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

Cooley spoke first. “I’ve checked and rechecked the records on Jimmy Brogan. There’s no alias for the guy. That’s his real name. Forty-five years old, born and raised in South Portland, minor criminal record. Married ten years, no kids. He was hired by Reverend Sullivan eight years ago. Worked as a janitor and handyman around the church. Never any problems, except for a few times when he showed up late and hung over after falling off the wagon. No military service, no education beyond the eleventh grade. Wife says he was dyslexic. I just can’t see this guy putting together a bomb.”

“Did Mrs. Brogan have any idea why Nina Cormier’s address was in his car?” Sam asked.

“Nope. She’d never heard the name before. And she said the handwriting wasn’t her husband’s.”

“Were they having any marital troubles?”

“Happy as clams, from what she told me. She’s pretty devastated.”

“So we’ve got a happily married, uneducated, dyslexic janitor as our prime suspect?”

“Afraid so, Navarro.”

Sam shook his head. “This gets worse every minute.” He looked at Tanaka. “Eddie, give us some answers. Please.”

Tanaka, nervous as usual, cleared his throat. “You’re not going to like what I have.”

“Hit me anyway.”

“Okay. First, the gun in the car was reported stolen a year ago from its registered owner in Miami. We don’t know how Brogan got the gun. His wife says he didn’t know the first thing about firearms. Second, Brogan’s car was the black Ford that forced Miss Cormier’s Honda off the road. Paint chips match, both ways. Third, the items in the trunk are the same elements used in the church bombing. Two-inchwide green electrical tape. Identical detonator cord.”

“That’s Vincent Spectre’s signature,” said Gillis. “Green electrical tape.”

“Which means we’re probably dealing with an apprentice of Spectre’s. Now here’s something else you’re not going to like. We just got back the preliminary report from the coroner. The corpse had no traces of gunpowder on his hand. Now, that’s not necessarily conclusive, since powder can rub off, but it does argue against a self-inflicted wound. What clinches it, though, is the skull fracture.”

“What?” Sam and Gillis said it simultaneously.

“A depressed skull fracture, right parietal bone. Because of all the tissue damage from the bullet wound, it wasn’t immediately obvious. But it did show up on X ray. Jimmy Brogan was hit on the head. Before he was shot.”

The silence in the room stretched for a good ten seconds. Then Gillis said, “And I almost bought it. Lock, stock and barrel.”

“He’s good,” said Sam. “But not good enough.” He looked at Cooley. “I want more on Brogan. I want you and your team to get the names of every friend, every acquaintance Brogan had. Talk to them all. It looks like our janitor got mixed up with the wrong guy. Maybe someone knows something, saw something.”

“Won’t the boys in Homicide be beating those bushes?”

“We’ll beat ’em as well. They may miss something. And don’t get into any turf battles, okay? We’re not trying to steal their glory. We just want the bomber.”

Cooley sighed and rose to his feet. “Guess it’s back to the ol’ widow Brogan.”

“Gillis,” said Sam, “I need you to talk to the best man and the matron of honor again. See if they have any links to Brogan. Or recognize his photo. I’ll go back to the hospital and talk to Reverend Sullivan. And I’ll talk to Dr. Bledsoe as well.”

“What about the bride?” asked Gillis.

“I’ve pressed the questions a couple times already. She denies knowing anything about him.”

“She seems to be the center of it all.”

“I know. And she hasn’t the foggiest idea why. But maybe her ex-bridegroom does.”

The meeting broke up and everyone headed off to their respective tasks. It would take teamwork to find this bomber, and although he had good people working with him, Sam knew they were stretched thin. Since that rookie cop’s death in the warehouse blast a week ago, Homicide had stepped into the investigation, and they were sucking up men and resources like crazy. As far as Homicide was concerned, the Bomb Task Force was little more than a squad of “techies”—the guys you called in when you didn’t want your own head blown off.

The boys in Homicide were smart enough.

But the boys in Bombs were smarter.

That’s why Sam himself drove out to Maine Medical Center to reinterview Reverend Sullivan. This latest information on Jimmy Brogan’s death had opened up a whole new range of possibilities. Perhaps Brogan had been a completely innocent patsy. Perhaps he’d witnessed something—and had mentioned it to the minister.

At the hospital, Sam learned that Reverend Sullivan had been transferred out of Intensive Care that morning. A heart attack had been ruled out, and Sullivan was now on a regular ward.

When Sam walked in the man’s room, he found the minister sitting up in bed, looking glum. There was a visitor there already—Dick Yeats of Homicide. Not one of Sam’s favorite people.

“Hey, Navarro,” said Yeats in that cocky tone of his. “No need to spin your wheels here. We’re on the Brogan case.”

“I’d like to talk to Reverend Sullivan myself.”

“He doesn’t know anything helpful.”

“Nevertheless,” said Sam, “I’d like to ask my own questions.”

“Suit yourself,” Yeats said as he headed out the door. “Seems to me, though, that you boys in Bombs could make better use of your time if you’d let Homicide do its job.”

Sam turned to the elderly minister, who was looking very unhappy about talking to yet another cop.

“I’m sorry, Reverend,” said Sam. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some more questions.”

Reverend Sullivan sighed, the weariness evident in his lined face. “I can’t tell you more than I already have.”

“You’ve been told about Brogan’s death?”

“Yes. That policeman—that Homicide person—”

“Detective Yeats.”

“He was far more graphic than necessary. I didn’t need all the…details.”

Sam sat down in a chair. The minister’s color was better today, but he still looked frail. The events of the last twenty-four hours must be devastating for him. First the destruction of his church building, and then the violent death of his handyman. Sam hated to flog the old man with yet more questions, but he had no choice.

Unfortunately, he could elicit no new answers. Reverend Sullivan knew nothing about Jimmy Brogan’s private life. Nor could he think of a single reason why Brogan, or anyone else for that matter, would attack the Good Shepherd Church. There had been minor incidents, of course. A few acts of vandalism and petty theft. That’s why he had started locking the church doors at night, a move that grieved him deeply as he felt churches should be open to those in need, day or night. But the insurance company had insisted, and so Reverend Sullivan had instructed his staff to lock up every evening at 6:00 p.m., and reopen every morning at 7:00 a.m.

“And there’ve been no acts of vandalism since?” asked Sam.

“None whatsoever,” affirmed the minister. “That is, until the bomb.”

This was a dead end, thought Sam. Yeats was right. He was just spinning his wheels.

As he rose to leave, there was a knock on the door. A heavyset woman poked her head in the room.

“Reverend Sullivan?” she said. “Is this a good time to visit?”

The gloom on the minister’s face instantly transformed to a look of relief. Thankfulness. “Helen! I’m so glad you’re back! Did you hear what happened?”

“On the television, this morning. As soon as I saw it, I packed my things and started straight back for home.” The woman, carrying a bundle of carnations, crossed to the bed and gave Reverend Sullivan a tearful hug. “I just saw the church. I drove right past it. Oh, what a mess.”

“You don’t know the worst of it,” said Reverend Sullivan. He swallowed. “Jimmy’s dead.”

“Dear God.” Helen pulled back in horror. “Was it…in the explosion?”

“No. They’re saying he shot himself. I didn’t even know he had a gun.”

Helen took an unsteady step backward. At once Sam grasped her ample arm and guided her into the chair from which he’d just risen. She sat quivering, her face white with shock.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Sam gently. “I’m Detective Navarro, Portland Police. May I ask your full name?”

She swallowed. “Helen Whipple.”

“You’re the church secretary?”

She looked up at him with dazed eyes. “Yes. Yes.”

“We’ve been trying to contact you, Miss Whipple.”

“I was—I was at my sister’s house. In Amherst.” She sat twisting her hands together, shaking her head. “I can’t believe this. I saw Jimmy only yesterday. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“You saw Brogan? What time?”

“It was in the morning. Just before I left town.” She began digging in her purse, desperately fishing for tissues. “I stopped in to pay a few bills before I left.”

“Did you two speak?”

“Naturally. Jimmy’s such…” She gave a soft sob. “ Was such…a friendly man. He was always coming up to the office to chat. Since I was leaving on vacation, and Reverend Sullivan wasn’t in yet. I asked Jimmy to do a few things for me.”

“What things?”

“Oh, there was so much confusion. The wedding, you know. The florist kept popping in to use the phone. The men’s bathroom sink was leaking and we needed some plumbing done quick. I had to give Jimmy some last minute instructions. Everything from where to put the wedding gifts to which plumber to call. I was so relieved when Reverend Sullivan arrived, and I could leave.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Sam cut in. “You said something about wedding gifts.”

“Yes. It’s a nuisance, how some people have gifts delivered to the church instead of the bride’s home.”

“How many gifts arrived at the church?”

“There was only one. Jimmy—oh, poor Jimmy. It’s so unfair. A wife and all…”

Sam fought to maintain his patience. “What about the gift?”

“Oh. That. Jimmy said a man brought it by. He showed it to me. Very nicely wrapped, with all these pretty silver bells and foil ribbons.”

“Mrs. Whipple,” Sam interrupted again. “What happened to that gift?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I told Jimmy to give it to the bride’s mother. I assume that’s what he did.”

“But the bride’s mother hadn’t arrived yet, right? So what would Jimmy do with it?”

Helplessly Helen Whipple shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose he’d leave it where she’d be sure to find it. In the front pew.”

The front pew. The center of the blast.

Sam said, sharply, “Who was the gift addressed to?”

“The bride and groom, of course.”

“Dr. Bledsoe and his fiancée?”

“Yes. That was on the card. Dr. and Mrs. Robert Bledsoe.”

IT WAS STARTING to come together now, Sam thought as he got back in his car. The method of delivery. The time of planting. But the target wasn’t quite clear yet. Was Nina Cormier or Robert Bledsoe supposed to die? Or was it both of them?

Nina, he knew, had no answers, no knowledge of any enemies. She couldn’t help him.

So Sam drove to Ocean View Drive, to Robert Bledsoe’s house. This time Bledsoe was damn well going to answer some questions, the first two being: Who was the other woman he’d been seeing, and was she jealous enough to sabotage her lover’s wedding—and kill off a dozen people in the process?

Two blocks before he got there, he knew something was wrong. There were police lights flashing ahead and spectators gathered on the sidewalks.

Sam parked the car and quickly pushed his way through the crowd. At the edge of Bledsoe’s driveway, a yellow police tape had been strung between wooden stakes. He flashed his badge to the patrolman standing guard and stepped across the line.

Homicide Detective Dick Yeats greeted him in the driveway with his usual I’m-in-charge tone of superiority.

“Hello again, Navarro. We have it all under control.”

“You have what under control? What happened?”

Yeats nodded toward the BMW in the driveway.

Slowly Sam circled around the rear bumper. Only then did he see the blood. It was all over the steering wheel and the front seat. A small pool of it had congealed on the driveway pavement.

“Robert Bledsoe,” said Yeats. “Shot once in the temple. The ambulance just left. He’s still alive, but I don’t expect he’ll make it. He’d just pulled into his driveway and was getting out of his car. There’s a sack of groceries in the trunk. Ice cream barely melted. The neighbor saw a green Jeep take off, just before she noticed Bledsoe’s body. She thinks it was a man behind the wheel, but she didn’t see his face.”

“A man?” Sam’s head snapped up. “Dark hair?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, God.” Sam turned and started toward his car. Nina, he thought, and suddenly he was running. A dark-haired man had forced Nina off the road. Now Bledsoe was dead. Was Nina next?

Sam heard Yeats yell, “Navarro!” By then, he was already scrambling into his car. He made a screeching U-turn and headed away from Ocean View Drive.

He drove with his emergency lights flashing all the way to George Cormier’s house.

It seemed he was ringing the bell forever before anyone answered the door. Finally it swung open and Daniella appeared, her flawless face arranged in a smile. “Why, hello, Detective.”

“Where’s Nina?” he demanded, pushing past her into the house.

“She’s upstairs. Why?”

“I need to talk to her. Now.” He started for the stairway, then halted when he heard footsteps creak on the landing above. Glancing up, he saw Nina standing on the steps, her hair a tumble of black silk.

She’s okay, he thought with relief. She’s still okay.

She was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, and she had a purse slung over her shoulder, as if she were just about to leave the house.

As she came down the stairs, she brought with her the elusive fragrance of soap and shampoo. Nina’s scent, he thought with a pleasurable thrill of recognition. Since when had he committed her fragrance to memory?

By the time she reached the bottom step, she was frowning at him. “Has something happened?” she asked.

“Then no one’s called you?”

“About what?”

“Robert.”

She went very still, her dark eyes focused with sudden intensity on his face. He could see the questions in her eyes, and knew she was too afraid to ask them.

He reached for her hand. It was cold. “You’d better come with me.”

“Where?”

“The hospital. That’s where they took him.” Gently he led her to the door.

“Wait!” called Daniella.

Sam glanced back. Daniella stood frozen, staring after them in panic. “What about Robert? What happened?”

“He’s been shot. It happened a short while ago, just outside his house. I’m afraid it doesn’t look good.”

Daniella took a step backward, as though slapped. It was her reaction, that expression of horror in her eyes, that told Sam what he needed to know. So she was the other woman, he thought. This blonde with her sculpted body and her perfect face.

He could feel Nina’s arm trembling in his grasp. He turned her toward the door. “We’d better go,” he said. “There may not be much time.”

Chapter Six

THEY SPENT THE NEXT FOUR hours in a hospital waiting room.

Though Nina wasn’t part of the medical team now battling to save Robert’s life, she could picture only too vividly what was going on at that moment in the trauma suite. The massive infusions of blood and saline. The scramble to control the patient’s bleeding, to keep his pressure up, his heart beating. She knew it all well because, at other times, on other patients, she had been part of the team. Now she was relegated to this useless task of waiting and worrying. Though her relationship with Robert was irrevocably broken, though she hadn’t forgiven him for the way he’d betrayed her, she certainly didn’t want him hurt.

Or dead.

It was only Sam’s presence that kept her calm and sane during that long evening. Other cops came and went. As the hours stretched on, only Sam stayed next to her on the couch, his hand clasping hers in a silent gesture of support. She could see that he was tired, but he didn’t leave her. He stayed right beside her as the night wore on toward ten o’clock.

And he was there when the neurosurgeon came out to inform them that Robert had died on the operating table.

Nina took the blow in numb silence. She was too stunned to shed any tears, to say much more than “Thank you for trying.” She scarcely realized Sam had his arm around her. Only when she sagged against him did she feel his support, steadying her.

“I’m going to take you home,” he said softly. “There’s nothing more you can do here.”

Mutely she nodded. He helped her to her feet and guided her toward the exit. They were halfway across the room when a voice called, “Miss Cormier? I need to ask you some more questions.”

Nina turned and looked at the rodent-faced man who’d just spoken to her. She couldn’t remember his name, but she knew he was a cop; he’d been in and out of the waiting room all evening. Now he was studying her closely, and she didn’t like the look in his eyes.

“Not now, Yeats,” said Sam, nudging her to the exit. “It’s a bad time.”

“It’s the best time to ask questions,” said the other cop. “Right after the event.”

“She’s already told me she knew nothing about it.”

“She hasn’t told me.” Yeats turned his gaze back to Nina. “Miss Cormier, I’m with Homicide. Your fiancé never regained consciousness, so we couldn’t question him. That’s why I need to talk to you. Where were you this afternoon?”

Bewildered, Nina shook her head. “I was at my father’s house. I didn’t know about it until…”

“Until I told her,” filled in Sam.

“You did, Navarro?”

“I went straight from the crime scene to her father’s house. Nina was there. You can ask Daniella Cormier to confirm it.”

“I will.” Yeats’s gaze was still fixed on Nina. “I understand you and Dr. Bledsoe just called off the engagement. And you were in the process of moving out of his house.”

Softly Nina said, “Yes.”

“I imagine you must have been pretty hurt. Did you ever consider, oh…+getting back at him?”

Horrified by his implication, she gave a violent shake of her head. “You don’t really think that—that I had something to do with this?”

“Did you?”

Sam stepped between them. “That’s enough, Yeats.”

“What are you, Navarro? Her lawyer?”

“She doesn’t have to answer these questions.”

“Yes, she does. Maybe not tonight. But she does have to answer questions.”

Sam took Nina’s arm and propelled her toward the exit.

“Watch it, Navarro!” Yeats yelled as they left the room. “You’re on thin ice!”

Though Sam didn’t answer, Nina could sense his fury just by the way he gripped her arm all the way to the parking lot.

When they were back in his car, she said, quietly, “Thank you, Sam.”

“For what?”

“For getting me away from that awful man.”

“Eventually, you will have to talk to him. Yeats may be a pain in the butt, but he has a job to do.”

And so do you, she thought with a twinge of sadness. She turned to look out the window. He was the cop again, always the cop, trying to solve the puzzle. She was merely one of the pieces.

“You’re going to have to talk to him tomorrow,” said Sam. “Just a warning—he can be a tough interrogator.”

“There’s nothing I have to tell him. I was at my father’s house. You know that. And Daniella will confirm it.”

“No one can knock your alibi. But murder doesn’t have to be done in person. Killers can be hired.”

She turned to him with a look of disbelief. “You don’t think I’d—”

“I’m just saying that’s the logic Yeats will use. When someone gets murdered, the number one suspect is always the spouse or lover. You and Bledsoe just broke up. And it happened in the most public and painful way possible. It doesn’t take a giant leap of logic to come up with murderous intent on your part.”

“I’m not a murderer. You know I’m not!”

He didn’t answer. He just went on driving as though he had not registered a word.

“Navarro, did you hear me? I’m not a murderer!”

“I heard you.”

“Then why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Because I think something else just came up.”

Only then did she notice that he was frowning at the rearview mirror. He picked up his car phone and dialed. “Gillis?” he said. “Do me a favor. Find out if Yeats has a tail on Nina Cormier. Yeah, right now. I’m in the car. Call me back.” He hung up.

Nina turned and looked out the rear window, at a pair of headlights behind them. “Is someone following us?”

“I’m not sure. I do know that car pulled out behind ours when we left the hospital. And it’s been there ever since.”

“Your buddy in Homicide must really think I’m dangerous if he’s having me followed.”

“He’s just keeping tabs on his suspect.”

Me, she thought, and sank back against the seat, grateful that the darkness hid her face. Am I your suspect as well?

He drove calmly, making no sudden moves to alarm whoever was in the car behind them. In that tense stillness, the ringing of the phone was startling.

He picked up the receiver. “Navarro.” There was a pause, then he said, “You’re sure?” Again he glanced in the mirror. “I’m at Congress and Braeburn, heading west. There’s a dark truck—looks like a Jeep Cherokee—right behind me. I’ll swing around, make a pass by Houlton. If you can be ready and waiting, we’ll sandwich this guy. Don’t scare him off. For now, just move in close enough to get a good look. Okay, I’m making my turn now. I’ll be there in five minutes.” He hung up and shot Nina a tense glance. “You pick up what’s happening?”

“What is happening?”

“That’s not a cop behind us.”

She looked back at the headlights. Not a cop. “Then who is it?”

“We’re going to find out. Now listen good. In a minute I’ll want you down near the floor. Not yet—I don’t want to make him suspicious. But when Gillis pulls in behind him, things could get exciting. Are you ready for this?”

“I don’t think I have much of a choice…”

He made his turn. Not too fast—a casual change of direction to make it seem as if he’d just decided on a different route.

The other car made the turn as well.

Sam turned again, back onto Congress Street. They were headed east now, going back the way they’d come. The pair of headlights was still behind them. At 10:30 on a Sunday, traffic was light and it was easy to spot their pursuer.

“There’s Gillis,” Sam stated. “Right on schedule.” He nodded at the blue Toyota idling near the curb. They drove past it.

A moment later, the Toyota pulled into traffic, right behind the Jeep.

“Perp sandwich,” said Sam with a note of triumph. They were coming on a traffic light, just turning yellow. Purposely he slowed down, to keep the other two cars on his tail.

Without warning, the Cherokee suddenly screeched around them and sped straight through the intersection just as the light turned red.

Sam uttered an oath and hit the accelerator. They, too, lurched through the intersection just as a pickup truck barreled in from a side street. Sam swerved around it and took off after the sedan.

A block ahead, the Cherokee screeched around a corner.

“This guy’s smart,” muttered Sam. “He knew we were moving in on him.”

“Watch out!” cried Nina as a car pulled out of a parking space, right in front of them.

Sam leaned on his horn and shot past.

This is crazy, she thought. I’m riding with a maniac cop at the wheel.

They spun around the corner into an alley. Nina, clutching the dashboard, caught a dizzying view of trash cans and Dumpsters as they raced through.