Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (35 page)

“Detective Navarro said no phone calls. It’s necessary for your safety. He was very specific on that.”

“What else did the good detective tell you?”

“I’m to keep a close eye. Not let my guard down for a minute. Because if anything happened to you…” He paused and gave a nervous cough.

“What?”

“He’d, uh, have my hide.”

“That’s quite an incentive.”

“He wanted to make sure I took special care. Not that I’d let anything happen. I owe him that much.”

She frowned at him. He was at the window again, peering down at the street. “What do you mean, you owe him?”

Officer Pressler didn’t move from the window. He stood looking out, as though unwilling to meet her gaze. “It was a few years back. I was on this domestic call. Husband didn’t much like me sticking my nose into his business. So he shot me.”

“My god.”

“I radioed for help. Navarro was first to respond.” Pressler turned and looked at her. “So you see, I do owe him.” Calmly he turned back to the window.

“How well do you know him?” she asked softly.

Pressler shrugged. “He’s a good cop. But real private. I’m not sure anyone knows him very well.”

Including me,
she thought. Sighing, she clicked on the boob tube again and channel surfed past a jumble of daytime soaps, a TV court show and a golf tournament. She could almost feel another few brain cells collapse into mush.

What was Sam doing right now? she wondered.

And ruthlessly suppressed the thought. Sam Navarro was his own man. That much was perfectly clear.

She would have to be her own woman.

I
WONDER WHAT
Nina’s doing right now. At once Sam tried to suppress the thought, tried to concentrate instead on what was being said at the meeting, but his mind kept drifting back to the subject of Nina. Specifically, her safety. He had every reason to trust Leon Pressler. The young cop was sharp and reliable, and he owed his life to Sam. If anyone could be trusted to keep Nina out of harm’s way, it would be Pressler.

Still, he couldn’t shake that lingering sense of uneasiness. And fear. It was one more indication that he’d lost his objectivity, that his feelings were way out of control. To the point of affecting his work…

“…the best we can do? Sam?”

Sam suddenly focused on Abe Coopersmith. “Excuse me?”

Coopersmith sighed. “Where the hell are you, Navarro?”

“I’m sorry. I let my attention drift for a moment.”

Gillis said, “Chief asked if we’re following any other leads.”

“We’re following every lead we have,” Sam informed him. “The sketch of Spectre is circulating. We’ve checked all the hotels in Portland. So far, no employees with a missing finger. Problem is, we’re operating blind. We don’t know Spectre’s target, when he plans to strike, or where he plans to strike. All we have is a witness who’s seen his face.”

“And this bit about the bellhop’s uniform.”

“That’s right.”

“Have you shown all those uniforms to Miss Cormier? To help us identify which hotel we’re talking about?”

“We’re getting together a few more samples for her to look at,” said Gillis. “Also, we’ve interviewed that bicyclist. He doesn’t remember much about the man he hit. It happened so fast, he didn’t really pay attention to the face. But he does back up Miss Cormier’s recollection that the uniform jacket was green. Some shade of it, anyway. And he confirms that it happened on Congress Street, near Franklin Avenue.”

“We’ve combed that whole area,” said Sam. “Showed the sketch to every shopkeeper and clerk within a five-block radius. No one recognized the face.”

Coopersmith gave a grunt of frustration. “We’ve got the Governor arriving tomorrow afternoon. And a bomber somewhere in the city.”

“We don’t know if there’s a connection. Spectre could be targeting someone else entirely. It all depends on who hired him.”

“He may not even plan a hit at all,” suggested Gillis. “Maybe he’s finished his job. Maybe he’s left town.”

“We have to assume he’s still here,” cautioned Coopersmith. “And up to no good.”

Sam nodded in agreement. “We have twenty-four hours before the Governor’s meeting. By then, something’s bound to turn up.”

“God, I hope so,” said Coopersmith, and he rose to leave. “If there’s one thing we don’t need, it’s another bomb going off. And a dead Governor.”

“L
ET’S TAKE IT
from the top. Measure 36.” The conductor raised his baton, brought it down again. Four beats later, the trumpets blared out the opening notes of “Wrong Side of the Track Blues,” to be joined seconds later by woodwinds and bass. Then the sax slid in, its plaintive whine picking up the melody.

“Never did understand jazz,” complained the Brant Theater manager, watching the rehearsal from the middle aisle. “Lotta sour notes if you ask me. All the instruments fighting with each other.”

“I like jazz,” said the head usher.

“Yeah, well, you like rap, too. So I don’t think much of your taste.” The manager glanced around the theater, surveying the empty seats. He noted that everything was clean, that there was no litter in the aisles. The audience tonight would be a discriminating crowd. Bunch of lawyer types. They wouldn’t appreciate sticky floors or wadded up programs in the chairs.

Just a year ago, this building had been a porn palace, showing X-rated films to an audience of nameless, faceless men. The new owner had changed all that. Now, with a little private money from a local benefactor, the Brant Theater had been rehabilitated into a live performance center, featuring stage plays and musical artists. Unfortunately, the live performances brought in fewer crowds than the porn had. The manager wasn’t surprised.

Tonight, at least, a big audience was assured—five hundred paid and reserved seats, with additional walk-ins expected, to benefit the local Legal Aid office. Imagine that. All those lawyers actually paying to hear jazz. He didn’t get it. But he was glad these seats would be filled.

“Looks like we may be short a man tonight,” said the head usher.

“Who?”

“That new guy you hired. You know, the one from the Agency. Showed up for work two days ago. Haven’t heard from him since. I tried calling him, but no luck.”

The manager cursed. “Can’t rely on these agency hires.”

“That’s for sure.”

“You just gotta work the crowd with four men tonight.”

“Gonna be a bear. Five hundred reserved seats and all.”

“Let some of ’em find their own seats. They’re lawyers. They’re supposed to have brains.” The manager glanced at his watch. It was six-thirty. He’d have just enough time to wolf down that corned beef sandwich in his office. “Doors open in an hour,” he said. “Better get your supper now.”

“Sure thing,” replied the head usher. He swept up the green uniform jacket from the seat where he’d left it. And, whistling, he headed up the aisle for his dinner.

A
T SEVEN-THIRTY
, Officer Pressler escorted Nina back to police headquarters. The building was quieter than it had been that afternoon, most of the desks deserted, and only an occasional clerk circulating in the halls. Pressler brought Nina upstairs and ushered her into an office.

Sam was there.

He gave her only the most noncommittal of greetings: a nod, a quiet hello. She responded in kind. Pressler was in the room too, as were Gillis and another man in plainclothes, no doubt a cop as well. With an audience watching, she was not about to let her feelings show. Obviously Sam wasn’t, either.

“We wanted you to take a look at these uniforms,” Sam said, gesturing to the long conference table. Laid out on the table were a half dozen uniform jackets of various colors. “We’ve got bellhops, an elevator operator, and an usher’s uniform from the downtown Cineplex. Do any of them strike you as familiar?”

Nina approached the table. Thoughtfully she eyed each one, examining the fabrics, the buttons. Some of them had embroidered hotel logos. Some were trimmed with gold braid or nametags.

She shook her head. “It wasn’t one of these.”

“What about that green one, on the end?”

“It has gold braid. The jacket I remember had black braid, sort of coiled up here, on the shoulder.”

“Geez,” murmured Gillis. “Women remember the weirdest things.”

“Okay,” Sam said with a sigh. “That’s it for this session. Thanks, everyone. Pressler, why don’t you take a break and get some supper. I’ll bring Miss Cormier back to her hotel. You can meet us there in an hour or so.”

The room emptied out. All except Sam and Nina.

For a moment, they didn’t speak to each other. They didn’t even look at each other. Nina almost wished that the earnest Officer Pressler was back with her again; at least
he
didn’t make her feel like turning tail and running.

“I hope your hotel room’s all right,” he finally said.

“It’s fine. But I’ll be going stir crazy in another day. I have to get out of there.”

“It’s not safe yet.”

“When will it be safe?”

“When we have Spectre.”

“That could be never.” She shook her head. “I can’t live this way. I have a job. I have a life. I can’t stay in a hotel room with some cop who drives me up a wall.”

Sam frowned. “What’s Pressler done?”

“He won’t sit still! He never stops checking the windows. He won’t let me touch the phone. And he can’t carry on a decent conversation.”

“Oh.” Sam’s frown evaporated. “That’s just Leon doing his job. He’s good.”

“Maybe he is. But he still drives me crazy.” Sighing, she took a step toward him. “Sam, I can’t stay cooped up. I have to get on with my life.”

“You will. But we have to get you through this part alive.”

“What if I left town? Went somewhere else for a while—”

“We might need you here, Nina.”

“You don’t. You have his prints. You know he’s missing a finger. You could identify him without any question—”

“But we need to spot him first. And for that, we might need you to pick him out of a crowd. So you have to stay in town. Available. We’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

“I suppose you’ll have to. If you want to catch your man.”

He took her by the shoulders. “That’s not the only reason, and you know it.”

“Do I?”

He leaned closer. For one astonishing moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Then a rap on the door made them both jerk apart.

Gillis, looking distinctly ill at ease, stood in the doorway. “Uh…I’m heading over to get a burger. You want I should get you something, Sam?”

“No. We’ll pick something up at her hotel.”

“Okay.” Gillis gave an apologetic wave. “I’ll be back here in an hour.” He departed, leaving Sam and Nina alone once again.

But the moment was gone forever. If he’d intended to kiss her, she saw no hint of it in his face.

He said, simply, “I’ll drive you back now.”

In Sam’s car, she felt as if they’d reverted right back to the very first day they’d met, to the time when he’d been the stone-faced detective and she’d been the bewildered citizen. It was as if all the events of the past week—their nights together, their lovemaking—had never happened. He seemed determined to avoid any talk of feelings tonight, and she was just as determined not to broach the subject.

The only safe topic was the case. And even on that topic, he was not very forthcoming.

“I notice you’ve circulated the police sketch,” she said.

“It’s been everywhere. TV, the papers.”

“Any response?”

“We’ve been inundated by calls. We’ve spent all day chasing them down. So far, nothing’s panned out.”

“I’m afraid my description wasn’t very helpful.”

“You did the best you could.”

She looked out the window, at the streets of downtown Portland. It was already eight o’clock, the summer dusk just slipping into night. “If I saw him again, I’d know him. I’m sure I would.”

“That’s all we need from you, Nina.”

All you want from me, too,
she thought sadly. She asked, “What happens tomorrow?”

“More of the same. Chase down leads. Hope someone recognizes that sketch.”

“Do you know if Spectre’s even in the city?”

“No. He may be long gone. In which case we’re just spinning our wheels. But my instincts are telling me he’s still here somewhere. And he’s got something planned, something big.” He glanced at her. “
You
could be the wrench in the works. The one person who can recognize him. That’s why we have to keep you under wraps.”

“I can’t stand much more of this. I’m not even allowed to make a phone call.”

“We don’t want people to know your whereabouts.”

“I won’t tell anyone. I promise. It’s just that I feel so cut off from everyone.”

“Okay.” He sighed. “Who do you want to call?”

“I could start with my sister, Wendy.”

“I thought you two didn’t get along.”

“We don’t. But she’s still my sister. And she can tell the rest of the family I’m okay.”

He thought it over for a moment, then said, “All right, go ahead and call her. You can use the car phone. But don’t—”

“I know, I know. Don’t tell her where I am.” She picked up the receiver and dialed Wendy’s number. She heard three rings, and then a woman’s voice answered—a voice she didn’t recognize.

“Hayward residence.”

“Hello, this is Nina. I’m Wendy’s sister. Is she there?”

“I’m sorry, but Mr. and Mrs. Hayward are out for the evening. I’m the baby-sitter.”

That’s how worried she is about me,
thought Nina with an irrational sense of abandonment.

“Would you like her to call you back?” asked the baby-sitter.

“No, I, uh, won’t be available. But maybe I can call her later. Do you know what time she’ll be home?”

“They’re at the Brant Theater for that Legal Aid benefit. I think it runs till ten-thirty. And then they usually go out for coffee and dessert, so I’d expect them home around midnight.”

“Oh. That’s too late. I’ll call tomorrow, thanks.” She hung up and gave a sigh of disappointment.

“Not home?”

“No. I should have guessed they’d be out. In Jake’s law firm, the business day doesn’t end at five. The evenings are taken up by business affairs, too.”