea. He'd demanded the real estate developer install them, to shield them from the “riffraff” he'd been sure resided on Westwind Drive. Now the sight of Neville's evergreens hacked down to oozing little nubs was giving Delia a perverse sort of pleasure.

Beside her, Nick Woodruff cleared his throat, and suddenly Delia realized she was alone with the riffraff in question, a big, surly-looking neighbor whom she'd never bothered to meet. “So,
Dr. Delia,”
he drawled. “At last we meet.”

So he knew who she was. Delia felt a stab of irritation. People always seized on her radio persona, when in reality, she also worked as an assistant professor of psychology, collaborated on research projects at half the Ivy League, and had co-authored two textbooks. But then, Woodruff didn't look like the academic type.

“Hey, I want to thank you for calming Bud down,” she said, trying to sound gracious. “He has a bad temper but a good heart.”

Woodruff snorted. “He's a crazy old coot, is what he is,” he answered. “But I keep an eye out for him.”

Delia tried to smile. “Did you begin as an innocent bystander?”

Woodruff nodded. “Just coming home from the office. I could hear Basham bellowing from my mailbox.”

“So you're a cop, huh?”

Woodruff seemed to scowl. “SBI. In Raleigh.”

State Bureau of Investigation.
“Oh,” said Delia. “I've done some work for them.”

Woodruff's brows went up at that. “Yeah?”

Delia smiled tightly. “A serial rapist case down in Charlotte last year,” she said. “They needed some of my research on the behavior of sexual predators in court. And I got my face plastered all over cable TV in the process. It was pretty awful.”

Woodruff grunted. “Not much of a topic for a radio talk show, either.”

Delia looked up at him. Way up, as it happened, since Woodruff probably stood six-two in his big, bare feet. “No, it certainly isn't.”

He looked over his shoulder at his house as if impatient to be gone. “Well, looks like my work here is done, Dr. Delia,” he said, backing away. “Sorry I couldn't save your fancy landscaping. I know you folks in Hidden Lakes like your privacy.”

Delia caught the hint of sarcasm in his tone, and it inflamed her. “Not a problem,” she said sweetly. “I'm moving. But I hope
you
like your new neighbors, Mr. Woodruff, because they'll have one hell of a view of your hot tub.”

She watched Woodruff's eyes flash and his jaw clench. Then Delia tossed him a cheerful wave and turned toward her house.

 

F
OR
D
ELIA,
Friday's edition of
Let's Talk About Sex
turned out to be a hellish nightmare. At least ten calls came in for the absent Dr. Bozner, whose book had just hit the
New York Times
best-seller list, and who would have been a hot property had he actually shown up. The remaining callers turned out to be cranks, creeps, and perverts. Delia liked her new radio show, she really did. And she thought she could make a difference in people's lives by bringing topics like sexually transmitted disease and healthy physical relationships out of the closet and onto the airwaves. But sometimes Frank did a piss-poor job of weeding out the weirdos before sending the calls through.

After work Delia drove down to the bank to transfer money from her fast-dwindling savings account. She'd added up her growing pile of bills after waving goodbye to the cheerful Mr. Woodruff on Wednesday and realized that, as usual, there was just too much month left at the end of her money. Once parked, Delia shoved in the clutch and stared at the glistening plate-glass door. She hated having to visit the bank again. Hated being twenty-nine years old and still burdened with a staggering student loan, not to mention a big, ugly house she'd never really wanted. Just then, as if to lengthen her list of woes, the Volvo shuddered, belched, and died.

Delia let her head fall forward onto the steering wheel.
Well, it's your own fault!
she could hear her mother carping.
You were a fool to sign that prenuptial agreement. A man should support his wife, Delia, not impoverish her.

Oh, her parents had been thrilled when she'd married a doctor. Now they thought she was proud, stubborn, and foolish. But Delia had wanted a marriage, not a meal ticket. She had wanted children, a real family, and she had wanted to build her own career. And although Neville had changed his mind about the children, she'd succeeded with her career. Her income was barely a third of her ex-husband's, but it was enough to live well on.

Soon the house would be sold, and they would split the equity. Then Delia's dreams of a new car and a new condo would come true. On that somewhat consoling thought, Delia got out of her car, but at that very instant the bank's shiny glass door swung open, and Neville's new wife walked out, her long blond hair swinging.

Alicia was tall, tan, and totally oblivious to Delia's presence. Lifting her face to the sun, Alicia slid on a pair of cat-eyed Oakley sunglasses which had probably cost more than Delia's car was worth, then beeped open the door to an olive-green Jaguar XK8 convertible. The car roared to life, then swung deftly into the traffic flow, leaving Delia behind, a little heartbroken.

Yes, there was a lot about Alicia to envy. And this time it was more than just her hair and her car. Delia had been unable to miss the flowing, baby-blue tunic the new Mrs. Sydney had been wearing over her slim spandex slacks. No mistaking the slight swell of her tummy. And this time it wasn't the sort of plumpness old Neville could liposuction off. Well! So much for Neville's old complaint about pregnancy ruining a woman's figure. No wonder he'd rushed to the altar.

Oh, to hell with Neville
and
her banking. Everything would just have to wait until Monday. Weary and discouraged, Delia crawled back in the Volvo, said a prayer, and cranked the engine. It gagged and sputtered, but she made it out of the parking lot. In fact, she made it all the way across town, all the way out I-40, and almost—
almost
—all the way down Westwind. And then, only a quarter-mile shy of the Hidden Lakes entrance, it began wheezing again. Delia let off the gas, wondering if she could coast to the security gate.

Nope. The Volvo went into death throes and spasmed its way only as far as a long, tree-lined driveway on her right, then promptly died. Delia was still trying desperately to start the car when a black Silverado pickup came flying down the drive backward. It was definitely one of life's
Oh, shit
moments. Frantic, she turned the key again as the Silverado's backup lights got bigger and bigger and bigger.
Jesus Christ, isn't he even going to look?

Then, at the very last instant, the truck's brakes locked up, and the black beast skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust and dead leaves. Embarrassed, Delia got out of the station wagon just as a big, broad-shouldered man in a pair of baggy Adidas shorts climbed out of the Silverado. He stood in the dust cloud, his hands lifted expressively in one of those
What the fuck?
gestures. Delia's embarrassment quickly shifted to total humiliation when the dust cleared.

Nick Woodruff?

Feeling a little sick, she shifted her gaze past the Silverado. Yep, there it was, her big ugly house, just visible through Woodruff's tree-filled yard. Funny how she'd never bothered to look before. And man, oh, man, was she ever going to pay for that bitchy parting shot two days ago. His expression made that abundantly clear.

Woodruff stood in front of the Volvo now, hands on his hips. “Well, Dr. Delia,” he snapped, “we meet again.”

Delia bit her lip. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It just sort of died here.”

Nick made a sweeping gesture at the road. “Well, kick it out of gear and drift it out of my driveway, honey,” he growled. “Because I'm late for pickup basketball, and believe me, I need the exercise bad.”

Delia opened her mouth to tell the big ox to go screw himself, but nothing came out. Instead, she felt herself start to crumple inside. What else could possibly go wrong with her day?

Nick Woodruff wanted to bite back his spiteful words almost as soon as they left his mouth. Almost, because it took him a couple of seconds to realize that those really were tears pooling in Delia Sydney's silvery blue eyes. Suddenly Nick was halfway glad his mama was dead. Because if she'd been living, she'd have laid a hickory switch to his butt, and no maybe about it. However rich and snooty Delia Sydney might be, she was a lady in distress. And she was also wearing very wicked shoes.

“Hey, look, Doc, I'm sorry,” he said, slipping his fingers into the crack beneath the Volvo's hood. “I've had a couple of real bad days at work, and my fuse is short. I'm not usually such a jerk.”

“Well, jeez, I'm sorry I broke down!” Her face pale, Delia Sydney circled around the car. “Wh-what are you doing?”

Nick found the latch, popped it, and shoved the hood up. “Let me have a look,” he said. “I reckon I can miss a ball game.”

“Oh, heaven forbid!” she said stiffly. “Just give me a push, and I'll call the auto club from my cell phone.”

In response he shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Hey, Doc, it's okay,” he said quietly. “I'm a shade-tree mechanic. So what's up with it? Need a tune-up?”

At that, her anger seemed to melt, and she poked absently at a little rock with the sharply pointed toe of her black high heel. “Well, what I
need
is a new car,” she said, sighing. “But that's not going to happen until I can get the house sold. So, yes, I need a tune-up. Probably a complete overhaul. I never know whether to believe what the mechanics tell me.”

Nick let his eyes run over the filthy engine. “You really selling out?”

Delia exhaled. “I've been meaning to, yes,” she admitted. “But the last few months have been hell. I teach and travel a lot. So it seemed easier to just write the mortgage check and hang in, but the truth is, I hate that house. And I can't afford it, either.”

Nick tried not to look skeptical. “You're Neville Sydney's wife, right?”

“Ex
-wife,” she answered, a little too quickly.

Nick narrowed his eyes and stared into the afternoon sun. He was trying not to feel sorry for Delia Sydney. But he did, and he couldn't help it. Her guard was down, and despite her snug black suit and perfectly coiffed hair, she was starting to look young and vulnerable. Worse, he was starting to get the uncomfortable feeling that she was neither rich nor uppity. In fact, she seemed real nice. And awfully pretty. Then there were those shoes, shoes that made a man think of kinky, erotically painful things.

Jesus.
Nick rolled his shoulders, trying to relax. Trying to stop looking at her shoes. But his shame was deepening over his mean-spirited words. It sure wasn't Delia Sydney's fault that his day had been total shit. The least he could do was help her out of a jam.