Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (38 page)

All he was certain of was that he’d never, ever get over her.

He rose to his feet. She didn’t react, but just sat on the bed, staring down. “It’s not you, Nina,” he said. “It’s
me.
It’s something that happened to me years ago. It convinced me that this situation we’re in—it doesn’t last. It’s artificial. A scared woman. And a cop. It’s a setup for all kinds of unrealistic expectations.”

“Don’t give me the old psychology lecture, Sam. I don’t need to hear about transference and misplaced affections.”

“You have to hear it. And understand it. Because the effect goes both ways. How you feel about me, and how I feel about you. My wanting to take care of you, protect you. It’s something I can’t help, either.” He sighed, a sound of both frustration and despair.
It’s too late,
he thought.
We both feel things we shouldn’t be feeling. And it’s impossible to turn back the clock.

“You were saying something happened to you. Years ago,” she said. “Was it…another woman?”

He nodded.

“The same situation? Scared woman, protective cop?”

Again he nodded.

“Oh.” She shook her head and murmured in a tone of self-disgust, “I guess I fell right into it.”

“We both did.”

“So who left whom, Sam? The last time this happened?”

“It was the only time it happened. Except for you.” He turned away, began to move around the room. “I was just a rookie patrolman. Twenty-two years old. Assigned to protect a woman being stalked. She was twenty-eight going on forty when it came to sophistication. It’s not surprising I got a little infatuated. The surprising part was that she seemed to return the sentiment. At least, until the crisis was over. Then she decided I wasn’t so impressive after all. And she was right.” He stopped and looked at her. “It’s that damn thing called reality. It has a way of stripping us all down to what we really are. And in my case, I’m just a hardworking cop. Honest for the most part. Brighter than some, dumber than others. In short, I’m not anyone’s hero. And when she finally saw that, she turned right around and walked out, leaving behind one sadder but wiser rookie.”

“And you think that’s what I’m going to do.”

“It’s what you should do. Because you deserve so much, Nina. More than I can ever give you.”

She shook her head. “What I really want, Sam, has nothing to do with what a man can
give
me.”

“Think about Robert. What you could have had with him.”

“Robert was the perfect example! He had it all. Everything except what I wanted from him.”

“What did you want, Nina?”

“Love. Loyalty.” She met his gaze. “Honesty.”

What he saw in her eyes left him shaken. Those were the things he wanted to give her. The very things he was afraid to give her.

“Right now you think it’s enough,” he remarked. “But maybe you’ll find out it’s not.”

“It’s more than I ever got from Robert.”
More than I’ll ever get from you, too,
was what her eyes said.

He didn’t try to convince her otherwise. Instead, he turned toward the door.

“I’m going to call Pressler inside,” he told her. “Have him stay with you all day today.”

“There’s no need.”

“You shouldn’t be alone, Nina.”

“I won’t be.” She looked up at him. “I can go back to my father’s house. He has that fancy security system. Not to mention a few dogs. Now that we know Daniella isn’t the one running around planting bombs, I should be perfectly safe there.” She glanced around the room. “I shouldn’t be staying here, anyway. Not in your house.”

“You can. As long as you need to.”

“No.” She met his gaze. “I don’t really see the point, Sam. Since it’s so apparent to us both that this is a hopeless relationship.”

He didn’t argue with her. And that, more than anything else, was what hurt her. He could see it in her face.

He simply said, “I’ll drive you there.” Then he turned and left the room. He had to.

He couldn’t bear to see the look in her eyes.

Twelve

“W
e think we know who the target was,” reported Sam. “It was our wonderful D.A., Liddell.”

Chief Coopersmith stared across the conference table at Sam and Gillis. “Are you certain?”

“Everything points that way. We pinpointed the bomb placement to somewhere in Row Three, Seats G through J. The seating last night was reserved weeks in advance. We’ve gone over the list of people sitting in that row and section. And Liddell and his wife were right smack in the center. They would’ve been killed instantly.”

“Who else was in that row?”

“Judge Dalton was about six seats away,” said Gillis. “Chances are, he would’ve been killed, too. Or at least seriously maimed.”

“And the other people in that row?”

“We’ve checked them all out. A visiting law professor from California. A few relatives of Judge Dalton’s. A pair of law clerks. We doubt any of them would’ve attracted the interest of a hired killer. Oh, and you may be interested to hear Ernie Takeda’s latest report. He called it in from the lab this afternoon. It was dynamite, Dupont label. Prima detonating cord. Green electrical tape.”

“Spectre,” said Coopersmith. He leaned back and exhaled a loud sigh of weariness. They were all tired. Every one of them had worked straight through the night, caught a few hours of sleep, and then returned to the job. Now it was 5:00 p.m., and another night was just beginning. “God, the man is back with a vengeance.”

“Yeah, but he’s not having much luck,” commented Gillis. “His targets keep surviving. Liddell. Judge Dalton. Nina Cormier. I’d say that the legendary Vincent Spectre must be feeling pretty frustrated about now.”

“Embarrassed, too,” added Sam. “His reputation’s on the line, if it isn’t already shot. After this fiasco, he’s washed up as a contract man. Anyone with the money to hire will go elsewhere.”

“Do we know who
did
hire him?”

Sam and Gillis glanced at each other. “We can make a wild guess,” said Gillis.

“Billy Binford?”

Sam nodded. “The Snowman’s trial is coming up in a month. And Liddell was dead set against any plea bargains. Rumor has it, he was going to use a conviction as a jumping-off place for some political campaign. I think The Snowman knows he’s in for a long stay in jail. I think he wants Liddell off the prosecution team. Permanently.”

“If Sam hadn’t cleared that theater,” added Gillis, “we could have lost half our prosecutors. The courts would’ve been backed up for months. In that situation, Binford’s lawyers could’ve written the plea bargain for him.”

“Any way we can pin this down with proof?”

“Not yet. Binford’s attorney, Albert Darien, denies any knowledge of this. We’re not going to be able to shake a word out of him. ATF’s going over the videotapes from the prison surveillance cameras, looking over all the visitors that Binford had. We may be able to identify a go-between.”

“You think it’s someone other than his attorney?”

“Possibly. If we can identify that go-between, we may have a link to Spectre.”

“Go for it,” said Coopersmith. “I want this guy, and I want him bad.”

At five-thirty, the meeting broke up and Sam headed for the coffee machine in search of a caffeine boost that would keep him going for the next eight hours. He was just taking his first sip when Norm Liddell walked into the station. Sam couldn’t help feeling a prick of satisfaction at the sight of the bruises and scrapes on Liddell’s face. The injuries were minor, but last night, after the bomb, Liddell had been among those screaming the loudest for medical assistance. His own wife, who’d sustained a broken arm, had finally told her husband to shut up and act like a man.

Now here he was, sporting a few nasty scrapes on his face as well as a look of—could it be? Contrition?

“Afternoon, Navarro,” said Liddell, his voice subdued.

“Afternoon.”

“I, uh…” Liddell cleared his throat and glanced around the hall, as though to check if anyone was listening. No one was.

“How’s the wife doing?” asked Sam.

“Fine. She’ll be in a cast for a while. Luckily, it was just a closed fracture.”

“She handled herself pretty well last night, considering her injury,” Sam commented.
Unlike you.

“Yes, well, my wife’s got a spine of steel. In fact, that’s sort of why I want to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

“Look, Navarro. Last night…I guess I jumped on you prematurely. I mean, I didn’t realize you had information about any bomb.”

Sam didn’t say a word. He didn’t want to interrupt this enjoyable performance.

“So when I got on your case last night—about evacuating the building—I should’ve realized you had your reasons. But damn it, Navarro, all I could see was all those people hurt in the stampede. I thought you’d gotten them panicked for nothing, and I—” He paused, obviously struggling to bite back his words. “Anyway, I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.”

Liddell gave a curt nod of relief.

“Now you can tell your wife you’re off the hook.”

The look on Liddell’s face was all Sam needed to know that he’d guessed right. This apology had been Mrs. Liddell’s idea, bless her steely spine. He couldn’t help grinning as he watched the other man turn and walk stiffly toward Chief Coopersmith’s office. The good D.A., it appeared, was not the one wearing the pants in the family.

“Hey, Sam!” Gillis was heading toward him, pulling on his jacket. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Prison’s got a surveillance videotape they want us to look at. It’s The Snowman and some unknown visitor from a few days ago.”

Sam felt a sudden adrenaline rush. “Was it Spectre?”

“No. It was a woman.”

“T
HERE
. T
HE BLONDE
,” said Detective Cooley.

Sam and Gillis leaned toward the TV screen, their gazes fixed on the black-and-white image of the woman. The view of her face was intermittently blocked by other visitors moving in the foreground, but from what they could see, the woman was indeed a blonde, twenties to thirties, and built like a showgirl.

“Okay, freeze it there,” Cooley said to the video tech.

“That’s a good view of her.”

The woman was caught in a still frame, her face turned to the surveillance camera, her figure momentarily visible between two passersby. She was dressed in a skirt suit, and she appeared to be carrying a briefcase. Judging by her attire, she might be an attorney or some other professional. But two details didn’t fit.

One was her shoes. The camera’s angle, facing downward, captured a view of her right foot, perched atop a sexy spike-heeled sandal with a delicate ankle strap.

“Not the kind of shoes you wear to court,” noted Sam.

“Not unless you’re out to give the judge a thrill,” Gillis said. “And look at that makeup.”

It was the second detail that didn’t fit. This woman was made up like no lawyer Sam had ever seen. Obviously false eyelashes. Eyeshadow like some tropical fish. Lipstick painted on in bold, broad smears.

“Man, she sure ain’t the girl next door,” Gillis observed.

“What’s the name on the visitor log?” asked Sam.

Cooley glanced at a sheet of paper. “She signed in as Marilyn Dukoff. Identified her purpose for visiting The Snowman as attorney-client consultation.”

Gillis laughed. “If she’s an attorney, then I’m applying to law school.”

“Which law firm did she say she was with?” asked Sam.

“Frick and Darien.”

“Not true?”

Cooley shook his head. “She’s not on the firm’s list of partners, associates or clerks. But…” He leaned forward, a grin on his face. “We think we know where she
did
work.”

“Where?”

“The Stop Light.”

Gillis shot Sam a look of
Didn’t I tell ya?
No one had to explain a thing. They knew all about the Stop Light and its stage shows, pasties optional.

“Let me guess,” said Sam. “Exotic dancer.”

“You got it,” affirmed Cooley.

“Are we sure we’re talking about the right Marilyn Dukoff?”

“I think we are,” Cooley answered. “See, all visitors to the prison have to present ID, and that’s the name she gave, backed up by a Maine driver’s license. We’ve pulled the license file. And here’s the photo.” Cooley passed a copy of the photo to Sam and Gillis.

“It’s her,” said Gillis.

“Which means we’re talking about the right Marilyn Dukoff,” said Cooley. “I think she just waltzed in under her own name and didn’t bother with fake IDs. All she faked was her profession.”

“Which is obviously not in the legal field,” Gillis drawled.

Sam gave a nod to Cooley. “Good work.”

“Unfortunately,” added the younger detective, “I can’t seem to locate the woman herself. We know where she
was
employed, but she left the job two weeks ago. I sent a man to the address listed on her license. She doesn’t answer the door. And her phone’s just been disconnected.” He paused. “I think it’s time for a search warrant.”

“Let’s get it.” Sam rose to his feet and glanced at Gillis.

“Meet you in the car, ten minutes.”

“The blonde’s?”

“Unless you’ve got somewhere better to go.”

Gillis looked back at the video screen. At that still shot of a slim ankle, a sexy shoe. “Better than
that?
” He laughed. “I don’t think so.”

T
HE POLICE WERE
getting too close for comfort.

Spectre slouched in the doorway of an apartment building half a block away and watched the cops come out of Marilyn’s old building. Only moments before, Spectre had been inside that apartment, checking to make sure Marilyn hadn’t left behind any clues to her current whereabouts. Luckily for him, he’d slipped out just ahead of Navarro’s arrival.

They’d been inside almost an hour. They were good, all right—but Spectre was cleverer. Hours after the theater bombing, he’d hustled Marilyn into a different apartment across town. He’d known that his target might become apparent once they’d pinpointed the bomb placement in the theater. And that Marilyn would inevitably come under their scrutiny. Luckily, she’d been cooperative.

Unfortunately, her usefulness was just about over, and the time had come to end their association. But first, he needed her for one more task.

His face tightened as he spotted a familiar figure emerge from the building. Navarro again. The detective had come to represent all the failures that Spectre had suffered over the past week. Navarro was the brains behind the investigation, the one man responsible for Liddell still being alive.

No hit. No fee. Navarro had cost him money—a lot of it.

Spectre watched the cops confer on the sidewalk. There were five of them, three in plain clothes, two in uniform, but it was Navarro on whom he focused his rage. This had turned into a battle of wits between them, a test of determination. In all his years as a “fuse” man, Spectre had never matched skills with such a wily opponent.

The safe thing to do was merely to slip away from this town and seek out contracts elsewhere. Miami or New Orleans. But his reputation had suffered a serious blow here; he wasn’t sure he could land a job in Miami. And he had the feeling Navarro wouldn’t give up the pursuit, that, wherever Spectre went, the detective would be dogging his trail.

And then, there was the matter of getting even. Spectre wasn’t going to walk away without exacting some kind of payback.

The three plainclothes cops climbed into an unmarked car and drove away. A moment later, the uniformed cops were gone as well. They had found nothing in Marilyn’s apartment; Spectre had seen to it.

Catch me if you can, Navarro,
he thought.
Or will I catch you first?

He straightened and stamped his feet, feeling the blood return to his legs. Then he left the doorway and walked around the corner, to his car.

Navarro. Once and for all, he had to take care of Navarro. And he had the perfect plan. It would require Marilyn’s help. One little phone call—that’s all he’d ask. And then he’d ask no more of her.

Ever again.

T
HE DINNER WAS EXCELLENT
. The company was wretched.

Daniella, dressed in an iridescent green leotard and a slinky wraparound skirt, sullenly picked at her salad, ignoring the platter of roast duckling and wild rice. She was not speaking to her husband, and he was not speaking to her, and Nina was too uncomfortable to speak to either one of them.

After all those questions by the police, the matter of Daniella’s affair with Robert had come to light. While Nina would never forgive Daniella for that betrayal, at least she could manage to pull off a civil evening with the woman.

Nina’s father could not. He was still in a state of shock from the revelation. His showpiece wife, the stunning blonde thirty years his junior, had not been satisfied with marrying mere wealth. She’d wanted a younger man. After four marriages, George Cormier still didn’t know how to choose the right wife.

Now it looks like this will be his fourth divorce,
Nina thought. She glanced at her father, then at Daniella. Though she loved her father, she couldn’t help feeling that he and Daniella deserved each other. In the worst possible way.

Daniella set down her fork. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I don’t really have much of an appetite. I think I’ll skip out for a movie.”

“What about me?” snapped George. “I know I’m just your husband, but a few evenings a week with your boring old spouse isn’t too much to ask, is it? Considering all the benefits you get in exchange.”

“Benefits?
Benefits?
” Daniella drew herself to her feet in anger. “All the money in the world can’t make up for being married to an old goat like you.”

“Goat?”

“An old goat. Do you hear me?
Old.
” She leaned across the table. “In every sense of the word.”

He, too, rose to his feet. “Why, you bitch…”

“Go ahead. Call me names. I can think of just as many to call you back.” With a whisk of her blond hair, she turned and walked out of the dining room.

George stared after her for a moment. Slowly, he sank back in his chair. “God,” he whispered. “What was I thinking when I married her?”