Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower: Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower. Tess Gerritsen
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and sank into a chair behind his desk, where he sat wearily rubbing his face.
“How’s the minister doing?”
“Fine, so far. Doctors doubt it’s a heart attack. But they’ll keep him in for a day, just to be sure.”
“He didn’t have any ideas about the bombing?”
“Claims he has no enemies. And everyone I talked to seems to agree that Reverend Sullivan is a certifiable saint.” Groaning, Sam leaned back. “How ‘bout you?”
Gillis peeled off the hamburger wrapper and began to eat as he talked. “I interviewed the best man, the matron of honor and the florist. No one saw anything.”
“What about the church janitor?”
“We’re still trying to locate him. His wife says he usually gets home around six. I’ll send Cooley over to talk to him.”
“According to Reverend Sullivan, the janitor opens the front doors at 7:00 a.m. And the doors stay open all day. So anyone could’ve walked in and left a package.”
“What about the night before?” asked Gillis. “What time did he lock the doors?”
“The church secretary usually locks up. She’s a part-timer. Would’ve done it around 6:00 p.m. Unfortunately, she left for vacation this morning. Visiting family in Massachusetts. We’re still trying to get hold of…” He paused.
Gillis’s telephone was ringing. Gillis turned to answer it. “Yeah, what’s up?”
Sam watched as his partner scribbled something on a notepad, then passed it across the desk. Trundy Point Road was written on the paper.
A moment later, Gillis said, “We’ll be there,” and hung up. He was frowning.
“What is it?” asked Sam.
“Report just came in from one of the mobile units. It’s about the bride. The one at the church today.”
“Nina Cormier?”
“Her car just went off the road near Trundy Point.”
Sam sat up straight in alarm. “Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. They wouldn’t have called us at all, but she insisted they notify us.”
“For an accident? Why?” “She says it wasn’t an accident. She says someone tried to run her off the road.”
HER RIBS HURT, her shoulder was sore, and her face had a few cuts from flying glass. But at least her head was perfectly clear. Clear enough for her to recognize the man stepping out of that familiar blue Taurus that had just pulled up at the scene. It was that sullen detective, Sam Navarro. He didn’t even glance in her direction.
Through the gathering dusk, Nina watched as he spoke to a patrolman. They conversed for a few moments. Then, together, the two men tramped through the underbrush to view the remains of her car. As Sam paced a slow circle around the battered Honda, Nina was reminded of a stalking cat. He moved with an easy, feline grace, his gaze focused in complete concentration. At one point he stopped and crouched to look at something on the ground. Then he rose to his feet and peered more closely at the driver’s window. Or what was left of the window. He prodded the broken glass, then opened the door and climbed into the front seat. What on earth was he looking for? She could see his dark hair bobbing in and out of view. Now he seemed to be crawling all over the interior, and into the back seat. It was a good thing she had nothing to hide in there. She had no doubt that the sharp-eyed Detective Navarro could spot contraband a mile away.
At last he reemerged from her car, his hair tousled, his trousers wrinkled. He spoke again to the patrolman. Then he turned and looked in her direction.
And began to walk toward her.
At once she felt her pulse quickening. Something about this man both fascinated and frightened her. It was more than just his physical presence, which was impressive enough. It was also the way he looked at her, with a gaze that was completely neutral. That inscrutability unnerved her. Most men seemed to find Nina attractive, and they would at least make an attempt to be friendly.
This man seemed to regard her as just another homicide victim in the making. Worth his intellectual interest, but that was all.
She straightened her back and met his gaze without wavering as he approached.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“A few bruises. A few cuts. That’s all.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to go to the ER? I can drive you.”
“I’m fine. I’m a nurse, so I think I’d know.”
“They say doctors and nurses make the worst patients. I’ll drive you to the hospital. Just to be sure.”
She gave a disbelieving laugh. “That sounds like an order.”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
“Detective, I really think I’d know if I was…”
She was talking to his back. The man had actually turned his back to her. He was already walking away, toward his car. “Detective!” she called.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“I don’t—This isn’t—” She sighed. “Oh, never mind,” she muttered, and followed him to his car. There was no point arguing with the man. He’d just turn his back on her again. As she slid into the passenger seat, she felt a sharp stab of pain in her chest. Maybe he was right after all. She knew it could take hours, or even days, for injuries to manifest themselves. She hated to admit it, but Mr. Personality was probably right about this trip to the ER.
She was too uncomfortable to say much as they drove to the hospital. It was Sam who finally broke the silence.
“So, can you tell me what happened?” he asked.
“I already gave a statement. It’s all in the police report. Someone ran me off the road.”
“Yes, a black Ford, male driver. Maine license plate.”
“Then you’ve been told the details.”
“The other witness said he thought it was a drunk driver trying to pass you on the hill. He didn’t think it was deliberate.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“When did you first see the Ford?”
“Somewhere around Smugglers Cove, I guess. I noticed that it seemed to be following me.”
“Was it weaving? Show any signs of driver impairment?”
“No. It was just…following me.”
“Could it have been behind you earlier?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Is it possible it was there when you left your mother’s house?”
She frowned at him. He wasn’t looking at her, but was staring straight ahead. The tenor of his questions had taken a subtle change of course. He had started out sounding noncommittal. Maybe even skeptical. But this last question told her he was considering a possibility other than a drunk driver. A possibility that left her suddenly chilled.
“Are you suggesting he was waiting for me?”
“I’m just exploring the possibilities.”
“The other policeman thought it was a drunk driver.”
“He has his opinion.”
“What’s your opinion?”
He didn’t answer. He just kept driving in that maddeningly calm way of his. Did the man ever show any emotion? Once, just once, she’d like to