Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (33 page)

They were tugging at each other’s clothes, feverish for the touch of bare skin. First her sweater came off, then his shirt. They kissed their way into the next room, where the fire had quieted to a warm glow. Still kissing her, he pulled the afghan off the couch and let it fall onto the floor by the hearth.

Facing each other, they knelt before the dying fire. His bare shoulders gleamed in the flickering light. She was eager, starved for his touch, but he moved slowly, savoring every moment, every new experience of her. He watched with longing as she unhooked her bra and shrugged the straps off her shoulders. When he reached out to cup her breast, to tug at her nipple, she let her head sag back with a moan. His touch was ever so gentle, yet it left her feeling weak. Conquered. He tipped her back and lowered her onto the afghan.

Her body was pure liquid now, melting under his touch. He unzipped her jeans, eased them off her hips. Her underwear slid off with the hiss of silk. She lay unshielded to his gaze now, her skin rosy in the firelight.

“I’ve had so many dreams about you,” he whispered as his hand slid exploringly down her belly, toward the dark triangle of hair. “Last night, when you were in my house, I dreamed of holding you. Touching you just the way I am now. But when I woke up, I told myself it could never happen. That it was all fantasy. All longing. And here we are…” He bent forward, his kiss tender on her lips. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I want you to. I want us to.”

“I want it just as much. More. But I’m afraid we’re going to regret it.”

“Then we’ll regret it later. Tonight, let’s just be you and me. Let’s pretend there’s nothing else, no one else.”

He kissed her again. And this time his hand slipped between her thighs, his finger dipping into her wetness, sliding deep into her warmth. She groaned, helpless with delight. He slid another finger in, and felt her trembling, tightening around him. She was ready, so ready for him, but he wanted to take his time, to make this last.

He withdrew his hand, just long enough to remove the rest of his clothes. As he knelt beside her, she couldn’t help drawing in a sharp breath of admiration. What a beautiful man he was. Not just his body, but his soul. She could see it in his eyes: the caring, the warmth. Before it had been hidden from her, concealed behind that tough-cop mask of his. Now he was hiding nothing. Revealing everything.

As she was revealing everything to him.

She was too lost in pleasure to feel any modesty, any shame. She lay back, whimpering, as his fingers found her again, withdrew, teased, plunged back in. Already she was slick with sweat and desire, her hips arching against him.

“Please,” she murmured. “Oh, Sam. I—”

He kissed her, cutting off any protest. And he continued his torment, his fingers dipping, sliding, until she was wound so tight she thought she’d shatter.

Only then, only as she reached the very edge, did he take away his hand, fit his hips to hers, and thrust deep inside her.

She gripped him, crying out as he swept her, and himself, toward climax. And when it came, when she felt herself tumbling into that wondrous free fall, they clung to each other and they tumbled together, to a soft and ever-so-gentle landing.

She fell asleep, warm and safe, in his arms.

It was later, much later, when she awakened in the deepest chill of night.

The fire had died out. Although she was cocooned in the afghan, she found herself shivering.

And alone.

Hugging the afghan to her shoulders, she went into the kitchen and peered out the window. By the light of the moon, she could see that Sam’s car was gone. He had returned to the city.

Already I miss him,
she thought. Already his absence was like a deep, dark gulf in her life.

She went into the bedroom, climbed under the blankets, and tried to stop shivering, but she could not. When Sam had left, he had taken with him all the warmth. All the joy.

It scared her, how much she felt his absence. She was not going to fall in love with him; she could not afford to. What they’d experienced tonight was pleasure. The enjoyment of each other’s bodies. As a lover, he was superb.

But as a man to love, he was clearly wrong for her.

No wonder he’d stolen away like a thief in the night. He’d known it was a mistake, just as she did. At this moment, he was probably regretting what they’d done.

She burrowed deeper under the blankets and waited for sleep, for dawn—whichever came first. Anything to ease the ache of Sam’s departure.

But the night, cold and lonely, stretched on.

I
T WAS A MISTAKE
. A stupid, crazy mistake.

All the way back to Portland, on the drive down that long, dark highway, Sam kept asking himself how he could have let it happen.

No, he
knew
how it happened. The attraction between them was just too strong. It had been pulling them together from the first day they’d met. He’d fought it, had never stopped reminding himself that he was a cop, and she was an important element in his investigation. Good cops did not fall into this trap.

He used to think he was a good cop. Now he knew he was far too human, that Nina was a temptation he couldn’t resist, and that the whole investigation would probably suffer because he’d lost his sense of objectivity.

All because she’d come to mean too much to him.

Not only would the investigation suffer,
he
would as well, and he had only himself to blame. Nina was scared and vulnerable; naturally she’d turn to her protector for comfort. He should have kept her at arm’s length, should have kept his own urges in check. Instead he’d succumbed, and now she was all he could think about.

He gripped the steering wheel and forced himself to focus on the road. On the case.

By 1:00 a.m., he was back in the city. By 1:30, he was at his desk, catching up on the preliminary reports from Ernie Takeda. As he’d expected, the bomb in Nina’s apartment was similar to the devices that blew up the church and the warehouse. The difference between the three was in the method of detonation. The warehouse device had had a simple timer. The church device was a package bomb, designed to explode on opening. Nina’s apartment had been wired to blow after the door opened. This bomber was a versatile fellow. He could trigger a blast in any number of ways. He varied his device according to the situation, and that made him both clever and extremely dangerous.

He went home at 5:00 a.m., caught a few hours of sleep, and was back at headquarters for an eight o’clock meeting.

With three bombings in two weeks, the pressure was on, and the tension showed in the faces around the conference table. Gillis looked beat, Chief Coopersmith was testy, and even the normally unemotional Ernie Takeda was showing flashes of irritation. Part of that irritation was due to the presence of two federal agents from Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Both the men from ATF wore expressions of big-time experts visiting Hicksville.

But the most annoying source of irritation was the presence of their esteemed D.A. and perpetual pain in the neck, Norm Liddell.

Liddell was waving the morning edition of the
New York Times.
“Look at the headline,” he said. “‘Portland, Maine, the new bombing capital?’ New York’s saying that about us?
Us?
” He threw the newspaper down on the table. “What the hell is going on in this town? Who
is
this bomber?”

“We can give you a likely psychological profile,” said one of the ATF agents. “He’s a white male, intelligent—”

“I already know he’s intelligent!” snapped Liddell. “A hell of a lot more intelligent than we are. I don’t want some psychological profile. I want to know who he
is.
Does anyone have any idea about his identity?”

There was a silence at the table. Then Sam said, “We know who he’s trying to kill.”

“You mean the Cormier woman?” Liddell snorted. “So far, no one’s come up with a single good reason why she’s the target.”

“But we know she is. She’s our one link to the bomber.”

“What about the warehouse bomb?” said Coopersmith. “How’s that connect to Nina Cormier?”

Sam paused. “That I don’t know,” he admitted.

“I’d lay ten-to-one odds that Billy Binford’s people ordered that warehouse bombing,” said Liddell. “It was a logical move on his part. Scare off a prosecution witness. Does the Cormier woman have any connection to Binford?”

“All she knows about him is what she’s read in the newspapers,” said Sam. “There’s no link.”

“What about her family? Are they linked at all to Binford?”

“No link there, either,” spoke up Gillis. “We’ve checked into the finances of the whole family. Nina Cormier’s father, mother, stepfather, stepmother. No connection to Binford. Her ex-fiancé was just as clean.”

Liddell sat back. “Something’s coming. I can feel it. Binford’s got something big planned.”

“How do you know?” asked Coopersmith.

“I have sources.” Liddell shook his head in disgust.

“Here I finally get The Snowman behind bars, and he’s still pulling strings, still making mincemeat of the court system. I’m convinced that warehouse bomb was an intimidation tactic. He’s trying to scare all my witnesses. If I don’t get a conviction, he’ll be a free man in a few months. And he’ll be scaring them in person.”

“But chances are good you’ll get that conviction,” Coopersmith reassured him. “You’ve got credible witnesses, financial records. And you’ve drawn a law-and-order judge.”

“Even so,” countered Liddell, “Binford’s not finished maneuvering. He’s got something up his sleeve. I just wish I knew what it was.” He looked at Sam. “Where are you hiding Nina Cormier?”

“A safe place,” said Sam.

“You keeping it top secret or something?”

“Under the circumstances, I’d prefer to keep it known only to myself and Gillis. If you have questions to ask her, I can ask them for you.”

“I just want to know what her connection is to these bombings. Why The Snowman wants her dead.”

“Maybe this has nothing to do with Binford,” suggested Sam. “He’s in jail, and there’s another party involved here. The bomber.”

“Right. So find him for me,” snapped Liddell. “Before Portland gets known as the American Beirut.” He rose from his chair, his signal that the meeting was over.

“Binford goes to trial in a month. I don’t want my witnesses scared off by any more bombs. So
get
this guy, before he destroys my case.” With that, Liddell stalked out.

“Man, election year is hell,” muttered Gillis.

As the others filed out of the room, Coopersmith said, “Navarro, a word with you.”

Sam waited, knowing full well what was coming. Coopersmith shut the door and turned to look at him.

“You and Nina Cormier. What’s going on?”

“She needs protection. So I’m looking out for her.”

“Is that all you’re doing?”

Sam let out a weary sigh. “I…may be more involved than I should be.”

“That’s what I figured.” Coopersmith shook his head. “You’re too smart for this, Sam. This is the sort of mistake rookies make. Not you.”

“I know.”

“It could put you both in a dangerous situation. I ought to yank you off the case.”

“I need to stay on it.”

“Because of the woman?”

“Because I want to nail this guy. I’m
going
to nail him.”

“Fine. Just keep your distance from Nina Cormier. I shouldn’t have to tell you this. This kind of thing happens, someone always gets hurt. Right now she thinks you’re John Wayne. But when this is all over, she’s gonna see you’re human like the rest of us. Don’t set yourself up for this, Sam. She’s got looks, she’s got a daddy with lots of money. She doesn’t want a cop.”

I know he’s right,
thought Sam.
I know it from personal experience. Someone’s going to get hurt. And it’ll be me.

The conference room door suddenly swung open and an excited Ernie Takeda stuck his head in the room. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he said, waving a sheet of fax paper.

“What is it?” asked Coopersmith.

“From NCIC. They just identified that fingerprint off the bomb fragment.”

“And?”

“It’s a match. With Vincent Spectre.”

“That’s impossible!” exclaimed Sam. He snatched the sheet from Ernie’s grasp and stared at the faxed report. What he read there left no doubt that the ID was definite.

“There has to be a mistake,” said Coopersmith. “They found his body. Spectre’s been dead and buried for months.”

Sam looked up. “Obviously not,” he growled.

Nine

T
he rowboat was old and well used, but the hull was sound. At least, it didn’t leak as Nina rowed it out into the lake. It was late afternoon and a pair of loons were paddling lazily through the water, neither one alarmed by the presence of a lone rower. The day was utter stillness, utter peace, as warm as a summer day should be.

Nina guided the boat to the center of the pond, where sunlight rippled on the water, and there she let the boat drift. As it turned lazy circles, she lay back and stared up at the sky. She saw birds winging overhead, saw a dragonfly hover, iridescent in the slanting light.

And then she heard a voice, calling her name.

She sat up so sharply the boat rocked. She saw him then, standing at the water’s edge, waving to her.

As she rowed the boat back to shore, her heart was galloping, more from anticipation than exertion. Why had he returned so soon? Last night he’d left without a word of goodbye, the way a man leaves a woman he never intends to see again.

Now here he was, standing silent and still on the shore, his gaze as unreadable as ever. She couldn’t figure him out. She’d never be able to figure him out. He was a man designed to drive her crazy, and as she glided across the last yards of water, she could already feel that lovely insanity take hold of her. It required all her willpower to suppress it.

She tossed him the painter rope. He hauled the rowboat up onto the shore and helped her step out. Just the pressure of his hand grasping her arm gave her a thrill of delight. But one look at his face quelled any hopes that he was here as a lover. This was the cop, impersonal, businesslike. Not at all the man who’d held her in his arms.

“There’s been a new development,” he said.

Just as coolly, she met his gaze. “What development?”

“We think we know who the bomber is. I want you to take a look at some photographs.”

On the couch by the fireplace—the same fireplace that had warmed them when they’d made love the night before—Nina sat flipping through a book of mug shots. The hearth was now cold, and so was she, both in body and in spirit. Sam sat a good foot away, not touching her, not saying a word. But he was watching her expectantly, waiting for some sign that she recognized a face in that book.

She forced herself to concentrate on the photos. One by one she scanned the faces, carefully taking in the features of each man pictured there. She reached the last page. Shaking her head, she closed the cover.

“I don’t recognize anyone,” she declared.

“Are you certain?”

“I’m certain. Why? Who am I supposed to recognize?”

His disappointment was apparent. He opened the book to the fourth page and handed it back to her. “Look at this face. Third one down, first column. Have you ever seen this man?”

She spent a long time studying the photo. Then she said, “No. I don’t know him.”

With a sigh of frustration, Sam sank back against the couch. “This doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Nina was still focused on the photograph. The man in the picture appeared to be in his forties, with sandy hair, blue eyes, and hollow, almost gaunt, cheeks. It was the eyes that held her attention. They stared straight at her, a look of intimidation that burned, lifelike, from a mere two-dimensional image. Nina gave an involuntary shiver.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“His name is—or was—Vincent Spectre. He’s five foot eleven, 180 pounds, forty-six years old. At least, that’s what he would be now. If he’s still alive.”

“You mean you don’t know if he is?”

“We thought he was dead.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Not any longer.” Sam rose from the couch. It was getting chilly in the cabin; he crouched at the hearth and began to arrange kindling in the fireplace.

“For twelve years,” he said, “Vincent Spectre was an army demolitions expert. Then he got booted out of the service. Dishonorable discharge, petty theft. It didn’t take him long to launch a second career. He became what we call a specialist. Big bangs, big bucks. Hired himself out to anyone who’d pay for his expertise. He worked for terrorist governments. For the mob. For crime bosses all over the country.

“For years he raked in the money. Then his luck ran out. He was recognized on a bank security camera. Arrested, convicted, served only a year. Then he escaped.”

Sam struck a match and lit the kindling. It caught fire in a crackle of sparks and flames. He lay a log on top and turned to look at her.

“Six months ago,” he continued, “Spectre’s remains were found in the rubble after one of his bombs blew up a warehouse. That is, authorities
thought
it was his body. Now we think it might have been someone else’s. And Spectre’s still alive.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because his fingerprint just turned up. On a fragment of the warehouse bomb.”

She stared at him. “You think he also blew up the church?”

“Almost certainly. Vincent Spectre’s trying to kill you.”

“But I don’t know any Vincent Spectre! I’ve never even heard his name before!”

“And you don’t recognize his photo.”

“No.”

Sam stood up. Behind him, the flames were now crackling, consuming the log. “We’ve shown Spectre’s photo to the rest of your family. They don’t recognize him, either.”

“It must be a mistake. Even if the man’s alive, he has no reason to kill me.”

“Someone else could have hired him.”

“You’ve already explored that. And all you came up with was Daniella.”

“That’s still a possibility. She denies it, of course. And she passed the polygraph test.”

“She let you hook her up to a
polygraph?
”

“She consented. So we did it.”

Nina shook her head in amazement. “She must have been royally ticked off.”

“As a matter of fact, I think she rather enjoyed giving the performance. She turned every male head in the department.”

“Yes, she’s good at that. She certainly turned my father’s head. And Robert’s, too,” Nina added softly.

Sam was moving around the room now, pacing a slow circle around the couch. “So we’re back to the question of Vincent Spectre,” he said. “And what his connection is to you. Or Robert.”

“I told you, I’ve never heard his name before. I don’t remember Robert ever mentioning the name, either.”

Sam paced around the couch, returned to stand by the fireplace. Against the background of flames, his face was unreadable. “Spectre
is
alive. And he built a bomb intended for you and Robert. Why?”

She looked down again at the photo of Vincent Spectre. Try as she might, she could conjure up no memory of that face. The eyes, perhaps, seemed vaguely familiar. That stare was one she might have seen before. But not the face.

“Tell me more about him,” she suggested.

Sam went to the couch and sat down beside her. Not quite close enough to touch her, but close enough to make her very aware of his presence.

“Vincent Spectre was born and raised in California. Joined the army at age nineteen. Quickly showed an aptitude for explosives work, and was trained in demolitions. Saw action in Grenada and Panama. That’s where he lost his finger—trying to disarm a terrorist explosive. At that point, he could have retired on disability but—”

“Wait. Did you just say he was missing a finger?”

“That’s right.”

“Which hand?”

“The left. Why?”

Nina went very still. Thinking, remembering. A missing finger. Why did that image seem so vividly familiar?

Softly she said, “Was it the left middle finger?”

Frowning, Sam reached for his briefcase and took out a file folder. He flipped through the papers contained inside. “Yes,” he said. “It was the middle finger.”

“No stump at all? Just…missing entirely.”

“That’s right. They had to amputate all the way back to the knuckle.” He was watching her, his eyes alert, his voice quiet with tension. “So you
do
know him.”

“I—I’m not sure. There was a man with an amputated finger—the left middle finger—”

“What? Where?”

“The Emergency Room. It was a few weeks ago. I remember he was wearing gloves, and he didn’t want to take them off. But I had to check his pulse. So I pulled off the left glove. And I was so startled to see he was missing a finger. He’d stuffed the glove finger with cotton. I think I…I must have stared. I remember I asked him how he lost it. He told me he’d caught it in some machinery.”

“Why was he in the ER?”

“It was—I think an accident. Oh, I remember. He was knocked down by a bicycle. He’d cut his arm and needed stitches put in. The strange part about it all was the way he vanished afterward. Right after the cut was sutured, I left the room to get something. When I came back, he was gone. No thank you, nothing. Just—disappeared. I thought he was trying to get away without paying his bill. But I found out later that he did pay the clerk. In cash.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“No.” She gave a shrug. “I’m terrible with names.”

“Describe him for me. Everything you remember.”

She was silent for a moment, struggling to conjure up the face of a man she’d seen weeks ago, and only once. “I remember he was fairly tall. When he lay down on the treatment table, his feet hung over the edge.” She looked at Sam. “He’d be about your height.”

“I’m six feet. Vincent Spectre’s five-eleven. What about his face? Hair, eyes?”

“He had dark hair. Almost black. And his eyes…” She sat back, frowning in concentration. Remembered how startled she’d been by the missing finger. That she’d looked up and met the patient’s gaze. “I think they were blue.”

“The blue eyes would match Spectre’s. The black hair doesn’t. He could’ve dyed it.”

“But the face was different. It didn’t look like this photo.”

“Spectre has resources. He could’ve paid for plastic surgery, completely changed his appearance. For six months we assumed he was dead. During that time he could’ve remade himself into an entirely different man.”

“All right, what if it
was
Spectre I saw in the ER that day? Why does that make me a target? Why would he want to kill me?”

“You saw his face. You could identify him.”

“A lot of people must have seen his face!”

“You’re the only one who could connect that face with a man who was missing a finger. You said he was wearing gloves, that he didn’t want to remove them.”

“Yes, but it was part of his uniform. Maybe the only reason for the gloves was—”

“What uniform?”

“Some sort of long-sleeved jacket with brass buttons. White gloves. Pants with this side stripe. You know, like an elevator operator. Or a bellhop.”

“Was there a logo embroidered on the jacket? A building or hotel name?”

“No.”

Sam was on his feet now, pacing back and forth with new excitement. “Okay. Okay, he has a minor accident. Cuts his arm, has to go to the ER for stitches. You see that he’s missing a finger. You see his face. And you see he’s wearing some sort of uniform….”

“It’s not enough to make me a threat.”

“Maybe it is. Right now, he’s operating under a completely new identity. The authorities have no idea what he looks like. But that missing finger is a giveaway. You saw it. And his face. You could identify him for us.”

“I didn’t know anything about Vincent Spectre. I wouldn’t have thought to go to the police.”

“We were already raising questions about his so-called death. Wondering if he was still alive and operating. Another bombing, and we might have figured out the truth. All we had to do was tell the public we were looking for a man missing his left middle finger. You would have come forward. Wouldn’t you?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“That may be what he was afraid of. That you’d tell us the one thing we didn’t know. What he looks like.”

For a long moment she was silent. She was staring down at the book of mug shots, thinking about that day in the ER. Trying to remember the patients, the crises. Sore throats and sprained ankles. She’d been a nurse for eight years, had treated so many patients, that the days all seemed to blend together. But she did remember one more detail about that visit from the man with the gloves. A detail that left her suddenly chilled.

“The doctor,” she said softly. “The doctor who sutured the cut—”

“Yes? Who was it?”

“Robert. It was Robert.”

Sam stared at her. In that instant, he understood. They both did. Robert had been in the same room as well. He’d seen the patient’s face, had seen the mutilated left hand. He, like Nina, could have identified Vincent Spectre.

Now Robert was dead.

Sam reached down to take Nina’s hand. “Come on.” He pulled her to her feet.

They were standing face-to-face now, and she felt her body respond immediately to his nearness, felt her stomach dance that little dance of excitement. Arousal.

“I’m driving you back to Portland,” he said.

“Tonight?”

“I want you to meet with our police artist. See if you two can come up with a sketch of Spectre’s face.”

“I’m not sure I can. If I saw him, I’d recognize him. But just to describe his face—”

“The artist will walk you through it. The important thing is that we have something to work with. Also, I need you to help me go through the ER records. Maybe there’s some information you’ve forgotten.”

“We keep a copy of all the encounter forms. I can find his record for you.”
I’ll do anything you want me to do,
she thought,
if only you’ll stop this tough-cop act.

As they stood gazing at each other, she thought she saw a ripple of longing in his eyes. Too quickly, he turned away to get a jacket from the closet. He draped it over her shoulders. Just the brushing of his fingers against her skin made her quiver.

She shifted around to face him. To confront him.

“Has something happened between us?” she asked softly.

“What do you mean?”

“Last night. I didn’t imagine it, Sam. We made love, right here in this room. Now I’m wondering what I did wrong. Why you seem so…indifferent.”

He sighed, a sound of weariness. And perhaps regret. “Last night,” he began, “shouldn’t have happened. It was a mistake.”