Keeper of the Bride

“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

“We 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.”

“THERE. THE 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.