Keeper of the Bride

Or, rather, a series of footprints. They tracked through the soft dirt, past the living room window, and headed off among the trees. A man’s shoes, thick soled. Size eleven at least.

He glanced toward the house and thought about what the man who’d made those prints could have seen last night, through the windows. Only darkness? Or had he seen Nina, a moving target as she walked around the living room?

He went to his car, parked near the front porch. Slowly, methodically, he examined it from bumper to bumper. He found no signs of tampering.

Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe those footprints mean nothing.

He went back inside, into the kitchen, and found Nina finishing up her cup of coffee. Her face was flushed, her hair still damp from the shower. At her first look at him, she frowned. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No, everything’s fine.” He carried his cup to the sink. There he looked out the window and thought about how isolated this house was. How open those windows were to the sight of a gunman.

He turned to her and said, “I think it’s time to leave.”

I SHOULD HAVE TAKEN Sam’s advice. I should have hired a lawyer.

That was the thought that now crossed Nina’s mind as she sat in an office at the police station and faced the three Homicide detectives seated across the table from her. They were polite enough, but she sensed their barely restrained eagerness. Detective Yeats in particular made her think of an attack dog — leashed, but only for the moment.

She glanced at Sam, hoping for moral support. He gave her none. Throughout the questioning, he hadn’t even looked at her. He stood at the window, his shoulders rigid, his gaze focused outside. He’d brought her here, and now he was abandoning her. The cop, of course, had his duty to perform. And at this moment, he was playing the cop role to the hilt.

She said to Yeats, “I’ve told you everything I know. There’s nothing else I can think of.”

“You were his fiancee. If anyone would know, you would.”

“I don’t. I wasn’t even there. If you’d just talk to Daniella—”

“We have. She confirms your alibi,” Yeats admitted.

“Then why do you keep asking me these questions?”

“Because murder doesn’t have to be done in person,” one of the other cops said.

Now Yeats leaned forward, his gaze sympathetic, his voice quietly coaxing. “It must have been pretty humiliating for you,” he persisted. “To be left at the altar. To have the whole world know he didn’t want you.”

She said nothing.

“Here’s a man you trusted. A man you loved. And for weeks, maybe months, he was cheating on you. Probably laughing at you behind your back. A man like that doesn’t deserve a woman like you. But you loved him anyway. And all you got for it was pain.”

She lowered her head. She still didn’t speak.

“Come on, Nina. Didn’t you want to hurt him back? Just a little?”

“Not — not that way,” she whispered.

“Even when you found out he was seeing someone else? Even when you learned it was your own stepmother?”

She looked up sharply at Yeats.

“It’s true. We spoke to Daniella and she admitted it. They’d been meeting on the sly for some time. While you were at work. You didn’t know?”

Nina swallowed. In silence she shook her head.

“I think maybe you did know. Maybe you found out on your own. Maybe he told you.”

“No.”

“And how did it make you feel? Hurt? Angry?”

“I didn’t know.”

“Angry enough to strike back? To find someone who’d strike back for you?”

“I didn’t know!”

“That’s simply not believable, Nina. You expect us to accept your word that you knew nothing about it?”

“I didn’t!”

“You did. You—”

“That’s enough.” It was Sam’s voice that cut in. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Yeats?”

“My job,” Yeats shot back.

“You’re badgering her. Interrogating without benefit of counsel.”

“Why should she need a lawyer? She claims she’s innocent.”

“She is innocent.”

Yeats glanced smugly at the other Homicide detectives.

“I think it’s pretty obvious, Navarro, that you no longer belong on this investigation.”

“You don’t have the authority.”

“Abe Coopersmith’s given me the authority.”

“Yeats, I don’t give a flying—”

Sam’s retort was cut off by the beeping of his pocket pager. Irritably he pressed the Silence button. “I’m not through here,” he snapped. Then he turned and left the room.

Yeats turned back to Nina. “Now, Miss Cormier,” he said. All trace of sympathy was gone from his expression. In its place was the razor-tooth smile of a pit bull. “Let’s get back to the questions.”

THE PAGE WAS FROM Ernie Takeda in the crime lab, and the code on the beeper readout told Sam it was an urgent message. He made the call from his own desk.

It took a few dialings to get through; the line was busy. When the usually low-key Takeda finally answered, there was an uncharacteristic tone of excitement in his voice.

“We’ve got something for you, Sam,” said Takeda.

“Something that’ll make you happy.”

“Okay. Make me happy.”

“It’s a fingerprint. A partial, from one of the device fragments from the warehouse bomb. It could be enough to ID our bomber. I’ve sent the print off to NCIC. It’ll take a few days to run it through the system. So be patient. And let’s hope our bomber is on file somewhere.”

“You’re right, Ernie. You’ve made me a happy man.”

“Oh, one more thing. About that church bomb.”

“Yes?”

“Based on the debris, I’d say the device had some sort of gift wrapping around it. Also, since it had no timing elements, my guess is, it was designed to be triggered on opening. But it went off prematurely. Probably a short circuit of some kind.”

“You mentioned gift wrapping.”

“Yeah. Silver-and-white paper.”

Wedding wrap, thought Sam, remembering the gift that had been delivered that morning to the church. If the bomb was meant to explode on opening, then there was no longer any doubt who the intended victims were.

But why kill Nina? he wondered as he headed back to the conference room. Could this whole mess be attributed to another woman’s jealousy? Daniella Cormier had a motive, but would she have gone so far as to hire a bomber?

What was he missing here?

He opened the office door and halted. The three homicide detectives were still sitting at the table. Nina wasn’t. She was gone.

“Where is she?” Sam asked.

Yeats shrugged. “She left.”