Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (36 page)

“Your brother-in-law’s an attorney?”

“With ambitions of being a judge. And he’s only thirty years old.”

“Sounds like a fast-tracker.”

“He is. Which means he needs a fast-track wife. Wendy’s perfect that way. I’ll bet you that right at this moment, she’s at the theater charming the socks off some judge. And she can do it without even trying. She’s the politician in the family.” She glanced at Sam and saw that he was frowning. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“What theater? Where did they go tonight?”

“The Brant Theater. That’s where the benefit is.”

“Benefit?”

“The baby-sitter said it was for Legal Aid. Why?”

Sam stared ahead at the road. “The Brant Theater. Didn’t it just reopen?”

“A month ago. It was a disgrace before. All those porn flicks.”

“Damn. Why didn’t I think of it?”

Without warning, he made a screeching U-turn and headed the car the way they’d come, back toward the downtown district.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“The Brant Theater. A Legal Aid benefit. Who do you suppose’ll be there?”

“A bunch of lawyers?”

“Right. As well as our esteemed D.A., Norm Liddell. Now, I’m not particularly fond of lawyers, but I’m not crazy about picking up their dead bodies, either.”

She stared at him. “You think that’s the target? The Brant Theater?”

“They’ll need ushers tonight. Think about it. What does an usher wear?”

“Sometimes it’s just black pants and a white shirt.”

“But in a grand old theater like the Brant? They just might be dressed in green jackets with black braid….”

“That’s where we’re going?”

He nodded. “I want you to take a look. Tell me if we’re warm. Tell me if that uniform you saw could’ve been a theater usher’s.”

By the time they pulled up across the street from the Brant Theater, it was 8:20. Sam didn’t waste his time looking for a parking space; he left the car angled against the red-painted curb. As he and Nina climbed out, they heard a doorman yell, “Hey, you can’t park there!”

“Police!” Sam answered, waving his badge. “We need to get in the theater.”

The doorman stepped aside and waved them in.

The lobby was deserted. Through the closed aisle doors, they could hear the bluesy wail of clarinets, the syncopated beats of a snare drum. No ushers were in sight.

Sam yanked open an aisle door and slipped into the theater. Seconds later, he reemerged with a short and loudly protesting usher in tow. “Look at the uniform,” he said to Nina. “Look familiar?”

Nina took one glance at the short green jacket, the black braid and brass buttons, and she nodded. “That’s it. That’s the one I saw.”

“
What’s
the one?” demanded the usher, yanking himself free.

“How many ushers working here tonight?” snapped Sam.

“Who are you, anyway?”

Again Sam whipped out his badge. “Police. There’s a chance you have a bomb somewhere in there. So tell me quick. How many ushers?”

“A bomb?” The man’s gaze darted nervously toward the lobby exit. “Uh, we got four working tonight.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. One didn’t show up.”

“Did he have a missing finger?”

“Hell, I don’t know. We all wear gloves.” The usher looked again toward the exit. “You really think there could be a bomb in there?”

“We can’t afford to make a wrong guess. I’m evacuating the building.” He glanced at Nina. “Get out of here. Wait in the car.”

“But you’ll need help—”

He was already pushing through the door, into the darkened theater. From the open doorway, she watched him walk swiftly down the aisle. He climbed up to the stage and crossed to the conductor, who regarded him with a look of startled outrage.

The musicians, just as startled, stopped playing.

Sam grabbed the conductor’s microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said curtly. “This is the Portland Police. We have had a bomb threat. Calmly, but without delay, will everyone please evacuate the building. I repeat, stay calm, but please evacuate the building.”

Almost immediately the exodus began. Nina had to scramble backward out of the doorway to avoid the first rush of people heading up the aisle. In the confusion, she lost sight of Sam, but she could still hear his voice over the speaker system.

“Please remain calm. There is no immediate danger. Exit the building in an orderly fashion.”

He’s going to be the last one out,
she thought.
The one most likely hurt if a bomb does go off.

The exodus was in full force now, a rush of frightened men and women in evening clothes. The first hint of disaster happened so quickly Nina didn’t even see it. Perhaps someone had tripped over a long hem; perhaps there were simply too many feet storming the doorway. Suddenly people were stumbling, falling over each other. A woman screamed. Those still backed up in the aisle instantly panicked.

And rushed for the door.

Eleven

N
ina watched in horror as a woman in a long evening gown fell beneath the stampede. Struggling to reach her, Nina shoved through the crowd, only to be swept along with them and forced out the lobby doors and into the street. To get back inside the building was impossible; she’d be moving against the crowd, against the full force of panic.

Already the street was filling up with evacuees, everyone milling about looking dazed. To her relief, she caught sight of Wendy and Jake among the crowd; at least her sister was safe and out of the building. The flood of people out the doors gradually began to ebb.

But where was Sam? Had he made it out yet?

Then, through the crowd, she spotted him emerging from the lobby door. He had his arm around an elderly man, whom he hauled to the sidewalk and set down against the lamppost.

As Nina started toward him, Sam spotted her and yelled, “This one needs attention. Take care of him!”

“Where are you going?”

“Back inside. There are a few more in there.”

“I can help you—”

“Help me by staying
out
of the building. And see to that man.”

He has his job to do,
she thought, watching Sam head back into the theater.
So do I.

She turned her attention to the elderly man propped up against the lamppost. Kneeling beside him she asked, “Sir, are you all right?”

“My chest. It hurts…”

Oh, no. A coronary. And no ambulance in sight. At once she lowered his head onto the sidewalk, checked his pulse, and unbuttoned his shirt. She was so busy attending to her patient she scarcely noticed when the first patrol car pulled up in front of the theater. By then the crowd was a mass of confusion, everyone demanding to know what was going on.

She looked up to see Sam push out the lobby door again, this time carrying the woman in the evening dress. He lay the woman down beside Nina.

“One more inside,” he said, turning back to the building. “Check the lady out.”

“Navarro!” yelled a voice.

Sam glanced back as a man in a tuxedo approached.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Can’t talk, Liddell. I’ve got work to do.”

“Was there a bomb call or not?”

“Not a call.”

“Then why’d you order an evacuation?”

“The usher’s uniform.” Again Sam turned toward the building.

“Navarro!” Liddell yelled. “I want an explanation! People have been hurt because of this! Unless you can justify it—”

Sam had vanished through the lobby doors.

Liddell paced the sidewalk, waiting to resume his harangue. At last, in frustration, he shouted, “I’m going to have your ass for this, Navarro!”

Those were the last words out of Liddell’s mouth before the bomb exploded.

The force of the blast threw Nina backward, onto the street. She landed hard, her elbows scraping across the pavement, but she felt no pain. The shock of the impact left her too stunned to feel anything at all except a strange sense of unreality. She saw broken glass pelt the cars in the street. Saw smoke curl through the air and scores of people lying on the road, all of them just as stunned as she was. And she saw that the lobby door of the Brant Theater was tilted at a crazy angle and hanging by one hinge.

Through the pall of silence, she heard the first moan. Then another. Then came sobs, cries from the injured. Slowly she struggled to sit up. Only then did she feel the pain. Her elbows were torn and bleeding. Her head ached so badly she had to clutch it just to keep from throwing up. But as the awareness of pain crept into her consciousness, so too did the memory of what had happened just before the blast.

Sam. Sam had gone into the building.

Where was he? She scanned the road, the sidewalk, but her vision was blurry. She saw Liddell, sitting up now and groaning by the lamppost. Next to him was the elderly man whom Sam had dragged out of the theater. He, too, was conscious and moving. But there was no Sam.

She stumbled to her feet. A wave of dizziness almost sent her back down to her knees. Fighting it, she forced herself to move toward that open door and stepped inside.

It was dark, too dark to see anything. The only light was the faint glow from the street, shining through the doorway. She stumbled across debris and landed on her knees. Quickly she rose back to her feet, but she knew it was hopeless. It was impossible to navigate, much less find anyone in this darkness.

“Sam?” she cried, moving deeper into the shadows.

“Sam?”

Her own voice, thick with despair, echoed back at her.

She remembered that he’d stepped into the lobby a moment before the blast. He could be anywhere in the building, or he could be somewhere nearby. Somewhere she could reach him.

Again she cried out, “Sam!”

This time, faintly, she heard a reply. “Nina?” It didn’t come from inside the building. It came from the outside. From the street.

She turned and felt her way back toward the exit, guided by the glow of the doorway. Even before she reached it, she saw him standing there, silhouetted in the light from the street.

“Nina?”

“I’m here. I’m here….” She stumbled through the last stretch of darkness dividing them and was instantly swept into an embrace that was too fierce to be gentle, too terrified to be comforting.

“What the hell were you doing in
there?
” he demanded.

“Looking for you.”

“You were supposed to stay outside. Away from the building. When I couldn’t find you…” His arms tightened around her, drawing her so close she felt as though it were his heart hammering in her chest. “Next time, you
listen
to me.”

“I thought you were inside—”

“I came out the other door.”

“I didn’t see you!”

“I was dragging the last man out. I’d just got out when the bomb went off. It blew us both out onto the sidewalk.” He pulled back and looked at her. Only then did she see the blood trickling down his temple.

“Sam, you need to see a doctor—” “We have a lot of people here who need a doctor.” He glanced around at the street. “I can wait.”

Nina, too, focused on the chaos surrounding them. “We’ve got to get people triaged for the ambulances. I’ll get to work.”

“You feeling up to it?”

She gave him a nod. And a quick smile. “This is my forte, Detective. Disasters.” She waded off into the crowd.

Now that she knew Sam was alive and safe, she could concentrate on what needed to be done. And one glance at the scene told her this was the start of a busy night. Not just here, in the street, but in the ER as well. All the area hospitals would need to call in every ER nurse they had to attend to these people.

Her head was starting to ache worse than ever, her scraped elbows stung every time she bent her arms. But at this moment, as far as she knew, she was the only nurse on the scene.

She focused on the nearest victim, a woman whose leg was cut and bleeding. Nina knelt down, ripped a strip of fabric from the victim’s hem, and quickly wrapped a makeshift pressure bandage around the bleeding limb. When she’d finished tying it off, she noted to her satisfaction that the flow of blood had stopped.

That was only the first, she thought, and she looked around for the next patient. There were dozens more to go….

A
CROSS THE STREET,
his face hidden in the shadows, Vincent Spectre watched the chaos and muttered a curse. Both Judge Stanley Dalton and Norm Liddell were still alive. Spectre could see the young D.A. sitting against the lamppost, clutching his head. The blond woman sitting beside him must be Liddell’s wife. They were right in the thick of things, surrounded by dozens of other injured theater patrons. Spectre couldn’t just walk right over and dispatch Liddell, not without being seen by a score of witnesses. Sam Navarro was just a few yards from Liddell, and Navarro would certainly be armed.

Another humiliation. This would destroy his reputation, not to mention his back account. The Showman had promised four hundred thousand dollars for the deaths of Dalton and Liddell. Spectre had thought this an elegant solution: to kill both of them at once. With so many other victims, the identity of the targets might never be pinpointed.

But the targets were still alive, and there’d be no payment forthcoming.

The job had become too risky to complete, especially with Navarro on the scent. Thanks to Navarro, Spectre would have to bow out. And kiss his four hundred thousand goodbye.

He shifted his gaze, refocusing on another figure in the crowd. It was that nurse, Nina Cormier, bandaging one of the injured. This fiasco was her fault, too; he was sure of it. She must’ve given the police just enough info to tip them off to the bomb. The usher’s uniform, no doubt, had been the vital clue.

She was another detail he hadn’t bothered to clean up, and look at the result. No hit, no money. Plus, she could identify him. Though that police sketch was hopelessly generic, Spectre had a feeling that, if Nina Cormier ever saw his face, she would remember him. That made her a threat he could no longer ignore.

But now was not the opportunity. Not in this crowd, in this street. The ambulances were arriving, siren after siren whooping to a stop. And the police had cordoned off the street from stray vehicles.

Time to leave.

Spectre turned and walked away, his frustration mounting with every step he took. He’d always prided himself on paying attention to the little things. Anyone who worked with explosives had to have a fetish for details, or they didn’t last long. Spectre intended to hang around in this business, which meant he would continue to fuss over the details.

And the next detail to attend to was Nina Cormier.

S
HE WAS MAGNIFICENT
. Sam paused wearily amid the broken glass and shouting voices and he gazed in Nina’s direction. It was ten-thirty, an hour and a half since the explosion, and the street was still a scene of confusion. Police cars and ambulances were parked haphazardly up and down the block, their lights flashing like a dozen strobes. Emergency personnel were everywhere, picking through the wreckage, sorting through the victims. The most seriously injured had already been evacuated, but there were dozens more still to be transported to hospitals.

In the midst of all that wreckage, Nina seemed an island of calm efficiency. As Sam watched, she knelt down beside a groaning man and dressed his bleeding arm with a makeshift bandage. Then, with a reassuring pat and a soft word, she moved on to the next patient. As though sensing she was being watched, she suddenly glanced in Sam’s direction. Just for a moment their gazes locked across the chaos, and she read the question in his eyes:
Are you holding up okay?

She gave him a wave, a nod of reassurance. Then she turned back to her patient.

They both had their work cut out for them tonight. He focused his attention, once again, on the bomb scene investigation.

Gillis had arrived forty-five minutes ago with the personal body armor and mask. The rest of the team had straggled in one by one—three techs, Ernie Takeda, Detective Cooley. Even Abe Coopersmith had appeared, his presence more symbolic than practical. This was Sam’s show, and everyone knew it. The bomb disposal truck was in place and parked nearby. Everyone was waiting.

It was time to go in the building. Time to search for any second device.

Sam and Gillis, both of them wearing headlamps, entered the theater.

The darkness made the search slow and difficult. Stepping gingerly over debris, Sam headed down the left aisle, Gillis the right. The back rows of seats had sustained damage only to the upholstery—shredded fabric and stuffing. The further they advanced the more severe the damage.

“Dynamite,” Gillis noted, sniffing the air.

“Looks like the blast center’s near the front.”

Sam moved slowly toward the orchestra pit, the beam of his headlamp slicing the darkness left and right as he scanned the area around the stage—or what had once been the stage. A few splintered boards was all that remained.

“Crater’s right here,” observed Gillis.

Sam joined him. The two men knelt down for a closer inspection. Like the church bomb a week before, this one was shallow—a low-velocity blast. Dynamite.

“Looks like the third row, center stage,” said Sam. “Wonder who was sitting here.”

“Assigned seating, you figure?”

“If so, then we’ll have ourselves a convenient list of potential targets.”

“Looks all clear to me,” Gillis declared.

“We can call in the searchers.” Sam rose to his feet and at once felt a little dizzy. The aftereffects of the blast. He’d been in so many bombs lately, his brain must be getting scrambled. Maybe some fresh air would clear his head.

“You okay?” asked Gillis.

“Yeah. I just need to get out of here for a moment.” He stumbled back up the aisle and through the lobby doors. Outside he leaned against a lamppost, breathing gulps of night air. His dizziness faded and he became aware, once again, of the activity in the street. He noticed that the crowds had thinned, and that the injured had all been evacuated. Only one ambulance was still parked in the road.

Where was Nina?

That one thought instantly cleared his head. He glanced up and down the street, but caught no glimpse of her. Had she left the scene? Or was she taken from it?

A young cop manning the police line glanced up as Sam approached. “Yes, sir?”

“There was a woman—a nurse in street clothes—working out here. Where’d she go?”

“You mean the dark-haired lady? The pretty one?”

“That’s her.”

“She left in one of the ambulances, about twenty minutes ago. I think she was helping with a patient.”

“Thanks.” Sam went to his car and reached inside for his cellular phone. He was not taking any chances; he had to be sure she was safe. He dialed Maine Med ER.

The line was busy.

In frustration he climbed in the car. “I’m heading to the hospital!” he yelled to Gillis. “Be right back.”

Ignoring his partner’s look of puzzlement, Sam lurched away from the curb and steered through the obstacle course of police vehicles. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a parking stall near the hospital’s emergency entrance.