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

While she packed a suitcase, Sam wandered about the living room. It was an old but spacious house, tastefully furnished, with a view of the sea. Just the sort of house one would expect a doctor to live in. He went over to the grand piano—a Steinway—and tapped out a few notes. “Who plays the piano?” he called out.

“Robert,” came the answer from the bedroom. “Afraid I have a tin ear.”

He focused on a framed photograph set on the piano. It was a shot of a couple, smiling. Nina and some blond, blue-eyed man. Undoubtedly Robert Bledsoe. The guy, it seemed, had everything: looks, money and a medical degree. And the woman. A woman he no longer wanted. Sam crossed the room to a display of diplomas, hanging on the wall. All of them Robert Bledsoe’s. Groton prep. B.A. Dartmouth. M.D. Harvard. Dr. Bledsoe was Ivy League all the way. He was every mother’s dream son-in-law. No wonder Lydia Warrenton had urged her daughter to patch things up.

The phone rang, the sound so abrupt and startling, Sam felt an instant rush of adrenaline.

“Should I get it?” Nina asked. She was standing in the doorway, her face drawn and tense.

He nodded. “Answer it.”

She crossed to the telephone. After a second’s hesitation, she picked up the receiver. He moved right beside her, listening, as she said, “Hello?”

No one answered.

“Hello?” Nina repeated. “Who is this? Hello?”

There was a click. Then, a moment later, the dial tone.

Nina looked up at Sam. She was standing so close to him, her hair, like black silk, brushed his face. He found himself staring straight into those wide eyes of hers, found himself reacting to her nearness with an unexpected surge of male longing.

This isn’t supposed to happen. I can’t let it happen.

He took a step back, just to put space between them. Even though they were now standing a good three feet apart, he could still feel the attraction. Not far enough apart, he thought. This woman was getting in the way of his thinking clearly, logically. And that was dangerous.

He looked down and suddenly noticed the telephone answering machine was blinking. He said, “You have messages.”

“Pardon?”

“Your answering machine. It’s recorded three messages.”

Dazedly she looked down at the machine. Automatically she pressed the Play button.

There were three beeps, followed by three silences, and then dial tones.

Seemingly paralyzed, she stared at the machine. “Why?” she whispered. “Why do they call and hang up?”

“To see if you’re home.”

The implication of his statement at once struck her full force. She flinched away from the phone as if it had burned her. “I have to get out of here,” she said, and hurried back into the bedroom.

He followed her. She was tossing clothes into a suitcase, not bothering to fold anything. Slacks and blouses and lingerie in one disorganized pile.

“Just the essentials,” he said. “Let’s leave.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” She whirled around and ran into the bathroom. He heard her rattling in the cabinets, collecting toiletries. A moment later she reemerged with a bulging makeup bag, which she tossed in the suitcase.

He closed and latched it for her. “Let’s go.”

In the car, she sat silent and huddled against the seat as he drove. He kept checking the rearview mirror, to see if they were being followed, but he saw no other headlights. No signs of pursuit.

“Relax, we’re okay,” he said. “I’ll just get you to your dad’s house, and you’ll be fine.”

“And then what?” she said softly. “How long do I hide there? For weeks, months?”

“As long as it takes for us to crack this case.”

She shook her head, a sad gesture of bewilderment. “It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.”

“Maybe it’ll become clear when we talk to your fiancé. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“It seems that I’m the last person Robert wanted to confide in…” Hugging herself, she stared out the window. “His note said he was leaving town for a while. I guess he just needed to get away. From me…”

“From you? Or from someone else?”

She shook her head. “There’s so much I don’t know. So much he never bothered to tell me. God, I wish I understood. I could handle this. I could handle anything. If only I understood.”

What kind of man is Robert Bledsoe? Sam wondered. What kind of man would walk away from this woman? Leave her alone to face the danger left in his wake?

“Whoever made that hang-up call may pay a visit to your house,” he said. “I’d like to keep an eye on it. See who turns up.”

She nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

“May I have access?”

“You mean…get inside?”

“If our suspect shows up, he may try to break in. I’d like to be waiting for him.”

She stared at him. “You could get yourself killed.”

“Believe me, Miss Cormier, I’m not the heroic type. I don’t take chances.”

“But if he does show up—”

“I’ll be ready.” He flashed her a quick grin for reassurance. She didn’t look reassured. If anything, she looked more frightened than ever.

For me? he wondered. And that, inexplicably, lifted his spirits. Terrific. Next thing he knew, he’d be putting his neck in a noose, and all because of a pair of big brown eyes. This was just the kind of situation cops were warned to avoid: assuming the role of hero to some fetching female. It got men killed.

It could get him killed.

“You shouldn’t do this by yourself,” she said.

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have backup.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“You promise? You won’t take any chances?”

“What are you, my mother?” he snapped in exasperation.

She took her keys out of her purse and slapped them on the dashboard. “No, I’m not your mother,” she retorted. “But you’re the cop in charge. And I need you alive and well to crack this case.”

He deserved that. She’d been concerned about his safety, and he’d responded with sarcasm. He didn’t even know why. All he knew was, whenever he looked in her eyes, he had the overwhelming urge to turn tail and run. Before he was trapped.

Moments later, they drove past the wrought iron gates of her father’s driveway. Nina didn’t even wait for Sam to open her door. She got out of the car and started up the stone steps. Sam followed, carrying her suitcase. And ogling the house. It was huge—even more impressive than Lydia Warrenton’s home, and it had the Rolls-Royce of security systems. Tonight, at least, Nina should be safe.

The doorbell chimed like a church bell; he could hear it echoing through what must be dozens of rooms. The door was opened by a blonde—and what a blonde! Not much older than thirty, she was wearing a shiny spandex leotard that hugged every taut curve. A healthy sweat sheened her face, and from some other room came the thumpy music of an exercise video.

“Hello, Daniella,” Nina said quietly.

Daniella assumed a look of sympathy that struck Sam as too automatic to be genuine. “Oh Nina, I’m so sorry about what happened today! Wendy called and told us about the church. Was anyone hurt?”

“No. No, thank God.” Nina paused, as though afraid to ask the next question. “Do you think I could spend the night with you?”

The expression of sympathy faded. Daniella looked askance at the suitcase Sam was carrying. “I, uh…let me talk to your Dad. He’s in the hot tub right now and—”

“Nina has no choice. She has to stay the night,” said Sam. He stepped past Daniella, into the house. “It’s not safe for her to be alone.”

Daniella’s gaze shifted to Sam, and he saw the vague spark of interest in those flat blue eyes. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name,” she said.

“This is Detective Navarro,” said Nina. “He’s with the Portland Bomb Squad. And this,” she said to Sam, “is Daniella Cormier. My, uh…father’s wife.”

Stepmother was the appropriate term, but this stunning blonde didn’t look like anybody’s mother. And the look she was giving him was anything but maternal.

Daniella tilted her head, a gesture he recognized as both inquisitive and flirtatious. “So, you’re a cop?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Bomb Squad? Is that really what you think happened at the church? A bomb?”

“I’m not free to talk about it,” he said. “Not while the investigation’s underway.” Smoothly he turned to Nina. “If you’re okay for the night, I’ll be leaving. Be sure to close those driveway gates. And activate the burglar alarm. I’ll check back with you in the morning.”

As he gave a nod of goodbye, his gaze locked with Nina’s. It was only the briefest of looks, but once again he was taken by surprise at his instinctive response to this woman. It was an attraction so powerful he felt himself at once struggling to pull away.

He did. With a curt good-night, he walked out the front door.

Outside, in the darkness, he stood for a moment surveying the house. It seemed secure enough. With two other people inside, Nina should be safe. Still, he wondered whether those particular two people would be of much help in a crisis. A father soaking in a hot tub and a spandex-and-hormones stepmother didn’t exactly inspire feelings of confidence. Nina, at least, was an intelligent woman; he knew she would be alert for signs of danger.

He drove back to Robert Bledsoe’s house on Ocean View Drive and left the car on a side street around the corner.

With Nina’s keys, he let himself in the front door and called Gillis to arrange for a surveillance team to patrol the area. Then he closed all the curtains and settled down to wait. It was nine o’clock.

At nine-thirty, he was already restless. He paced the living room, then roamed the kitchen, the dining room, the hallway. Any stalker watching the house would expect lights to go on and off in different rooms, at different times. Maybe their man was just waiting for the residents to go to bed.

Sam turned off the living room lights and went into the bedroom.

Nina had left the top dresser drawer hanging open. Sam, pacing the carpet, kept walking back and forth past that open drawer with its tempting glimpse of lingerie. Something black and silky lay on top, and one corner trailed partway out of the drawer. He couldn’t resist the impulse. He halted by the dresser, picked up the item of lingerie, and held it up.

It was a short little spaghetti-strap thing, edged with lace, and designed to show a lot. An awful lot. He tossed it back in and slammed the drawer shut.

He was getting distracted again. This shouldn’t be happening. Something about Nina Cormier, and his reaction to her, had him behaving like a damn rookie.

Before, in the line of duty, he’d brushed up against other women, including the occasional stunner. Women like that spandex bimbo, Daniella Cormier, Nina’s stepmother. He’d managed to keep his trousers zipped up and his head firmly screwed on. It was both a matter of self-control as well as self-preservation. The women he met on the job were usually in some sort of trouble, and it was too easy for them to consider Sam their white knight, the masculine answer to all their problems.

It was a fantasy that never lasted. Sooner or later the knight gets stripped of his armor and they’d see him for what he really was: just a cop. Not rich, not brilliant. Not much of anything, in fact, to recommend him.

It had happened to him once. Just once. She’d been an aspiring actress trying to escape an abusive boyfriend; he’d been a rookie assigned to watch over her. The chemistry was right. The situation was right. But the girl was all wrong. For a few heady weeks, he’d been in love, had thought she was in love.

Then she’d dropped Sam like a hot potato.

He’d learned a hard but lasting lesson: romance and police work did not mix. He had never again crossed that line while on the job, and he wasn’t about to do it with Nina Cormier, either.

He turned away from the dresser and was crossing to the opposite end of the room when he heard a thump.

It came from somewhere near the front of the house.

Instantly he killed the bedroom lights and reached for his gun. He eased into the hallway. At the doorway to the living room he halted, his gaze quickly sweeping the darkness.

The streetlight shone in dimly through the windows. He saw no movement in the room, no suspicious shadows.

There was a scraping sound, a soft jingle. It came from the front porch.

Sam shifted his aim to the front door. He was crouched and ready to fire as the door swung open. The silhouette of a man loomed against the backlight of the streetlamp.

“Police!” Sam yelled. “Freeze!”

Chapter Four

THE SILHOUETTE FROZE.

“Hands up,” ordered Sam. “Come on, hands up!”

Both hands shot up. “Don’t hurt me!” came a terrified plea.

Sam edged over to the light switch and flipped it on. The sudden glare left both men blinking. Sam took one look at the man standing in front of him and cursed.

Footsteps pounded up the porch steps and two uniformed cops burst through the doorway, pistols drawn. “We got him covered, Navarro!” one of them yelled.

“You’re right on time,” muttered Sam in disgust. “Forget it. This isn’t the guy.” He holstered his gun and looked at the tall blond man, who was still wearing a look of terror on his face. “I’m Detective Sam Navarro, Portland Police. I presume you’re Dr. Robert Bledsoe?”

Nervously Robert cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s me. What’s going on? Why are you people in my house?”

“Where’ve you been all day, Dr. Bledsoe?”

“I’ve been—uh, may I put my hands down?”

“Of course.”

Robert lowered his hands and glanced cautiously over his shoulder at the two cops standing behind him. “Do they, uh, really need to keep pointing those guns at me?”

“You two can leave,” Sam said to the cops. “I’m all right here.”

“What about the surveillance?” one of them asked. “Want to call it off?”

“I doubt anything’s coming down tonight. But hang around the neighborhood. Just until morning.”

The two cops left. Sam said, again, “Where’ve you been, Dr. Bledsoe?”

With two guns no longer pointed at his back, Robert’s terror had given way to righteous anger. He glared at Sam. “First, you tell me why you’re in my house! What is this, a police state? Cops breaking in and threatening homeowners? You have no authority to be trespassing on my property. I’ll have your ass in a sling if you don’t produce a search warrant right now!”

“I don’t have a warrant.”

“You don’t?” Robert gave an unpleasantly triumphant laugh. “You entered my house without a warrant? You break in here and threaten me with your macho cop act?”

“I didn’t break in,” Sam told him calmly. “I let myself in the front door.”

“Oh, sure.”

Sam pulled out Nina’s keys and held them up in front of Robert. “With these.”

“Those—those keys belong to my fiancée! How did you get them?”

“She lent them to me.”

“She what?” Robert’s voice had risen to a yelp of anger. “Where is Nina? She had no right to hand over the keys to my house.”

“Correction, Doctor. Nina Cormier was living here with you. That makes her a legal resident of this house. It gives her the right to authorize police entry, which she did.” Sam eyed the man squarely. “Now, I’ll ask the question a third time. Where have you been, Doctor?”

“Away,” snapped Robert.

“Could you be more specific?”

“All right, I went to Boston. I needed to get out of town for a while.”

“Why?”

“What is this, an interrogation? I don’t have to talk to you! In fact I shouldn’t talk to you until I call my lawyer.” He turned to the telephone and picked up the receiver.

“You don’t need a lawyer. Unless you’ve committed a crime.”

“A crime?” Robert spun around and stared at him. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. But I do need answers. Are you aware of what happened in the church today?”

Robert replaced the receiver. Soberly he nodded. “I…I heard there was some sort of explosion. It was on the news. That’s why I came back early. I was worried someone might’ve been hurt.”

“Luckily, no one was. The church was empty at the time it happened.”

Robert gave a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he said softly. He stood with his hand still on the phone, as though debating whether to pick it up again. “Do the police—do you—know what caused it?”

“Yes. It was a bomb.”

Robert’s chin jerked up. He stared at Sam. Slowly he sank into the nearest chair. “All I’d heard was—the radio said—it was an explosion. There was nothing about a bomb.”

“We haven’t made a public statement yet.”

Robert looked up at him. “Why the hell would anyone bomb a church?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. If the wedding had taken place, dozens of people might be dead right now. Nina told me you’re the one who called it off. Why did you?”

“I just couldn’t go through with it.” Robert dropped his head in his hands. “I wasn’t ready to get married.”

“So your reason was entirely personal?”

“What else would it be?” Robert suddenly looked up with an expression of stunned comprehension. “Oh, my God. You didn’t think the bomb had something to do with me?”

“It did cross my mind. Consider the circumstances. You cancelled the wedding without warning. And then you skipped town. Of course we wondered about your motives. Whether you’d received some kind of threat and decided to run.”

“No, that’s not at all what happened. I called it off because I didn’t want to get married.”

“Mind telling me why?”

Robert’s face tightened. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he answered. Abruptly he rose from the chair and strode over to the liquor cabinet. There he poured himself a shot of Scotch and stood gulping it, not looking at Sam.

“I’ve met your fiancée,” stated Sam. “She seems like a nice woman. Bright, attractive.” I’m sure as hell attracted to her, he couldn’t help adding to himself.

“You’re asking why I left her at the altar, aren’t you?” said Robert.

“Why did you?”

Robert finished off his drink and poured himself another.

“Did you two have an argument?”

“No.”

“What was it, Dr. Bledsoe? Cold feet? Boredom?” Sam paused. “Another woman?”

Robert turned and glared at him. “This is none of your damn business. Get out of my house.”

“If you insist. But I’ll be talking to you again.” Sam crossed to the front door, then stopped and turned back. “Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt your fiancée?”

“No.”

“Anyone who’d want her dead?”

“What a ridiculous question.”

“Someone tried to run her car off the road this afternoon.”

Robert jerked around and stared at him. He looked genuinely startled. “Nina? Who did?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. It may or may not be connected to the bombing. Do you have any idea at all what’s going on? Who might try to hurt her?”

There was a split second’s hesitation before Robert answered. “No. No one I can think of. Where is she?”

“She’s in a safe place for tonight. But she can’t stay in hiding forever. So if you think of anything, give me a call. If you still care about her.”

Robert didn’t say anything.

Sam turned and left the house.

Driving home, he used his car phone to dial Gillis. His partner, predictably, was still at his desk. “The bridegroom’s back in town,” Sam told him. “He claims he has no idea why the church was bombed.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Gillis drawled.

“Anything new turn up?”

“Yeah. We’re missing a janitor.”

“What?”

“The church janitor. The one who unlocked the building this morning. We’ve been trying to track him down all evening. He never got home tonight.”

Sam felt his pulse give a little gallop of excitement. “Interesting.”

“We’ve already got an APB out. The man’s name is Jimmy Brogan. And he has a record. Petty theft four years ago and two OUI’s, that kind of stuff. Nothing major. I sent Cooley out to talk to the wife and check the house.”

“Does Brogan have any explosives experience?”

“Not that we can determine. The wife swears up and down that he’s clean. And he’s always home for dinner.”

“Give me more, Gillis. Give me more.”

“That’s all I have to give, unless you want me to slit open a vein. Right now I’m bushed and I’m going home.”

“Okay, call it a day. I’ll see you in the morning.”

All the way home, Sam’s mind was churning with facts. A cancelled wedding. A missing church janitor. An assassin in a black Ford.

And a bomb.

Where did Nina Cormier fit in this crazy thicket of events?

It was eleven-thirty when he finally arrived home. He let himself in the front door, stepped into the house, and turned on the lights. The familiar clutter greeted him. What a god-awful mess. One of these days he’d have to clean up the place. Or maybe he should just move; that’d be easier.

He walked through the living room, picking up dirty laundry and dishes as he went. He left the dishes in the kitchen sink, threw the laundry in the washing machine, and started the wash cycle. A Saturday night, and the swinging bachelor does his laundry. Wow. He stood in his kitchen, listening to the machine rumble, thinking about all the things he could do to make this house more of a home. Furniture, maybe? It was a good, sound little house, but he kept comparing it to Robert Bledsoe’s house with its Steinway piano, the sort of house any woman would be delighted to call home.

Hell, Sam wouldn’t know what to do with a woman even if one was crazy enough to move in with him. He’d been a bachelor too long, alone too long. There’d been the occasional woman, of course, but none of them had ever lasted. Too often, he had to admit, the fault lay with him. Or with his work. They couldn’t understand why any man in his right mind would actually choose to stay with this insane job of bombs and bombers. They took it as a personal affront that he wouldn’t quit the job and chose them instead.

Maybe he’d just never found a woman who made him want to quit.

And this is the result, he thought, gazing wearily at the basket of unfolded clothes. The swinging bachelor life.

He left the washing machine to finish its cycle and headed off to bed.

As usual, alone.

THE LIGHTS WERE ON at 318 Ocean View Drive. Someone was home. The Cormier woman? Robert Bledsoe? Or both of them?

Driving slowly past the house in his green Jeep Cherokee, he took a good long look at the house. He noted the dense shrubbery near the windows, the shadow of pine and birch trees ringing both edges of the property. Plenty of cover. Plenty of concealment.

Then he noticed the unmarked car parked a block away. It was backlit by a streetlamp, and he could see the silhouettes of two men sitting inside. Police, he thought. They were watching the house.

Tonight was not the time to do it.

He rounded the corner and drove on.

This matter could wait. It was only a bit of cleanup, a loose end that he could attend to in his spare time.

He had other, more important work to complete, and only a week in which to do it.

He drove on, toward the city.

AT 9:00 a.m., the guards came to escort Billy “The Snowman” Binford from his jail cell.

His attorney, Albert Darien, was waiting for him. Through the Plexiglas partition separating the two men, Billy could see Darien’s grim expression and he knew that the news was not good. Billy sat down opposite his attorney. The guard wasn’t standing close enough to catch their conversation, but Billy knew better than to speak freely. That stuff about attorney-client confidentiality was a bunch of bull. If the feds or the D.A. wanted you bad enough, they’d plant a bug on anyone, even your priest. It was outrageous, how they’d violate a citizen’s rights.