Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower: Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower

Thrilling praise for

‘Tess Gerritsen is an automatic must-read in my house.

If you’ve never read Gerritsen, figure in the price

of electricity when you buy your first novel by her,

’cause, baby, you are going to be up all night. She is

better than Palmer, better than Cook… Yes, even

better than Crichton.’

—Stephen King

‘[Gerritsen] has an imagination…so dark and

frightening that she makes Edgar Allan Poe…

seem like goody-two-shoes’

—Chicago Tribune

‘Superior to Patricia Cornwell and

as good as James Patterson…’

—Bookseller

‘It’s scary just how good Tess Gerritsen is…’

—Harlan Coben

‘Gerritsen has enough in the locker to seriously worry

Michael Connelly, Harlan Coben and even the great

Denis Lehane. Brilliant.’

—Crimetime

‘Gerritsen is tops in her genre.’

—USA TODAY

‘Tess Gerritsen writes some of the smartest, most

compelling thrillers around.’

—Bookreporter

Also available by Tess Gerritsen

IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS

UNDER THE KNIFE

CALL AFTER MIDNIGHT

NEVER SAY DIE

STOLEN

WHISTLEBLOWER

PRESUMED GUILTY

MURDER & MAYHEM COLLECTION

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Chapter One

THE WEDDING WAS OFF. Cancelled. Canned. Kaput.

Nina Cormier sat staring at herself in the church dressing room mirror and wondered why she couldn’t seem to cry. She knew the pain was there, deep and terrible beneath the numbness, but she didn’t feel it. Not yet. She could only sit dry-eyed, staring at her reflection. The picture-perfect image of a bride. Her veil floated in gossamer wisps about her face. The bodice of her ivory satin dress, embroidered with seed pearls, hung fetchingly off-shoulder. Her long black hair was gathered into a soft chignon. Everyone who’d seen her that morning in the dressing room—her mother, her sister Wendy, her stepmother Daniella—had declared her a beautiful bride.

And she would have been. Had the groom bothered to show up.

He didn’t even have the courage to break the news to her in person. After six months of planning and dreaming, she’d received his note just twenty minutes before the ceremony. Via the best man, no less.

Nina,

I need time to think about this. I’m sorry, I really am. I’m leaving town for a few days. I’ll call you.

Robert

She forced herself to read the note again.

I need time…I need time…

How much time does a man need? she wondered.

A year ago, she’d moved in with Dr. Robert Bledsoe. It’s the only way to know if we’re compatible, he’d told her. Marriage was such a major commitment, a permanent commitment, and he didn’t want to make a mistake. At 41, Robert had known his share of disastrous relationships. He was determined not to make any more mistakes. He wanted to be sure that Nina was the one he’d been waiting for all his life.

She’d been certain Robert was the man she’d been waiting for. So certain that, on the very day he’d suggested they live together, she’d gone straight home and packed her bags…

“Nina? Nina, open the door!” It was her sister Wendy, rattling the knob. “Please let me in.”

Nina dropped her head in her hands. “I don’t want to see anyone right now.”

“You need to be with someone.”

“I just want to be alone.”

“Look, the guests have all gone home. The church is empty. It’s just me out here.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone. Just go home, will you? Please, just go.”

There was a long silence outside the door. Then Wendy said, “If I leave now, how’re you going to get home? You’ll need a ride.”

“Then I’ll call a cab. Or Reverend Sullivan can drive me. I need some time to think.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to talk?”

“I’m sure. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“If that’s what you really want.” Wendy paused, then added, with a note of venom that penetrated even through the oak door, “Robert’s a jerk, you know. I might as well tell you. I’ve always thought he was.”

Nina didn’t answer. She sat at the dressing table, her head in her hands, wanting to cry, but unable to squeeze out a single tear. She heard Wendy’s footsteps fade away, then heard only the silence of the empty church. Still no tears would come. She couldn’t think about Robert right now. Instead, her mind seemed to focus stubbornly on the practical aspects of a cancelled wedding. The catered reception and all that uneaten food. The gifts she had to return. The nonrefundable airline tickets to St. John Island. Maybe she should go on that honeymoon anyway and forget Dr. Robert Bledsoe. She’d go by herself, just her and her bikini. Out of this whole heartbreaking affair, at least she’d come out with a tan.

Slowly she raised her head and once again looked at her reflection in the mirror. Not such a beautiful bride after all, she thought. Her lipstick was smeared and her chignon was coming apart. She was turning into a wreck.

With sudden rage she reached up and yanked off the veil. Hairpins flew in every direction, releasing a rebellious tumble of black hair. To hell with the veil; she tossed it in the trash can. She snatched up her bouquet of white lilies and pink sweetheart roses and slam-dunked it into the trash can as well. That felt good. Her anger was like some new and potent fuel flooding her veins. It propelled her to her feet.

She walked out of the church dressing room, the train of her gown dragging behind her, and entered the nave.

The pews were deserted. Garlands of white carnations draped the aisles, and the altar was adorned with airy sprays of pink roses and baby’s breath. The stage had been beautifully set for a wedding that would never take place. But the lovely results of the florist’s hard work was scarcely noticed by Nina as she strode past the altar and started up the aisle. Her attention was focused straight ahead on the front door. On escape. Even the concerned voice of Reverend Sullivan calling to her didn’t slow her down. She walked past all the floral reminders of the day’s fiasco and pushed through the double doors.

There, on the church steps, she halted. The July sunshine glared in her eyes, and she was suddenly, painfully aware of how conspicuous she must be, a lone woman in a wedding gown, trying to wave down a taxi. Only then, as she stood trapped in the brightness of afternoon, did she feel the first sting of tears.

Oh, no. Lord, no. She was going to break down and cry right here on the steps. In full view of every damn car driving past on Forest Avenue.

“Nina? Nina, dear.”

She turned. Reverend Sullivan was standing on the step above her, a look of worry on his kind face.

“Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?” he asked. “If you’d like, we could go inside and talk.”

Miserably she shook her head. “I want to get away from here. Please, I just want to get away.”

“Of course. Of course.” Gently, he took her arm. “I’ll drive you home.”

Reverend Sullivan led her down the steps and around the side of the building, to the staff parking lot. She gathered up her train, which by now was soiled from all that dragging, and climbed into his car. There she sat with all the satin piled high on her lap.

Reverend Sullivan slid in behind the wheel. The heat was stifling inside the car, but he didn’t start the engine. Instead they sat for a moment in awkward silence.

“I know it’s hard to understand what possible purpose the Lord may have for all this,” he said quietly. “But surely there’s a reason, Nina. It may not be apparent to you at the moment. In fact, it may seem to you that the Lord has turned His back.”

“Robert’s the one who turned his back,” she said. Sniffling, she snatched up a clean corner of her train and wiped her face. “Turned his back and ran like hell.”

“Ambivalence is common for bridegrooms. I’m sure Dr. Bledsoe felt this was a big step for him—”

“A big step for him? I suppose marriage is just a stroll in the park for me?”

“No, no, you misunderstand me.”

“Oh, please.” She gave a muffled sob. “Just take me home.”

Shaking his head, he put the key in the ignition. “I only wanted to explain to you, dear, in my own clumsy way, that this isn’t the end of the world. It’s the nature of life. Fate is always throwing surprises at us, Nina. Crises we never expect. Things that seem to pop right out of the blue.”

A deafening boom suddenly shook the church building. The explosion shattered the stained glass windows, and a hail of multicolored glass shards flew across the parking lot. Torn hymn books and fragments of church pews tumbled onto the blacktop.

As the white smoke slowly cleared, Nina saw a dusting of flower petals drift gently down from the sky and settle on the windshield right in front of Reverend Sullivan’s shocked eyes.

“Right out of the blue,” she murmured. “You couldn’t have said it better.”

“You TWO, WITHOUT A DOUBT, are the biggest screwups of the year.”

Portland police detective Sam Navarro, sitting directly across the table from the obviously upset Norm Liddell, didn’t bat an eyelash. There were five of them sitting in the station conference room, and Sam wasn’t about to give this prima donna D.A. the satisfaction of watching him flinch in public. Nor was Sam going to refute the charges, because they had screwed up. He and Gillis had screwed up big time, and now a cop was dead. An idiot cop, but a cop all the same. One of their own.

“In our defense,” spoke up Sam’s partner Gordon Gillis, “we never gave Marty Pickett permission to approach the site. We had no idea he’d crossed the police line—”

“You were in charge of the bomb scene,” said Liddell. “That makes you responsible.”

“Now, wait a minute,” said Gillis. “Officer Pickett has to bear some of the blame.”

“Pickett was just a rookie.”

“He should’ve been following procedure. If he’d—”

“Shut up, Gillis,” said Sam.

Gillis looked at his partner. “Sam, I’m only trying to defend our position.”

“Won’t do us a damn bit of good. Since we’re obviously the designated fall guys.” Sam leaned back in his chair and eyed Liddell across the conference table. “What do you want, Mr. D.A.? A public flogging? Our resignations?”

“No one’s asking for your resignations,” cut in Chief Abe Coopersmith. “And this discussion is getting us nowhere.”

“Some disciplinary action is called for,” said Liddell. “We have a dead police officer—”

“Don’t you think I know that?” snapped Coopersmith. “I’m the one who had to answer to the widow. Not to mention all those bloodsucking reporters. Don’t give me this us and we crap, Mr. D.A. It was one of ours who fell. A cop. Not a lawyer.”

Sam looked in surprise at his chief. This was a new experience, having Coopersmith on his side. The Abe Coopersmith he knew was a man of few words, few of them complimentary. It was because Liddell was rubbing them all the wrong way. When under fire, cops always stuck together.

“Let’s get back to the business at hand, okay?” said Coopersmith. “We have a bomber in town. And our first fatality. What do we know so far?” He looked at Sam, who was head of the newly re-formed Bomb Task Force. “Navarro?”

“Not a hell of a lot,” admitted Sam. He opened a file folder and took out a sheaf of papers. He distributed copies to the other four men around the table—Liddell, Chief Coopersmith, Gillis, and Ernie Takeda, the explosives expert from the Maine State Crime Lab. “The first blast occurred around 2:15 a.m. The second blast around 2:30 a.m. It was the second one that pretty much levelled the R. S. Hancock warehouse. It also caused minor damage to two adjoining buildings. The night watchman was the one who found the first device. He noticed signs of breaking and entering, so he searched the building. The bomb was left on a desk in one of the offices. He put in the call at 1:30 a.m. Gillis got there around 1:50, I was there at 2:00 a.m. We had the blast area cordoned off and the top-vent container truck had just arrived when the first one went off. Then, fifteen minutes later—before we could search the building—the second device exploded. Killing Officer Pickett.” Sam glanced at Liddell, but this time the D.A. chose to keep his mouth shut. “The dynamite was Dupont label.”

There was a brief silence in the room. Then Coo-persmith said, “Not the same Dupont lot number as those two bombs last year?”

“It’s very likely,” said Sam. “Since that missing lot number’s the only reported large dynamite theft we’ve had up here in years.”

“But the Spectre bombings were solved a year ago,” said Liddell. “And we know Vincent Spectre’s dead. So who’s making these bombs?”

“We may be dealing with a Spectre apprentice. Someone who not only picked up the master’s technique, but also has access to the master’s dynamite supply. Which, I point out, we never located.”

“You haven’t confirmed the dynamite’s from the same stolen lot number,” said Liddell. “Maybe this has no connection at all with the Spectre bombings.”

“I’m afraid we have other evidence,” said Sam. “And you’re not going to like it.” He glanced at Ernie Takeda. “Go ahead, Ernie.”

Takeda, never comfortable with public speaking, kept his gaze focused on the lab report in front of him. “Based on materials we gathered at the site,” he said, “we can make a preliminary guess as to the makeup of the device. We believe the electrical action fuse was set off by an electronic delay circuit. This in turn ignited the dynamite via Prima detonating cord. The sticks were bundled together with two-inch-wide green electrical tape.” Takeda cleared his throat and finally looked up. “It’s the identical delay circuit that the late Vincent Spectre used in his bombings last year.”

Liddell looked at Sam. “The same circuitry, the same dynamite lot? What the hell’s going on?”

“Obviously,” said Gillis, “Vincent Spectre passed on a few of his skills before he died. Now we’ve got a second generation bomber on our hands.”

“What we still have to piece together,” said Sam, “is the psychological profile of this newcomer. Spectre’s bombings were coldbloodedly financial. He was hired to do the jobs and he did them, bam, bam, bam. Efficient. Effective. This new bomber has to set a pattern.”

“What you’re saying,” said Liddell, “is that you expect him to hit again.”

Sam nodded wearily. “Unfortunately, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

There was a knock on the door. A patrolwoman stuck her head into the conference room. “Excuse me, but there’s a call for Navarro and Gillis.”

“I’ll take it,” said Gillis. He rose heavily to his feet and went to the conference wall phone.

Liddell was still focused on Sam. “So this is all that Portland’s finest can come up with? We wait for another bombing so that we can establish a pattern? And then maybe, just maybe, we’ll have an idea of what the hell we’re doing?”

“A bombing, Mr. Liddell,” said Sam calmly, “is an act of cowardice. It’s violence in the absence of the perpetrator. I repeat the word—absence. We have no ID, no fingerprints, no witnesses to the planting, no—”

“Chief,” cut in Gillis. He hung up the phone. “They’ve just reported another one.”

“What?” said Coopersmith.

Sam had already shot to his feet and was moving for the door.

“What was it this time?” called Liddell. “Another warehouse?”

“No,” said Gillis. “A church.”

THE COPS ALREADY had the area cordoned off by the time Sam and Gillis arrived at the Good Shepherd Church. A crowd was gathered up and down the street. Three patrol cars, two fire trucks and an ambulance were parked haphazardly along Forest Avenue. The bomb disposal truck and its boiler-shaped carrier in the flatbed stood idly near the church’s front entrance—or what was left of the front entrance. The door had been blown clear off its hinges and had come to rest at the bottom of the front steps. Broken glass was everywhere. The wind scattered torn pages of hymn books like dead leaves along the sidewalk. Gillis swore. “This was a big one.”

As they approached the police line, the officer in charge turned to them with a look of relief. “Navarro! Glad you could make it to the party.”

“Any casualties?” asked Sam.

“None, as far as we know. The church was unoccupied at the time. Pure luck. There was a wedding scheduled for two, but it was cancelled at the last minute.”

“Whose wedding?”

“Some doctor’s. The bride’s sitting over there in the patrol car. She and the minister witnessed the blast from the parking lot.”

“I’ll talk to her later,” said Sam. “Don’t let her leave. Or the minister, either. I’m going to check the building for a second device.”

“Better you than me.”

Sam donned body armor, made of overlapping steel plates encased in nylon. He also carried a protective mask, to be worn in case a second bomb was identified. A bomb tech, similarly garbed, stood by the front door awaiting orders to enter the building. Gillis would wait outside near the truck; his role this time around was to fetch tools and get the bomb carrier ready.

“Okay,” Sam said to the technician. “Let’s go.”

They stepped through the gaping front entrance.

The first thing Sam noticed was the smell—strong and faintly sweet. Dynamite, he thought. He recognized the odor of its aftermath. The force of the blast had caused the pews at the rear to topple backward. At the front, near the altar, the pews had been reduced to splinters. All the stained glass panels were broken, and where the windows faced south, hazy sunlight shone in through the empty frames.

Without a word between them, Sam and the tech automatically split up and moved along opposite sides of the nave. The site would be more thoroughly searched later; this time around, their focus was only on locating any second bombs. The death of Marty Pickett still weighed heavily on Sam’s conscience, and he wasn’t about to let any other officers enter this building until he had cleared it.

Moving in parallel, the two men paced the nave, their eyes alert for anything resembling an explosive device. All the debris made it a slow search. As they moved forward, the damage visibly worsened, and the odor of exploded dynamite grew stronger. Getting closer, he thought. The bomb was planted somewhere around here…

In front of the altar, at a spot where the first row of pews would have stood, they found the crater. It was about three feet across and shallow; the blast had ripped through the carpet and pad, but had barely chipped the concrete slab below. A shallow crater was characteristic of a low-velocity blast—again, compatible with dynamite.

They would take a closer look at it later. They continued their search. They finished with the nave and progressed to the hallways, the dressing rooms, the restrooms. No bombs. They went into the annex and surveyed the church offices, the meeting rooms, the Sunday school classroom. No bombs. They exited through a rear door and searched the entire outside wall. No bombs.

Satisfied at last, Sam returned to the police line, where Gillis was waiting. There he took off the body armor. “Building’s clean,” Sam said. “We got the searchers assembled?”

Gillis gestured to the six men waiting near the bomb carrier truck. There were two patrolmen and four crime lab techs, each one clutching empty evidence bags. “They’re just waiting for the word.”

“Let’s get the photographer in there first, then send the team in. The crater’s up front, around the first row of pews on the right.”

“Dynamite?”

Sam nodded. “If I can trust my nose.” He turned and eyed the crowd of gawkers. “I’m going to talk to the witnesses. Where’s the minister?”

“They just took him off to the ER. Chest pains. All that stress.”

Sam gave an exasperated sigh. “Did anyone talk to him?”

“Patrolman did. We have his statement.”

“Okay,” said Sam. “I guess that leaves me with the bride.”

“She’s still waiting in the patrol car. Her name’s Nina Cormier.”

“Cormier. Gotcha.” Sam ducked under the yellow police line and worked his way through the gathering of onlookers. Scanning the official vehicles, he spotted a silhouette in the front passenger seat of one of the cars. The woman didn’t move as he approached; she was staring straight ahead like some wedding store mannequin. He leaned forward and tapped on the window.

The woman turned. Wide dark eyes stared at him through the glass. Despite the smudged mascara, the softly rounded feminine face was undeniably pretty. Sam motioned to her to roll down the window. She complied.

“Miss Cormier? I’m Detective Sam Navarro, Portland police.”

“I want to go home,” she said. “I’ve talked to so many cops already. Please, can’t I just go home?”

“First I have to ask you a few questions.”

“A few?”

“All right,” he admitted. “It’s more like a lot of questions.”

She gave a sigh. Only then did he see the weariness in her face. “If I answer all your questions, Detective,” she said, “will you let me go home?”

“I promise.”

“Do you keep your promises?”

He nodded soberly. “Always.”

She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “Right,” she muttered. “Men and their promises.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, never mind.”

He circled around the car, opened the door, and slid in behind the wheel. The woman next to him said nothing; she just sat there in resigned silence. She seemed almost swallowed up by those frothy layers of white satin. Her hairdo was coming undone and silky strands of black hair hung loose about her shoulders. Not at all the happy picture of a bride, he thought. She seemed stunned, and very much alone.

Where the hell was the groom?

Stifling an instinctive rush of sympathy, he reached for his notebook and flipped it open to a blank page. “Can I have your full name and address?”

The answer came out in a bare whisper. “Nina Margaret Cormier, 318 Ocean View Drive.”

He wrote it down. Then he looked at her. She was still staring straight down at her lap. Not at him. “Okay, Miss Cormier,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

SHE WANTED TO GO HOME. She had been sitting in this patrol car for an hour and a half now, had talked to three different cops, had answered all their questions. Her wedding was a shambles, she’d barely escaped with her life, and those people out there on the street kept staring at her as though she were some sort of sideshow freak.

And this man, this cop with all the warmth of a codfish, expected her to go through it again?

“Miss Cormier,” he sighed. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can leave. What, exactly, happened?”

“It blew up,” she said. “Can I go home?”

“What do you mean by blew up?”

“There was a loud boom. Lots of smoke and broken windows. I’d say it was your typical exploding building.”

“You mentioned smoke. What color was the smoke?”

“What?”

“Was it black? White?”

“Does it matter?”