Blind Faith (18 page)

Kelly almost drove off the road. Alarmed, she threw a quick glance at her little goddaughter, whose huge hazel eyes were filled with sadness.
 
"Phoebe, why are you saying that?
Your daddy loves you very much."

"But he hasn't called me. And he always calls when he's away."

"Oh, honey." Kelly swallowed past the lump in her throat, wondering how long Phoebe had lived with this belief that her father no longer loved her. "That's because your daddy is a very busy man. And if he doesn't call you, it's because he never gets back to his hotel room until very late, when you're already in bed."

She reached for the little girl's hand and held it. "Didn't Mommy explain all this to you?"

"Yes, but ..." Tiny teeth clamped over her lower lip.

"But what, sweetie?
Tell Aunt Kelly what's bothering you."

"Daddy doesn't love Mommy anymore either."

Oh, God. For a moment, Kelly was speechless, struggling to control her own emotions. Had Phoebe overheard one of their conversations? "Why do you think that, Phoebe?" she asked at last.

"Because Mommy is always sad.
The other day I saw her crying."

Phoebe nodded. "She said she had something in her eyes, but I know she was crying."

"That's because grown-ups cry, too, for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes we even cry when we're happy. Last week, in your mommy's shop, I saw a lady cry because she had finally found a vase she had wanted for a long time."

"Very happy, crying happy."

Phoebe nodded again, as though she understood. "Mommy takes me to her shop sometime, but I can't touch anything. You know why?"

Glad the conversation was moving in a more uplifting direction, Kelly shook her head.
"No, why?"

"One day?" Phoebe said, ending her sentence like a question. "I was there? And I broke something.
A little green dog that cost a zillion dollars."

Kelly smiled. This week, Phoebe only counted in zillions. The week before, it had been trillions.
"Oh, my."

"I started to cry, but Mommy didn't get mad. She said it was an accident."

Kelly laughed. "I know what that feels like. When I was your age, I had lots of accidents." Curiosity burned bright in the child's eyes.

"Once I broke Connie's piano. The one she has in the restaurant's dining room?"

Phoebe gasped. "Did Connie spank you?"

Kelly shook her head. "No. Connie never spanked me."

"But I bet you didn't get any Italian chocolates that day, did you?"

"That day?
Are you kidding? I didn't get Italian chocolates for a whole

month
!""

Phoebe laughed and the sound of it warmed Kelly's heart. More than ever now, she was determined to find Jonathan and bring him back to his little girl--safe and sound.

Twenty.

Ronny, it's me." In the empty dining room of
San
Remo
, Kelly glanced toward the kitchen where Connie was preparing Phoebe's favorite lunch--bow-tie pasta with Bolognese sauce--before continuing. "Why are you whispering?" her brother asked.

"Because I'm at the restaurant and I don't want Ma to hear me."

He laughed. "What have you done now?"

"Nothing."

"Liar.
I talked to Ma. She told me about Jonathan and what you're up to."

"I'm sure she made it sound worse than it is."

"I don't know, sis. Why don't you tell me how it is? That way I can judge for myself."

"For one thing, I have help.
Detective
Mcbride
of the PPD."

A hot flush climbed to Kelly's cheeks. "I do not have the
hots
for Nick.

What gave you that crazy idea?"

"You, actually, and the way you talked about him in the hospital."

"All I said was that Nick was justified in being angry with me." She wondered what Ronny would say if she told him that earlier today Nick had seen her naked.

"All right, so if Nick
Mcbride
is helping you find
Victoria
's husband, how did you manage to get yourself in trouble?"

He had always been like that, intuitive and direct, even as a kid. It was annoying as hell. "I need you to do me a favor."

"Invite Ma to come to
Atlanta
for a couple of weeks."

He was silent for several seconds. When he spoke again the light bantering tone was gone. "What's going on, Kelly? Why do you want her out of Philly?"

Kelly hesitated, but there was no way of escaping the truth. If she wanted Ronny's help, she had to level with him. "I've been receiving threatening notes. And I'm afraid that whoever is sending them might hurt Ma."

He didn't chastise her, and he didn't lecture. Instead, he said, "She won't come, Kelly."

"She will if she thinks you really want her there."

"We're in the middle of a snow blizzard. She knows I'd never ask her to fly in this weather."

"Tell her you need her. Tell her you're having problems with Angie and you need her advice." Nothing brought an Italian mother to the rescue faster than a son with marital problems.

"Are you crazy? Angie would kill me if she knew I used her that way."

"You think of something then."

"Christ." She could almost see him raking his fingers through his thick black hair--their father's hair. "Okay, give me a little time to come up with an idea."

"Thanks, Ronny. You're a doll."

When Nick arrived back at the Roundhouse, the first thing he saw on his desk was an envelope marked confidential and bearing the seal of the Miami Police Department. Quinn had come through for him and sent him that background check on
Magdalena
.

He tore the flap, pulled out three neatly typed sheets and started to read.

Magdalena Montoya, born Teresa Vasquez, had left her native
Puerto Rico
with her parents and her ten year-old brother, Enrique, when she was four. While Teresa was still in high school, she and Enrique went into show business. Teresa sang and danced while her brother did impersonations of famous female celebrities. Apparently they were good enough to land a few gigs in local nightclubs on weekends and get favorably reviewed by one or two newspapers.

The partnership lasted two years. In 1981, brother and sister split up and went their separate ways. Teresa changed her name to Magdalena Montoya, began dating wealthy men and eventually married one of them, for a brief period. It wasn't until after her divorce that she returned to show business.

But in spite of her good looks, her career never really took off. She tried acting for a while, appeared in a couple of shows and quit after scathing reviews. According to her landlord, she never missed a rent payment, not even when she was unemployed.

Apparently money was not a
problem,
thanks perhaps to the many wealthy boyfriends she entertained throughout the year.

She was hired at Salamander as an exotic dancer in 1998 and left that job a year later.

As his sister struggled with her nagging career, En
rique
was making quite a name for himself in
Las Vegas
. After several menial jobs in various casinos, he had returned to his first love, impersonating celebrities. In 1985, three years after arriving in the gambling town, the
Lido
signed Enrique for a six-week engagement. Practically overnight, Enrique Vasquez became a household name, with every casino in town fighting to have him appear on their stage.

Then in December 1991, at the peak of his career, Enrique stabbed and killed his live-in lover, a young attorney by the name of Steve
Marquant
, and skipped town before the police could stop him.

The report ended there, but Quinn had added a handwritten note: I figured you might be interested in the brother, so I asked Sergeant Andy
Hamson
of the Las Vegas PD to send you a copy of the police report along with a tape of one of Enrique's
Las Vegas
performances. You can buy me a beer next time you're in town.

Nick dropped the file on his desk and leaned back in his chair. Quinn was right. Nick was interested in the brother, not only because he was wanted by the police, but because of the destination he had chosen after leaving
Miami
.
Las Vegas
.
The town where
Syd
Webber had lived for many years before moving to
Atlantic City
.

More than mildly curious now.
Nick walked over to the file cabinet and flipped through the folders until he found the one he wanted.
At the time of his father's death.
Nick had gathered enough information on
Syd
Webber to fill a book. If challenged, he probably could have recited the man's life in chronological order with his eyes closed, but it wouldn't hurt to refresh his memory.

The answer he was looking for was on the third page.
Syd
Webber had moved to
Las Vegas
from his hometown of
Hoboken
,
New Jersey
, in the spring of 1969. One of his first jobs had been at the Lido Hotel and Casino, where he had worked first as a bouncer, then as night clerk and finally as bookkeeper. It was during his stint as bookkeeper that
Alister
Graham, the owner of the casino, had noticed the young man's potential and quickly moved him up the ranks.

In 1990, when a
Lake Tahoe
skiing accident took Graham's life, Webber inherited not only the casino, but Graham's entire fortune as well.

The
Lido
.
The same establishment where Enrique had first performed after arriving in
Las Vegas
.
Well, well. Nick smiled. Wasn't that interesting?

His thoughts now on a single track.
Nick picked up a pencil and started writing down the names of the principal players in this exciting little drama-Enrique,
Magdalena
, Webber. Halfway down the page, he wrote Patrick
Mcbride
, Jonathan Bowman,
Syd
Webber. It didn't take a mathematical genius to see that both entries had one common denominator.
 
Syd
Webber.

He wondered if Webber and Enrique had kept in touch, or if Enrique had tried to get a booking at
Syd's
new casino, maybe under another name.

No, too risky. Enrique was on the lam. He wouldn't be crazy enough to get on a stage when there was still an outstanding warrant against him.

But the thought had wormed its way into Nick's head and he couldn't let it go. He thought of going to
Atlantic City
and questioning
Syd
Webber,
then
talked himself out of it. That lying bastard would sell his own mother before he told one ounce of truth. But there was one person in Atlantic City Nick trusted implicitly--Joe
Massino
. As his father's best friend, Joe had been one of the first people to arrive on the murder scene. In spite of his heavy schedule following his immediate promotion to chief of security, Joe had found time to help Nick with his investigation. He'd be there for him again.

Twenty-One.

Joe
Massino
hadn't changed much over the last twelve months. He still had that same thick, stocky figure, coarse gray hair and acne-marked face that had scared the daylights out of Nick when he was a kid.

As the
Chenonceau's
new chief of security crossed the lobby of the casino.
Nick couldn't help noticing a few changes--an air of self-confidence that hadn't been there before, a certain ease of movement, and eyes that recaptured the old humor Joe was known for.

Things had worked out well for his father's old friend, and Nick was glad. Joe was one of the world's truly good guys and he couldn't think of anyone who could have filled his father's shoes better than he.

"Hey, kid." In the same playful manner Nick remembered from the old days, Joe put up his two fists close to his face and feigned a couple of jabs before grabbing Nick and squeezing him into a huge bear hug. "How have you been?"

Nick returned the embrace. "Just fine, Joe."

"So, why don't you come down more often, huh?" He gave him a tap on the back before releasing him. "I can't even remember the last time I saw you."

"I'm sorry. I've been meaning to call." Together they started walking toward Joe's office in back of the lobby, the same one Nick's father had occupied for six years.

"You're a busy man, I know. I was just giving you a hard time." At the door, Joe
stopped,
his eyes misty. "Jesus, it's hard for me to look at you and not see your father. You look just like him when he was your age.
Except you're bigger."
He put up his fists again. "You still box?"

Nick laughed. "I'm getting too old for that."

"Ah, don't give me that." He opened the door and waved Nick inside.

"Here, have a seat." He took a stack of newspapers from a chair and dropped it on the floor. "Don't mind the mess. I can't keep up with all the stuff I get every day. I don't know how your father did it. He was neat as a pin."

Nick looked around him, remembering his father behind that old wooden desk. Joe hadn't changed a thing. He had even kept the group picture of him and Patrick at their graduation from the police academy some forty years ago.

"You want something to drink?" Joe asked. "The coffee is still crummy, but there's a soda machine outside."

"Nothing for me, thanks."

Joe folded his arms across his massive chest and leaned his backside against the desk. "What's up, kid?
Something bothering you?"

"You know me too well, Joe."

"That's because I've known you since you were a little tyke. You were terrified of my boxing gloves. You remember that?"

Nick didn't, though he had heard the story a million times from Joe and his father. Both had forgotten he had been too young to remember his legendary crying fits every time Joe put on his gloves. Nick always played along, just to make them happy. "Of course I do," he lied. "I ran out of your house screaming every time."

"You weren't scared for long, though, were you? You took to those gloves

in
no time." Joe's expression turned wistful. "I'll never forget the day

you
won the Golden Gloves for
Eastern Pennsylvania
. Your father went

wild
, yelling like a madman, "That's my kid! That's my kid!""

"And what about you?"
Nick said with a laugh. "If I recall, you were yelling louder than he was."

"Ah." Joe sniffed, as if the memories were too much for him. "I was proud of you, kid. Still am." His face turned serious. "So what's up?"

Nick met his gaze. "I've decided to reinvestigate my father's death."

The change in the old cop was barely noticeable, but Nick didn't miss the slight tensing of his shoulders and the sudden wariness in his eyes.

His reaction didn't come as a surprise. Like Nick's sister, Joe had been concerned that what had started as an investigation had turned into an obsession for Nick. In a way, it had.

"Why?" Joe asked after a few long seconds.

Nick answered with a question of his own. "What do you know about Jonathan Bowman's disappearance?"

"Not much except what I heard."

"And what's that?"

"Rumors mostly.
At first, everyone thought Bowman had been abducted.

Then, when they couldn't think of a reason for the abduction, they claimed he was involved with a woman, or had started messing around with some really bad characters. Me?" He shrugged. "I think the guy's going through some kind of mid life crisis. Give him a week or two, one month tops, and he'll be back, hopefully with his head screwed on right."

Nick leaned back in his chair and propped his ankle on one knee. "I have a different theory. I'm kind of surprised you didn't think of it."

Joe spread his arms wide. "What can I tell you? I'm getting old, and I'm not as sharp as I used to be."

Nick didn't believe that for a minute. "I think there's a connection between Bowman's disappearance and my father's death."

The wariness in those shrewd old eyes intensified. "That's crazy. Nick.

Those two didn't even know each other. They said hello when they crossed paths, but that's about it. Patrick only answered to
Syd
Web-
her ,
just as I do now. He never had much to do with Bowman."

"Two unsolved incidents involving the
Chenon
ceau's
employees within twelve months.
Doesn't that make you curious?"

"Your father's death was solved."

"Not to my satisfaction."

"And we both know you're too damn stubborn to listen to the advice of an old man, so I'll spare you the sermon. Just tell me what I can do."

That was what Nick had been waiting to hear. "Tell me what you know about Jonathan Bowman."

Joe scratched his head. "Jesus, there's not much to tell. I hardly know the guy. From what I see and hear, he's friendly, always has a pleasant word for the staff and he's a hard worker."

"Did you have a chance to run into him the last few days before he disappeared?"

"Sure.
Once or twice."