Keeper of the Bride

“Sorry.”

“I just want to call my nursing supervisor at Maine Medical. To tell her I won’t be coming in next week.”

“Detective Navarro said no phone calls. It’s necessary for your safety. He was very specific on that.”

“What else did the good detective tell you?”

“I’m to keep a close eye. Not let my guard down for a minute. Because if anything happened to you…” He paused and gave a nervous cough.

“What?”

“He’d, uh, have my hide.”

“That’s quite an incentive.”

“He wanted to make sure I took special care. Not that I’d let anything happen. I owe him that much.”

She frowned at him. He was at the window again, peering down at the street. “What do you mean, you owe him?”

Officer Pressler didn’t move from the window. He stood looking out, as though unwilling to meet her gaze. “It was a few years back. I was on this domestic call. Husband didn’t much like me sticking my nose into his business. So he shot me.”

“My god.”

“I radioed for help. Navarro was first to respond.” Pressler turned and looked at her. “So you see, I do owe him.” Calmly he turned back to the window.

“How well do you know him?” she asked softly.

Pressler shrugged. “He’s a good cop. But real private. I’m not sure anyone knows him very well.”

Including me, she thought. Sighing, she clicked on the boob tube again and channel surfed past a jumble of daytime soaps, a TV court show and a golf tournament. She could almost feel another few brain cells collapse into mush.

What was Sam doing right now? she wondered.

And ruthlessly suppressed the thought. Sam Navarro was his own man. That much was perfectly clear.

She would have to be her own woman.

I WONDER WHAT Nina’s doing right now. At once Sam tried to suppress the thought, tried to concentrate instead on what was being said at the meeting, but his mind kept drifting back to the subject of Nina. Specifically, her safety. He had every reason to trust Leon Pressler. The young cop was sharp and reliable, and he owed his life to Sam. If anyone could be trusted to keep Nina out of harm’s way, it would be Pressler.

Still, he couldn’t shake that lingering sense of uneasiness. And fear. It was one more indication that he’d lost his objectivity, that his feelings were way out of control. To the point of affecting his work…

“…the best we can do? Sam?”

Sam suddenly focused on Abe Coopersmith. “Excuse me?”

Coopersmith sighed. “Where the hell are you, Navarro?”

“I’m sorry. I let my attention drift for a moment.”

Gillis said, “Chief asked if we’re following any other leads.”

“We’re following every lead we have,” Sam informed him. “The sketch of Spectre is circulating. We’ve checked all the hotels in Portland. So far, no employees with a missing finger. Problem is, we’re operating blind. We don’t know Spectre’s target, when he plans to strike, or where he plans to strike. All we have is a witness who’s seen his face.”

“And this bit about the bellhop’s uniform.”

“That’s right.”

“Have you shown all those uniforms to Miss Cormier? To help us identify which hotel we’re talking about?”

“We’re getting together a few more samples for her to look at,” said Gillis. “Also, we’ve interviewed that bicyclist. He doesn’t remember much about the man he hit. It happened so fast, he didn’t really pay attention to the face. But he does back up Miss Cormier’s recollection that the uniform jacket was green. Some shade of it, anyway. And he confirms that it happened on Congress Street, near Franklin Avenue.”

“We’ve combed that whole area,” said Sam. “Showed the sketch to every shopkeeper and clerk within a five-block radius. No one recognized the face.”

Coopersmith gave a grunt of frustration. “We’ve got the Governor arriving tomorrow afternoon. And a bomber somewhere in the city.”

“We don’t know if there’s a connection. Spectre could be targeting someone else entirely. It all depends on who hired him.”

“He may not even plan a hit at all,” suggested Gillis. “Maybe he’s finished his job. Maybe he’s left town.”

“We have to assume he’s still here,” cautioned Coopersmith. “And up to no good.”

Sam nodded in agreement. “We have twenty-four hours before the Governor’s meeting. By then, something’s bound to turn up.”

“God, I hope so,” said Coopersmith, and he rose to leave. “If there’s one thing we don’t need, it’s another bomb going off. And a dead Governor.”

“LET’S TAKE IT from the top. Measure 36.” The conductor raised his baton, brought it down again. Four beats later, the trumpets blared out the opening notes of “Wrong Side of the Track Blues,” to be joined seconds later by woodwinds and bass. Then the sax slid in, its plaintive whine picking up the melody.

“Never did understand jazz,” complained the Brant Theater manager, watching the rehearsal from the middle aisle. “Lotta sour notes if you ask me. All the instruments fighting with each other.”

“I like jazz,” said the head usher.

“Yeah, well, you like rap, too. So I don’t think much of your taste.” The manager glanced around the theater, surveying the empty seats. He noted that everything was clean, that there was no litter in the aisles. The audience tonight would be a discriminating crowd. Bunch of lawyer types. They wouldn’t appreciate sticky floors or wadded up programs in the chairs.

Just a year ago, this building had been a porn palace, showing X-rated films to an audience of nameless, faceless men. The new owner had changed all that. Now, with a little private money from a local benefactor, the Brant Theater had been rehabilitated into a live performance center, featuring stage plays and musical artists. Unfortunately, the live performances brought in fewer crowds than the porn had. The manager wasn’t surprised.

Tonight, at least, a big audience was assured — five hundred paid and reserved seats, with additional walkins expected, to benefit the local Legal Aid office. Imagine that. All those lawyers actually paying to hear jazz. He didn’t get it. But he was glad these seats would be filled.

“Looks like we may be short a man tonight,” said the head usher.

“Who?”

“That new guy you hired. You know, the one from the Agency. Showed up for work two days ago. Haven’t heard from him since. I tried calling him, but no luck.”

The manager cursed. “Can’t rely on these agency hires.”

“That’s for sure.”

“You just gotta work the crowd with four men tonight.”

“Gonna be a bear. Five hundred reserved seats and all.”

“Let some of ’em find their own seats. They’re lawyers. They’re supposed to have brains.” The manager glanced at his watch. It was six-thirty. He’d have just enough time to wolf down that corned beef sandwich in his office. “Doors open in an hour,” he said. “Better get your supper now.”

“Sure thing,” replied the head usher. He swept up the green uniform jacket from the seat where he’d left it. And, whistling, he headed up the aisle for his dinner.

AT SEVEN-THIRTY, Officer Pressler escorted Nina back to police headquarters. The building was quieter