As they approached the police line, the officer in charge turned to them with a look of relief. “Navarro! Glad you could make it to the party.”
“Any casualties?” asked Sam.
“None, as far as we know. The church was unoccupied at the time. Pure luck. There was a wedding scheduled for two, but it was cancelled at the last minute.”
“Whose wedding?”
“Some doctor’s. The bride’s sitting over there in the patrol car. She and the minister witnessed the blast from the parking lot.”
“I’ll talk to her later,” said Sam. “Don’t let her leave. Or the minister, either. I’m going to check the building for a second device.”
“Better you than me.”
Sam donned body armor made of overlapping steel plates encased in nylon. He also carried a protective mask, to be worn in case a second bomb was identified. A bomb tech, similarly garbed, stood by the front door awaiting orders to enter the building. Gillis would wait outside near the truck; his role this time around was to fetch tools and get the bomb carrier ready.
“Okay,” Sam said to the technician. “Let’s go.”
They stepped through the gaping front entrance.
The first thing Sam noticed was the smell—strong and faintly sweet. Dynamite, he thought. He recognized the odor of its aftermath. The force of the blast had caused the pews at the rear to topple backward. At the front, near the altar, the pews had been reduced to splinters. All the stained glass panels were broken, and where the windows faced south, hazy sunlight shone in through the empty frames.
Without a word between them, Sam and the tech automatically split up and moved along opposite sides of the nave. The site would be more thoroughly searched later; this time around, their focus was only on locating any second bombs. The death of Marty Pickett still weighed heavily on Sam’s conscience, and he wasn’t about to let any other officers enter this building until he had cleared it.
Moving in parallel, the two men paced the nave, their eyes alert for anything resembling an explosive device. All the debris made it a slow search. As they moved forward, the damage visibly worsened, and the odor of exploded dynamite grew stronger. Getting closer, he thought. The bomb was planted somewhere around here….
In front of the altar, at a spot where the first row of pews would have stood, they found the crater. It was about three feet across and shallow; the blast had ripped through the carpet and pad, but had barely chipped the concrete slab below. A shallow crater was characteristic of a low-velocity blast—again, compatible with dynamite.
They would take a closer look at it later. They continued their search. They finished with the nave and progressed to the hallways, the dressing rooms, the restrooms. No bombs. They went into the annex and surveyed the church offices, the meeting rooms, the Sunday school classroom. No bombs. They exited through a rear door and searched the entire outside wall. No bombs.
Satisfied at last, Sam returned to the police line, where Gillis was waiting. There he took off the body armor. “Building’s clean,” Sam said. “We got the searchers assembled?”
Gillis gestured to the six men waiting near the bomb carrier truck. There were two patrolmen and four crime lab techs, each one clutching empty evidence bags. “They’re just waiting for the word.”
“Let’s get the photographer in there first, then send the team in. The crater’s up front, around the first row of pews on the right.”
“Dynamite?”
Sam nodded. “If I can trust my nose.” He turned and eyed the crowd of gawkers. “I’m going to talk to the witnesses. Where’s the minister?”
“They just took him off to the ER. Chest pains. All that stress.”
Sam gave an exasperated sigh. “Did anyone talk to him?”
“Patrolman did. We have his statement.”
“Okay,” said Sam. “I guess that leaves me with the bride.”
“She’s still waiting in the patrol car. Her name’s Nina Cormier.”
“Cormier. Gotcha.” Sam ducked under the yellow police line and worked his way through the gathering of onlookers. Scanning the official vehicles, he spotted a silhouette in the front passenger seat of one of the cars. The woman didn’t move as he approached; she was staring straight ahead like some wedding store mannequin. He leaned forward and tapped on the window.
The woman turned. Wide dark eyes stared at him through the glass. Despite the smudged mascara, the softly rounded feminine face was undeniably pretty. Sam motioned to her to roll down the window. She complied.
“Miss Cormier? I’m Detective Sam Navarro, Portland police.”
“I want to go home,” she said. “I’ve talked to so many cops already. Please, can’t I just go home?”
“First I have to ask you a few questions.”
“A few?”
“All right,” he admitted. “It’s more like a lot of questions.”
She gave a sigh. Only then did he see the weariness in her face. “If I answer all your questions, Detective,” she said, “will you let me go home?”
“I promise.”
“Do you keep your promises?”
He nodded soberly. “Always.”
She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “Right,” she muttered. “Men and their promises.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, never mind.”
He circled around the car, opened the door, and slid in behind the wheel. The woman next to him said nothing; she just sat there in resigned silence. She seemed almost swallowed up by those frothy layers of white satin. Her hairdo was coming undone and silky strands of black hair hung loose about her shoulders. Not at all the happy picture of a bride, he thought. She seemed stunned, and very much alone.
Where the hell was the groom?
Stifling an instinctive rush of sympathy, he reached for his notebook and flipped it open to a blank page. “Can I have your full name and address?”
The answer came out in a bare whisper. “Nina Margaret Cormier, 318 Ocean View Drive.”
He wrote it down. Then he looked at her. She was still staring straight down at her lap. Not at him. “Okay, Miss Cormier,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”
* * *
SHE WANTED TO GO HOME. She had been sitting in this patrol car for an hour and a half now, had talked to three different cops, had answered all their questions. Her wedding was a shambles, she’d barely escaped with her life, and those people out there on the street kept staring at her as though she were some sort of sideshow freak.
And this man, this cop with all the warmth of a codfish, expected her to go through it again?
“Miss Cormier,” he sighed. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can leave. What, exactly, happened?”
“It blew up,” she said. “Can I go home?”
“What do you mean by blew up?”
“There was a loud boom. Lots of smoke and broken windows. I’d say it was your typical exploding building.”
“You mentioned smoke. What color was the smoke?”
“What?”
“Was it black? White?”
“Does it matter?”
“Just answer the question, please.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “It was white, I think.”
“You think?”
“All right. I’m sure.” She turned to look at him. For the first time she really focused on his face. If he’d been smiling, if there’d been even a trace of warmth, it would have been a pleasant enough face to look at. He was in his late thirties. He had dark brown hair that was about two weeks overdue for a trim. His face was thin, his teeth were perfect, and his deep-set green eyes had the penetrating gaze one expected of a romantic lead movie cop. Only this was no movie cop. This was an honest-to-goodness cop with a badge, and he wasn’t in the least bit charming. He was studying her with a completely detached air, as though sizing up her reliability as a witness.
She gazed back at him, thinking, Here I
am, the rejected bride. He’s probably wondering what’s wrong with me. What terrible flaws I possess that led to my being stood up at the altar.
She buried her fists in the white satin mounded on her lap. “I’m sure the smoke was white,” she said tightly. “For whatever difference that makes.”
“It makes a difference. It indicates a relative absence of carbon.”
“Oh. I see.” Whatever that told him.
“Were there any flames?”
“No. No flames.”
“Did you smell anything?”
“You mean like gas?”
“Anything at all?”
She frowned. “Not that I remember. But I was outside the building.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Reverend Sullivan and I were sitting in his car. In the parking lot around the side. So I wouldn’t have smelled the gas. Anyway, natural gas is odorless. Isn’t it?”
“It can be difficult to detect.”
“So it doesn’t mean anything. That I didn’t smell it.”
“Did you see anyone near the building prior to the explosion?”
“There was Reverend Sullivan. And some of my family. But they all left earlier.”
“What about strangers? Anyone you don’t know?”
“No one was inside when it happened.”
“I’m referring to the time prior to the explosion, Miss Cormier.”
“Prior?”
“Did you see anyone who shouldn’t have been there?”
She stared at him. He gazed back at her, green eyes absolutely steady. “You mean—are you thinking—”
He didn’t say anything.
“It wasn’t a gas leak?” she said softly.
“No,” he said. “It was a bomb.”
She sank back, her breath escaping in a single shocked rush. Not an accident, she thought. Not an accident at all….
“Miss Cormier?”
Wordlessly she looked at him. Something about the way he was watching her, that flat, emotionless gaze of his, made her frightened.
“I’m sorry to have to ask you this next question,” he said. “But you understand, it’s something I have to pursue.”
She swallowed. “What…what question?”
“Do you know of anyone who might want you dead?”
Two
“This is crazy,” she said. “This is absolutely nuts.”
“I have to explore the possibility.”
“What possibility? That the bomb was meant for me?”
“Your wedding was scheduled for two o’clock. The bomb went off at 2:40. It exploded near the front row of pews. Near the altar. There’s no doubt in my mind, judging by the obvious force of the blast, that you and your entire wedding party would have been killed. Or, at the very least, seriously maimed. This is a bomb we’re talking about, Miss Cormier. Not a gas leak. Not an accident. A bomb. It was meant to kill someone. What I have to find out is, who was the target?”
She didn’t answer. The possibilities were too horrible to even contemplate.
“Who was in your wedding party?” he asked.
She swallowed. “There was…there was…”
“You and Reverend Sullivan. Who else?”
“Robert—my fiancé. And my sister Wendy. And Jeremy Wall, the best man….”
“Anyone else?”
“My father was going to give me away. And there was a flower girl and a ring bearer…”
“I’m only interested in the adults. Let’s start with you.”
Numbly she shook her head. “It—it wasn’t me. It couldn’t be me.”
“Why couldn’t it?”
“It’s impossible.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because no one would want me dead!”
Her sharp cry seemed to take him by surprise. For a moment he was silent. Outside, on the street, a uniformed cop turned and glanced at them. Sam responded with an everything’s fine wave of the hand, and the cop turned away again.
Nina sat clutching the rumpled hem of her gown. This man was horrid. Sam Spade without a trace of human warmth. Though it was getting hot in the car, she found herself shivering, chilled by the lack of obvious emotion displayed by the man sitting beside her.
“Can we explore this a little more?” he said.
She said nothing.
“Do you have any ex-boyfriends, Miss Cormier? Anyone who might be unhappy about your marriage?”
“No,” she whispered.
“No ex-boyfriends at all?”
“Not—not in the last year.”
“Is that how long you’ve been with your fiancé? A year?”
“Yes.”
“His full name and address, please.”
“Robert David Bledsoe, M.D., 318 Ocean View Drive.”
“Same address?”
“We’ve been living together.”
“Why was the wedding cancelled?”
“You’d have to ask Robert.”
“So it was his decision? To call off the wedding?”
“As the expression goes, he left me at the altar.”
“Do you know why?”
She gave a bitter laugh. “I’ve come to the earth-shattering conclusion, Detective, that the minds of men are a complete mystery to me.”
“He gave you no warning at all?”
“It was just as unexpected as that…” She swallowed. “As that bomb. If that’s what it was.”
“What time was the wedding called off?”
“About one-thirty. I’d already arrived at the church, wedding gown and all. Then Jeremy—Robert’s best man—showed up with the note. Robert didn’t even have the nerve to tell me himself.” She shook her head in disgust.
“What did the note say?”
“That he needed more time. And he was leaving town for a while. That’s all.”
“Is it possible Robert had any reason to—”
“No, it’s not possible!” She looked him straight in the eye. “You’re asking if Robert had something to do with it. Aren’t you?”
“I keep an open mind, Miss Cormier.”
“Robert’s not capable of violence. For God’s sake, he’s a doctor!”
“All right. For the moment, we’ll let that go. Let’s look at other possibilities. I take it you’re employed?”
“I’m a nurse at Maine Medical Center.”
“Which department?”
“Emergency room.”
“Any problems at work? Any conflicts with the rest of the staff?”
“No. We get along fine.”
“Any threats? From your patients, for instance?”
She made a sound of exasperation. “Detective, wouldn’t I know if I had enemies?”
“Not necessarily.”
“You’re trying your damn best to make me feel paranoid.”
“I’m asking you to step back from yourself. Examine your personal life. Think of all the people who might not like you.”
Nina sank back in the seat. All the people who might not like me. She thought of her family. Her older sister Wendy, with whom she’d never been close. Her mother Lydia, married to her wealthy snob of a husband. Her father George, now on his fourth wife, a blond trophy bride who considered her husband’s offspring a nuisance. It was one big, dysfunctional family, but there were certainly no murderers among them.
She shook her head. “No one, Detective. There’s no one.”
After a moment he sighed and closed his notebook. “All right, Miss Cormier. I guess that’s all for now.”
“For now?”
“I’ll probably have other questions. After I talk to the rest of the wedding party.” He opened the car door, got out and pushed the door shut. Through the open window he said, “If you think of anything, anything at all, give me a call.” He scribbled in his notebook and handed her the torn page with his name, Detective Samuel I. Navarro, and a phone number. “It’s my direct line,” he said. “I can also be reached twenty-four hours a
day through the police switchboard.”
“Then…I can go home now?”
“Yes.” He started to walk away.
“Detective Navarro?”
He turned back to her. She had not realized how tall he was. Now, seeing his lean frame at its full height, she wondered how he’d ever fit in the seat beside her. “Is there something else, Miss Cormier?” he asked.
“You said I could leave.”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t have a ride.” She nodded toward the bombed-out church. “Or a phone either. Do you think you could give my mother a call? To come get me?”
“Your mother?” He glanced around, obviously anxious to palm off this latest annoyance. Finally, with a look of resignation, he circled around to her side of the car and opened the door. “Come on. We can go in my car. I’ll drive you.”
“Look, I was only asking you to make a call.”
“It’s no trouble.” He extended his hand to help her out. “I’d have to go by your mother’s house anyway.”
“My mother’s house? Why?”
“She was at the wedding. I’ll need to talk to her, too. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
What a gallant way to put it, she thought.
He was still reaching out to her. She ignored his outstretched hand. It was a struggle getting out of the car, since her train had wrapped itself around her legs, and she had to kick herself free of the hem. By the time she’d finally extricated herself from the car, he was regarding her with a look of amusement. She snatched up her train and whisked past him in a noisy rustle of satin.
“Uh, Miss Cormier?”
“What?” she snapped over her shoulder.
“My car’s in the other direction.”
She halted, her cheeks flushing. Mr. Detective was actually smiling now, a full-blown ate-the-canary grin.
“It’s the blue Taurus,” he pointed out. “The door’s unlocked. I’ll be right with you.” He turned and headed away, toward the gathering of cops.
Nina flounced over to the blue Taurus. There she peered in disgust through the window. She was supposed to ride in this car? With that mess? She opened the door. A paper cup tumbled out. On the passenger floor was a crumpled McDonald’s bag, more coffee cups and a two-day-old Portland Press Herald. The backseat was buried under more newspapers, file folders, a briefcase, a suit jacket and—of all things—a baseball mitt.