Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (32 page)

She said to Yeats, “I’ve told you everything I know. There’s nothing else I can think of.”

“You were his fiancée. If anyone would know, you would.”

“I don’t. I wasn’t even there. If you’d just talk to Daniella—”

“We have. She confirms your alibi,” Yeats admitted.

“Then why do you keep asking me these questions?”

“Because murder doesn’t have to be done in person,” one of the other cops said.

Now Yeats leaned forward, his gaze sympathetic, his voice quietly coaxing. “It must have been pretty humiliating for you,” he persisted. “To be left at the altar. To have the whole world know he didn’t want you.”

She said nothing.

“Here’s a man you trusted. A man you loved. And for weeks, maybe months, he was cheating on you. Probably laughing at you behind your back. A man like that doesn’t deserve a woman like you. But you loved him anyway. And all you got for it was pain.”

She lowered her head. She still didn’t speak.

“Come on, Nina. Didn’t you want to hurt him back? Just a little?”

“Not—not that way,” she whispered.

“Even when you found out he was seeing someone else? Even when you learned it was your own stepmother?”

She looked up sharply at Yeats.

“It’s true. We spoke to Daniella and she admitted it. They’d been meeting on the sly for some time. While you were at work. You didn’t know?”

Nina swallowed. In silence she shook her head.

“I think maybe you
did
know. Maybe you found out on your own. Maybe he told you.”

“No.”

“And how did it make you feel? Hurt? Angry?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Angry enough to strike back? To find someone who’d strike back
for
you?”

“I didn’t know!”

“That’s simply not believable, Nina. You expect us to accept your word that you knew nothing about it?”

“I didn’t!”

“You
did.
You—”

“That’s
enough.
” It was Sam’s voice that cut in. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Yeats?”

“My job,” Yeats shot back.

“You’re badgering her. Interrogating without benefit of counsel.”

“Why should she need a lawyer? She claims she’s innocent.”

“She
is
innocent.”

Yeats glanced smugly at the other Homicide detectives.

“I think it’s pretty obvious, Navarro, that you no longer belong on this investigation.”

“You don’t have the authority.”

“Abe Coopersmith’s given me the authority.”

“Yeats, I don’t give a flying—”

Sam’s retort was cut off by the beeping of his pocket pager. Irritably he pressed the Silence button. “I’m not through here,” he snapped. Then he turned and left the room.

Yeats turned back to Nina. “Now, Miss Cormier,” he said. All trace of sympathy was gone from his expression. In its place was the razor-tooth smile of a pit bull. “Let’s get back to the questions.”

T
HE PAGE WAS FROM
Ernie Takeda in the crime lab, and the code on the beeper readout told Sam it was an urgent message. He made the call from his own desk.

It took a few dialings to get through; the line was busy. When the usually low-key Takeda finally answered, there was an uncharacteristic tone of excitement in his voice.

“We’ve got something for you, Sam,” said Takeda.

“Something that’ll make you happy.”

“Okay. Make me happy.”

“It’s a fingerprint. A partial, from one of the device fragments from the warehouse bomb. It could be enough to ID our bomber. I’ve sent the print off to NCIC. It’ll take a few days to run it through the system. So be patient. And let’s hope our bomber is on file somewhere.”

“You’re right, Ernie. You’ve made me a happy man.”

“Oh, one more thing. About that church bomb.”

“Yes?”

“Based on the debris, I’d say the device had some sort of gift wrapping around it. Also, since it had no timing elements, my guess is, it was designed to be triggered on opening. But it went off prematurely. Probably a short circuit of some kind.”

“You mentioned gift wrapping.”

“Yeah. Silver-and-white paper.”

Wedding wrap,
thought Sam, remembering the gift that had been delivered that morning to the church. If the bomb was meant to explode on opening, then there was no longer any doubt who the intended victims were.

But why kill Nina? he wondered as he headed back to the conference room. Could this whole mess be attributed to another woman’s jealousy? Daniella Cormier had a motive, but would she have gone so far as to hire a bomber?

What was he missing here?

He opened the office door and halted. The three homicide detectives were still sitting at the table. Nina wasn’t. She was gone.

“Where is she?” Sam asked.

Yeats shrugged. “She left.”

“What?”

“She got fed up with our questions, so she walked out.”

“You
let
her leave?”

“We haven’t charged her with anything. Are you saying we should have, Navarro?”

Sam’s reply was unrepeatable. With a sudden sense of anxiety, he left Yeats and headed out the front entrance of police headquarters. He stood on the sidewalk, looking up and down the street.

Nina was nowhere in sight.

Someone’s trying to kill her, he thought as he headed for his car.
I have to reach her first.

From his car phone, he called Nina’s father’s house. She wasn’t there. He called Robert Bledsoe’s house. No answer. He called Lydia Warrenton’s house. Nina wasn’t there either.

On a hunch, he drove to Lydia’s Cape Elizabeth home anyway. People in distress often flee home for comfort, he reasoned. Eventually, Nina might wind up at her mother’s.

He found Lydia at home. But no Nina—not yet, at least.

“I haven’t spoken to her since yesterday morning,” said Lydia, ushering Sam into the seaview room. “I’m not sure she
would
come here.”

“Do you know where she might go?” Sam asked. “Someone she might turn to?”

Lydia shook her head. “I’m afraid my daughter and I aren’t very close. We never were. The truth is, she wasn’t the easiest child.”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Warrenton?”

Lydia seated herself on the white couch. Her silk pantsuit was a startling slash of purple against the pale cushions. “What I mean to say—I know it sounds awful—is that Nina was something of a disappointment to me. We offered her so many opportunities. To study abroad, for instance. At a boarding school in Switzerland. Her sister Wendy went and benefited wonderfully. But Nina refused to go. She insisted on staying home. Then there were the other things. The boys she brought home. The ridiculous outfits she’d wear. She could be doing so much with her life, but she never achieved much.”

“She earned a nursing degree.”

Lydia gave a shrug. “So do thousands of other girls.”

“She’s not any other girl, Mrs. Warrenton. She’s your daughter.”

“That’s why I expected more. Her sister speaks three languages and plays the piano and cello. She’s married to an attorney who’s in line for a judicial seat. While Nina…” Lydia sighed. “I can’t imagine how sisters could be so different.”

“Maybe the real difference,” said Sam, rising to his feet, “was in how you loved them.” He turned and walked out of the room.

“Mr. Navarro!” he heard Lydia call as he reached the front door.

He looked back. She was standing in the hallway, a woman of such perfectly groomed elegance that she didn’t seem real or alive. Or touchable.

Not like Nina at all.

“I think you have entirely the wrong idea about me and my daughter,” Lydia said.

“Does it really matter what I think?”

“I just want you to understand that I did the best I could, under the circumstances.”

“Under the circumstances,” replied Sam, “so did she.” And he left the house.

Back in his car, he debated which way to head next. Another round of phone calls came up empty. Where the hell was she?

The only place he hadn’t checked was her new apartment. She’d told him it was on Taylor Street. There was probably no phone in yet; he’d have to drive there to check it out.

On his way over, he kept thinking about what Lydia Warrenton had just told him. He thought about what it must have been like for Nina to grow up the black sheep, the unfavored child. Always doing the wrong thing, never meeting Mommy’s approval. Sam had been fortunate to have a mother who’d instilled in him a sense of his own competence.

I understand now,
he thought,
why you wanted to marry Robert.
Marrying Robert Bledsoe was the one sure way to gain her mother’s approval. And even that had collapsed in failure.

By the time he pulled up at Nina’s new apartment building, he was angry. At Lydia, at George Cormier and his parade of wives, at the entire Cormier family for its battering of a little girl’s sense of self-worth.

He knocked harder at the apartment door than he had to.

There was no response. She wasn’t here, either.

Where are you, Nina?

He was about to leave when he impulsively gave the knob a turn. It was unlocked.

He pushed the door open. “Nina?” he called.

Then his gaze focused on the wire. It was almost invisible, a tiny line of silver that traced along the doorframe and threaded toward the ceiling.

Oh, my God…

In one fluid movement he pivoted away and dived sideways, down the hallway.

The force of the explosion blasted straight through the open door and ripped through the wall in a flying cloud of wood and plaster.

Deafened, stunned by the blast, Sam lay facedown in the hallway as debris rained onto his back.

Eight

“M
an, oh man,” said Gillis. “You sure did bring down the house.”

They were standing outside, behind the yellow police line, waiting for the rest of the search team to assemble. The apartment house—what was left of it—had been cleared of any second devices, and now it was Ernie Takeda’s show. Takeda was, at that moment, diagramming the search grid, handing out evidence bags, and assigning his lab crew to their individual tasks.

Sam already knew what they’d find. Residue of Dupont label dynamite. Scraps of green two-inch-wide electrical tape. And Prima detonating cord. The same three components as the church bomb and the warehouse bomb.

And every other bomb put together by the late Vincent Spectre.

Who’s your heir apparent, Spectre?
Sam wondered.
To whom did you bequeath your tricks of the trade? And why is Nina Cormier the target?

Just trying to reason it through made his head pound. He was still covered in dust, his cheek was bruised and swollen, and he could barely hear out of his left ear. But he had nothing to complain about. He was alive.

Nina would not have been so fortunate.

“I’ve got to find her,” he said. “Before he does.”

“We’ve checked with the family again,” said Gillis. “Father, mother, sister. She hasn’t turned up anywhere.”

“Where the hell could she have gone?” Sam began to pace along the police line, his worry turning to agitation. “She walks out of headquarters, maybe she catches a cab or a bus. Then what? What would she do?”

“Whenever my wife gets mad, she goes shopping,” Gillis offered helpfully.

“I’m going to call the family again.” Sam turned to his car. “Maybe she’s finally shown up somewhere.”

He was about to reach inside the Taurus for the car phone when he froze, his gaze focused on the edge of the crowd. A small, dark-haired figure stood at the far end of the street. Even from that distance, Sam could read the fear, the shock, in her pale face.

“Nina,” he murmured. At once he began to move toward her, began to push, then shove his way through the crowd. “Nina!”

She caught sight of him, struggling to reach her. Now she was moving as well, frantically plunging into the gathering of onlookers. They found each other, fell into each other’s embrace. And at that moment, there was no one else in the world for Sam, no one but the woman he was holding. She felt so very precious in his arms, so easily taken from him.

With a sudden start, he became acutely aware of the crowd. All these people, pressing in on them. “I’m getting you out of here,” he said. Hugging her close to his side, he guided her toward his car. The whole time, he was scanning faces, watching for any sudden movements.

Only when he’d bundled her safely into the Taurus did he allow himself a deep breath of relief.

“Gillis!” he called. “You’re in charge here!”

“Where you going?”

“I’m taking her somewhere safe.”

“But—”

Sam didn’t finish the conversation. He steered the car out of the crowd and they drove away.

Drove north.

Nina was staring at him. At the bruise on his cheek, the plaster dust coating his hair. “My God, Sam,” she murmured. “You’ve been hurt—”

“A little deaf in one ear, but otherwise I’m okay.” He glanced at her and saw that she didn’t quite believe him. “I ducked out just before it blew. It was a five-second delay detonator. Set off by opening the door.” He paused, then added quietly, “It was meant for you.”

She said nothing. She didn’t have to; he could read the comprehension in her gaze. This bombing was no mistake, no random attack. She was the target and she could no longer deny it.

“We’re chasing down every lead we have,” he said. “Yeats is going to question Daniella again, but I think that’s a dead end. We did get a partial fingerprint off the warehouse bomb, and we’re waiting for an ID. Until then, we’ve just got to keep you alive. And that means you have to cooperate. Do exactly what I tell you to do.” He gave an exasperated sigh and clutched the steering wheel tighter. “That was
not
smart, Nina. What you did today.”

“I was angry. I needed to get away from all you cops.”

“So you storm out of headquarters? Without telling me where you’re going?”

“You threw me to the wolves, Sam. I expected Yeats to clap the handcuffs on me. And you delivered me to him.”

“I had no choice. One way or the other, he was going to question you.”

“Yeats thinks I’m guilty. And since
he
was so sure of it, I thought…I thought you must have your doubts as well.”

“I have no doubts,” he said, his voice absolutely steady. “Not about you. And after this latest bomb, I don’t think Yeats’ll have any doubts either. You’re the target.”

The turnoff to Route 95—the Interstate—was just ahead. Sam took it.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I’m getting you out of town. Portland isn’t a safe place for you. So I have another spot in mind. A fishing camp on Coleman Pond. I’ve had it for a few years. You’ll be roughing it there, but you can stay as long as you need to.”

“You won’t be staying with me?”

“I have a job to do, Nina. It’s the only way we’ll get the answers. If I do my job.”

“Of course, you’re right.” And she looked straight ahead at the road. “I forget sometimes,” she said softly, “that you’re a cop.”

A
CROSS THE STREET
from the police line, he stood in the thick of the crowd, watching the bomb investigators scurry about with their evidence bags and their notebooks. Judging by the shattered glass, the debris in the street, the blast had been quite impressive. But of course he’d planned it that way.

Too bad Nina Cormier was still alive.

He’d spotted her just moments before, being escorted through the crowd by Detective Sam Navarro. He’d recognized Navarro at once. For years he’d followed the man’s career, had read every news article ever written about the Bomb Squad. He knew about Gordon Gillis and Ernie Takeda as well. It was his business to know. They were the enemy, and a good soldier must know his enemy.

Navarro helped the woman into a car. He seemed unusually protective—not like Navarro at all, to be succumbing to romance on the job. Cops like him were supposed to be professionals. What had happened to the quality of civil servants these days?

Navarro and the woman drove away.

There was no point trying to follow them; another opportunity would arise.

Right now he had a job to do. And only two days in which to finish it.

He gave his gloves a little tug. And he walked away, unnoticed, through the crowd.

B
ILLY
“T
HE
S
HOWMAN
” Binford was happy today. He was even grinning at his attorney, seated on the other side of the Plexiglas barrier.

“It’s gonna be all right, Darien,” said Billy. “I got everything taken care of. You just get ready to negotiate that plea bargain. And get me out of here, quick.”

Darien shook his head. “I told you, Liddell’s not in a mood to cut any deals. He’s out to score big with your conviction.”

“Darien, Darien. You got no faith.”

“What I got is a good grip on reality. Liddell’s aiming for a higher office. For that, he’s got to put you away.”

“He won’t be putting anyone away. Not after Saturday.”

“What?”

“You didn’t hear me say nothing, okay? I didn’t say nothing. Just believe me, Liddell won’t be a problem.”

“I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me about it.”

Billy regarded his attorney with a look of both pity and amusement. “You know what? You’re like that monkey with his paws over his ears. Hear no evil. That’s you.”

“Yeah,” Darien agreed. And he nodded miserably. “That’s me exactly.”

A
FIRE CRACKLED
in the hearth, but Nina felt chilled to the bone. Outside, dusk had deepened, and the last light was fading behind the dense silhouettes of pine trees. The cry of a loon echoed, ghostlike, across the lake. She’d never been afraid of the woods, or the darkness, or of being alone. Tonight, though, she
was
afraid, and she didn’t want Sam to leave.

She also knew he had to.

He came tramping back into the cottage, carrying an armload of firewood, and began to stack it by the hearth. “This should do you for a few days,” he said. “I just spoke to Henry Pearl and his wife. Their camp’s up the road. They said they’d check up on you a few times a day. I’ve known them for years, so I know you can count on them. If you need anything at all, just knock on their door.”

He finished stacking the wood and clapped the dirt from his hands. With his shirtsleeves rolled up and sawdust clinging to his trousers, he looked more like a woodsman than a city cop. He threw another birch log on the fire and the flames shot up in a crackle of sparks. He turned to look at her, his expression hidden against the backlight of fire.

“You’ll be safe here, Nina. I wouldn’t leave you alone if I had even the slightest doubt.”

She nodded. And smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

“There’s a fishing pole and tackle box in the kitchen, if you feel like wrestling with a trout. And feel free to wear anything you find in the closet. None of it’ll fit, but at least you’ll be warm. Henry’s wife’ll drop by some, uh, women’s wear tomorrow.” He paused and laughed. “Those probably won’t fit either. Since she’s twice
my
size.”

“I’ll manage, Sam. Don’t worry about me.”

There was a long silence. They both knew there was nothing more to say, but he didn’t move. He glanced around the room, as though reluctant to leave. Almost as reluctant as she was to see him go.

“It’s a long drive back to the city,” she said. “You should eat before you go. Can I interest you in dinner? Say, a gourmet repast of macaroni and cheese?”

He grinned. “Make it anything else and I’ll say yes.”

In the kitchen, they rummaged through the groceries they’d bought at a supermarket on the way. Mushroom omelets, a loaf of French bread, and a bottle of wine soon graced the tiny camp table. Electricity had not yet made it to this part of the lake, so they ate by the light of a hurricane lamp. Outside, dusk gave way to a darkness alive with the chirp of crickets.

She gazed across the table at him, watching the way his face gleamed in the lantern light. She kept focusing on that bruise on his cheek, thinking about how close he’d come to dying that afternoon. But that was exactly the sort of work he did, the sort of risk he took all the time. Bombs. Death. It was insane, and she didn’t know why any man in his right mind would take those risks.
Crazy cop,
she thought.
And I must be just as insane, because I think I’m falling for this guy.

She took a sip of wine, the whole time intensely, almost painfully aware of his presence. And of her attraction toward him, an attraction so strong she was having trouble remembering to eat.

She had to remind herself that he was just doing his job, that to him, she was nothing more than a piece of the puzzle he was trying to solve, but she couldn’t help picturing other meals, other nights they might spend together. Here, on the lake. Candlelight, laughter. Children. She thought he’d be good with children. He’d be patient and kind, just as he was with her.

How would I know that? I’m dreaming. Fantasizing again.

She reached across to pour him more wine.

He put his hand over the glass. “I have to be driving back.”

“Oh. Of course.” Nervously she set the bottle down again. She folded and refolded her napkin. For a whole minute they didn’t speak, didn’t look at each other. At least, she didn’t look at him.

But when she finally raised her eyes, she saw that he was watching her. Not the way a cop looks at a witness, at a piece of a puzzle.

He was watching her the way a man watches a woman he wants.

He said, quickly, “I should leave now—”

“I know.”

“—before it gets too late.”

“It’s still early.”

“They’ll need me, back in the city.”

She bit her lip and said nothing. Of course he was right. The city did need him. Everyone needed him. She was just one detail that required attending to. Now she was safely tucked away and he could go back to his real business, his real concerns.

But he didn’t seem at all eager to leave. He hadn’t moved from the chair, hadn’t broken eye contact. She was the one who looked away, who nervously snatched up her wineglass.

She was startled when he reached over and gently caught her hand. Without a word he took the glass and set it down. He raised her hand, palm side up, and pressed a kiss, ever so light, to her wrist. The lingering of lips, the tickle of his breath, was the sweetest torture. If he could wreak such havoc kissing that one square inch of skin, what could he do with the rest of her?

She closed her eyes and gave a small, soft moan. “I don’t want you to leave,” she whispered.

“It’s a bad idea. For me to stay.”

“Why?”

“Because of this.” He kissed her wrist again. “And this.” His lips skimmed up her arm, his beard delightfully rough against her sensitive skin. “It’s a mistake. You know it. I know it.”

“I make mistakes all the time,” she replied. “I don’t always regret them.”

His gaze lifted to hers. He saw both her fear and her fearlessness. She was hiding nothing now, letting him read all. Her hunger was too powerful to hide.

He rose from the table. So did she.

He pulled her toward him, cupped her face in his hands, and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss, sweet with the taste of wine and desire, left her legs unsteady. She swayed against him, her arms reaching up to clutch his shoulders. Before she could catch her breath, he was kissing her again, deeper. As their mouths joined, so did their bodies. His hands slid down her waist, to her hips. He didn’t need to pull her against him; she could already feel him, hard and aroused. And that excited her even more.

“If we’re going to stop,” he breathed, “it had better be now….”

She responded with a kiss that drowned out any more words between them. Their bodies did all the talking, all the communicating.