There was nothing about a bomb.”
“We haven’t made a public statement yet.”
Robert looked up at him. “Why the hell would anyone bomb a church?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. If the wedding had taken place, dozens of people might be dead right now. Nina told me you’re the one who called it off. Why did you?”
“I just couldn’t go through with it.” Robert dropped his head in his hands. “I wasn’t ready to get married.”
“So your reason was entirely personal?”
“What else would it be?” Robert suddenly looked up with an expression of stunned comprehension. “Oh, my God. You didn’t think the bomb had something to do with me?”
“It did cross my mind. Consider the circumstances. You cancelled the wedding without warning. And then you skipped town. Of course we wondered about your motives. Whether you’d received some kind of threat and decided to run.”
“No, that’s not at all what happened. I called it off because I didn’t want to get married.”
“Mind telling me why?”
Robert’s face tightened. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he answered. Abruptly he rose from the chair and strode over to the liquor cabinet. There he poured himself a shot of Scotch and stood gulping it, not looking at Sam.
“I’ve met your fiancée,” stated Sam. “She seems like a nice woman. Bright, attractive.” I’m sure as hell attracted to her, he couldn’t help adding to himself.
“You’re asking why I left her at the altar, aren’t you?” said Robert.
“Why did you?”
Robert finished off his drink and poured himself another.
“Did you two have an argument?”
“No.”
“What was it, Dr. Bledsoe? Cold feet? Boredom?” Sam paused. “Another woman?”
Robert turned and glared at him. “This is none of your damn business. Get out of my house.”
“If you insist. But I’ll be talking to you again.” Sam crossed to the front door, then stopped and turned back. “Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt your fiancée?”
“No.”
“Anyone who’d want her dead?”
“What a ridiculous question.”
“Someone tried to run her car off the road this afternoon.”
Robert jerked around and stared at him. He looked genuinely startled. “Nina? Who did?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. It may or may not be connected to the bombing. Do you have any idea at all what’s going on? Who might try to hurt her?”
There was a split second’s hesitation before Robert answered. “No. No one I can think of. Where is she?”
“She’s in a safe place for tonight. But she can’t stay in hiding forever. So if you think of anything, give me a call. If you still care about her.”
Robert didn’t say anything.
Sam turned and left the house.
Driving home, he used his car phone to dial Gillis. His partner, predictably, was still at his desk. “The bridegroom’s back in town,” Sam told him. “He claims he has no idea why the church was bombed.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Gillis drawled.
“Anything new turn up?”
“Yeah. We’re missing a janitor.”
“What?”
“The church janitor. The one who unlocked the building this morning. We’ve been trying to track him down all evening. He never got home tonight.”
Sam felt his pulse give a little gallop of excitement. “Interesting.”
“We’ve already got an APB out. The man’s name is Jimmy Brogan. And he has a record. Petty theft four years ago and two OUI’s, that kind of stuff. Nothing major. I sent Cooley out to talk to the wife and check the house.”
“Does Brogan have any explosives experience?”
“Not that we can determine. The wife swears up and down that he’s clean. And he’s always home for dinner.”
“Give me more, Gillis. Give me more.”
“That’s all I have to give, unless you want me to slit open a vein. Right now I’m bushed and I’m going home.”
“Okay, call it a day. I’ll see you in the morning.”
All the way home, Sam’s mind was churning with facts. A cancelled wedding. A missing church janitor. An assassin in a black Ford.
And a bomb.
Where did Nina Cormier fit in this crazy thicket of events?
It was eleven-thirty when he finally arrived home. He let himself in the front door, stepped into the house, and turned on the lights. The familiar clutter greeted him. What a god-awful mess. One of these days he’d have to clean up the place. Or maybe he should just move; that’d be easier.
He walked through the living room, picking up dirty laundry and dishes as he went. He left the dishes in the kitchen sink, threw the laundry in the washing machine, and started the wash cycle. A Saturday night, and the swinging bachelor does his laundry. Wow. He stood in his kitchen, listening to the machine rumble, thinking about all the things he could do to make this house more of a home. Furniture, maybe? It was a good, sound little house, but he kept comparing it to Robert Bledsoe’s house with its Steinway piano, the sort of house any woman would be delighted to call home.
Hell, Sam wouldn’t know what to do with a woman even if one was crazy enough to move in with him. He’d been a bachelor too long, alone too long. There’d been the occasional woman, of course, but none of them had ever lasted. Too often, he had to admit, the fault lay with him. Or with his work. They couldn’t understand why any man in his right mind would actually choose to stay with this insane job of bombs and bombers. They took it as a personal affront that he wouldn’t quit the job and chose them instead.
Maybe he’d just never found a woman who made him want to quit.
And this is the result, he thought, gazing wearily at the basket of unfolded clothes. The swinging bachelor life.
He left the washing machine to finish its cycle and headed off to bed.
As usual, alone.
THE LIGHTS WERE ON at 318 Ocean View Drive. Someone was home. The Cormier woman? Robert Bledsoe? Or both of them?
