Blind Faith (25 page)

It wasn't until she merged onto the Schuylkill Expressway that she realized she was heading for the Sanders' house.

Nick's phone was ringing when he opened his front door. He picked up the receiver a split second before the machine did. "
Mcbride
."

It was Doreen, the detective who had been assigned to handle Nick's cases during his absence. "A special-delivery package arrived for you today," she said in her familiar Southern drawl. "It's from
Las Vegas
and it's marked urgent. I would have called earlier but some jerk buried it under a pile of paperwork. If I hadn't been looking for your notes on the Clover case, I wouldn't have seen it."

Nick silently thanked Quinn for putting a rush on that police report.

"Where is it now?" he asked.

"I have it with me. I didn't want anyone to get their hands on it."

"You're a doll, Doreen. Do
me
a favor, will you? Keep it safe until--"

"I'll do one better. I'll drop it off at your house after my shift."

"Not in this weather you won't."

"Your house in on my way.
Nick. Just sit tight, okay?"

Nick grinned.
"Yes, ma'am."

The special-delivery package contained a six-page police report and a videotape labeled Enrique Was
quez
Live--The Lido--January 1989.

Seated in his comfortable easy chair.
Nick picked up the report first.

The file contained basic information, some of which Nick already knew, some he didn't. Enrique's impersonations included superstars such as
Cher
, Diana Ross, Ann-Margret and Tina Turner. Sergeant Harrison had included a color photograph of Enrique in full costume as well as a couple of black-and-white glossies. Without the heavy stage makeup and fancy threads, the performer had been a handsome man with black curly hair, dark, sultry eyes and a fine, almost feminine jaw.

Until the moment Enrique had plunged a kitchen knife into his lover's heart, he had been an exemplary citizen without as much as a parking ticket to his name. But on the night of December 30, 1991, neighbors had heard Enrique and Steve arguing in their apartment on
Decatur Avenue
.
 
Marquant
, an attorney, had accused Enrique of infidelity and Enrique had retaliated by claiming his lover was neglecting him. One of the neighbors had been about to call the police when the shouting finally stopped.

The following day, alerted by a concerned coworker, the police had gone to the couple's apartment and found the attorney in the bedroom, the knife still in his chest. Prints on the knife had identified Enrique as the perpetrator, but Enrique was nowhere to be found.

Nick continued to flip through the pages, reading every interview, every statement from friends and coworkers the
Las Vegas
police department had accumulated. But it was
Syd
Webber's statement that held his attention.

The casino owner was said to have been shocked to learn that one of his main attractions, a man whose performances he had watched and enjoyed time and time again, was wanted for murder. Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to offer any clue as to his whereabouts.

With a couple of questions still unanswered. Nick called Sergeant Harrison in
Las Vegas
. "I just received your package," he said after identifying himself. "Thanks for sending it so quickly."

"I've only read the report so far, and I'm curious about something. How could Enrique have slipped out of town so easily? According to the report, he didn't own a car, and none of the airlines, bus lines or train lines had him on their manifest."

"My guess is that he had a friend here in town, someone well-connected
who
helped him buy a new identity."

Nick still thought his destination might have been
Miami
, but he wanted to know if
Harrison
felt the same way.

The detective confirmed Nick's suspicions. "
Miami
seemed like a good idea, so we started there. We thought he might get in touch with his sister, but Enrique never showed. From what
Magdalena
told us, their split some years ago was anything but amicable. To put it in her own words, she didn't give a rat's ass if her brother was alive or dead. Nor was she surprised to hear he was wanted for murder."

"She resented Enrique's lifestyle--meaning his homosexuality--and felt he'd end up badly someday." But if Nick's hunch was right,
Magdalena
and Enrique had patched up their differences long ago.

"Thanks, Sergeant. If you ever need a favor from this side of the world, just holler."

"I'll do that. Good luck.
Detective."
He laughed. "And let me know if you find our man."

After hanging up.
Nick walked over to the entertainment center and

inserted
the video into the VCR. As the strings of

"
Ain't
No Mountain High Enough" filled the room, Enrique walked on stage wearing a black beaded gown that hugged every curve, real or otherwise.
 
Voluminous black curls framed his perfectly made-up face and earrings as big as chandeliers hung from his earlobes.

Nick leaned forward. Even in close-ups, Enrique's resemblance to Diana Ross was so uncanny that if he hadn't known he was watching an impersonator, he wouldn't have guessed. Even the voice, though
an octave lower
than the former Supreme on the high notes, was astoundingly similar.

The next hour and a half brought out several transformations--
Annmargret
, Barbra Streisand, Billie Holliday,
Cher
and Tina Turner. Each time, the crowd greeted the new impersonation with thunderous applause bringing Enrique back at the end of the performance for three curtain calls.

After the tape had finished rolling.
Nick sat a long time, lost in his thoughts. From the coffee table, he picked up Enrique's most recent photograph. "Where are you, Enrique?" he murmured.

It had to be
Miami
. Just because the
Las Vegas
police department hadn't found him didn't mean he wasn't there. And after nine years, Enrique might have dropped his guard a little. All Nick needed was to come up with a flawless plan.

Nick ran the tape one more time. Halfway through Enrique's impersonation of blues singer Billie
Honi
day, a thought came to him. It was a long shot, one he rejected at first, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought it'd be worth a try.

Too upset to even force a smile, Kelly walked right past the Sanders' butler. "Good evening,
Adrian
. Is Mrs. Sanders in?"

"Not yet." If the well-mannered butler was put off by Kelly's late visit or her brusque attitude, he didn't show it. "She's in town, attending
adar
meeting."

It would have been easy enough for her to skip it, Kelly thought, or to leave early due to the weather. "What about Mr. Sanders?"

"He's having dinner with his father."
Adrian
glanced up the broad

curving
staircase. "Mrs. Bowman is in, but she retired an hour or so

ago
. I could--"

Kelly waved in dismissal. If necessary, she'd find a way of getting Victoria and Phoebe out of the house. "No, don't disturb her. It's Mrs.
 
Sanders I've come to see. I'll just wait for her in the drawing room, if you don't mind. I'll keep my coat. I'm a little chilly tonight."

"Very well.
Miss.
Robolo
."
He followed her into the room. "Could I bring you some tea?
Or coffee?
I have some of that Hawaiian
Kona
you like."

She didn't think she could get anything past her throat. It was a wonder dinner had stayed down. "I don't care for anything,
Adrian
, but thanks just the same."

He bowed and retreated quietly. Once alone, Kelly felt a sudden nudge of panic. What if she had made a mistake and Cecily was not the driver of that Lexus? What if the highly respected Daughters of the Revolution all swore that Cecily had been present at their meeting? Kelly would look like an absolute fool. She might even lose
Victoria
's friendship over this.

If only she could be certain before she accused Cecily. She looked around her, not sure what she expected to find. Her gaze came to rest on a door that had been left ajar.
Cecily's study.
Victoria
called it her aunt's inner sanctum, a sacred place where one entered by invitation only. In all the years Kelly had known Cecily, she had never set foot into that room.

Trying to appear casual, she approached slowly. Did she dare take a quick peek? It was risky.
Adrian
could come back at any moment to make sure she hadn't changed her mind about the coffee. How would she explain her presence in Cecily's office?

Her need to get to the truth outweighed her fear of getting caught. Or the brief guilt she experienced. Lou had once told her, "When an opportunity presents itself, seize it and worry about the morals of your actions later." It wasn't the most ethical advice she was ever given, but in this case she felt justified to take it.

With that thought in mind, she entered the room. Except for a low-wattage lamp on the desk, the study was in darkness. Even so, she could see that it was a lovely room, with deep burgundy walls, an ornate desk that was almost an exact replica of the one in Cecily's
Center
City
office, a secretary and a built-in mahogany bookcase occupying an entire wall.

She searched the desk first, ready to move on if the single drawer was locked. It wasn't. As she pulled it open, she tried not to look at the framed photograph of a smiling Victoria and Phoebe facing her. If her friend ever found out about this she'd never speak to Kelly again.

The contents turned out to be disappointing. Other than the standard items found in a desk drawer--paper clips, letterheads, pencils and a stapler--she found nothing of interest. A quick search of the secretary proved just as futile.

That left the wall-to-wall bookcase, which was filled with beautifully bound books, old classics she knew well. She tilted her head sideways and read the spines--Anna Karenina, Great Expectations,
La
Joie de Vivre.

She moved from section to section, not
touching,
only reading the titles. Each book was so tightly pressed against the next that it would have been impossible to fit even the thinnest sheet of paper between them. Except ... Kelly stopped.
Except right here, between War and Peace and Little Women.
There was a slight gap, hardly noticeable, but undeniably there.

With her right hand, she pulled out Tolstoy's masterpiece and slid her other hand through the vacant space. Her fingers came into contact with something hard and slick to the touch.
Another book?

Puzzled, she took it out, walked back to the desk and held it under the lamp.

Her heart gave one solid thump.

It was a book of nursery rhymes.

Thirty-One.

Kelly read the title again--Mother Goose's Book of Nursery Rhymes--before starting to flip through the pages. They were all there, the verses that had delighted her early years.

She kept turning the pages in search of two specific rhymes. Then she found them.
Tweedle
-Dum and
Tweedle
-Dee was on page nine. Her lips began to move as she read the near-forgotten rhyme.
Tweedle
Dum and
Tweedle
-Dee resolved to have a battle. For
Tweedle
-Dum said
Tweedle
-Dee had spoiled his nice new rattle.

On the next page, she found the other rhyme. Mary, Mary quite contrary ..."Kelly!"

As bright light exploded into the room, Kelly jumped. Ward stood in the doorway, the expression in his eyes a mixture of bewilderment and displeasure.

For a few seconds, Kelly couldn't find her voice. She was lost for words, rumbling to say something that wouldn't sound stupid.

Ward's gaze remained fixed on her. She wasn't even sure he had seen the book. "Ward ... I can explain."

"Then please do." His gaze shifted to the book in her hand. "What is that?"

"A book I found ..." She turned toward the built in mahogany bookcase.

"A book of nursery rhymes."

He looked puzzled. "In here?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing in Cecily's study? You know she doesn't allow anyone in here."

Kelly took a deep breath, like a high diver about to take the plunge.

Once she started there would be no turning back. "Someone tried to kill me tonight."

"Dear God! Are you all right? Did you call the police?"
His anger forgotten.
Ward walked quickly toward her, his eyes inspecting her from head to toe.

"No ... I mean, yes, I'm all right, just bruised, and no, I didn't call the police."