The Blind (14 page)

He slid his hand in his pocket, his fingers tapping the keys. “I learned it on the streets of New York,” he said.

“Spent a lot of time there?”

“A bit.”

She rested her butt on the car door. “Who are you, Jack?”

“Haven't we been down this road before?”

“Yep, and it looks like you took me on a little detour.” She crossed her legs at the ankles. “So how did you end up on the streets of New York?” For someone who looked so relaxed, she was holding on tight. She wasn't about to let go.

He settled back against the car. “After the accident, my mother couldn't look me in the eye. She didn't say it, but she blamed me for Abby's death. I picked that spot on the river. I was driving the car. And I let go.”

“More importantly, you blamed you.”

“Yeah, I did. I was beating myself up, and it got pretty bloody. A few months after the accident I finally took off. New York was close and big, the perfect place to get lost.”

“Did you get lost?”

He rubbed at the center of his forehead where life had handed him a few hard knocks. “For a while. I spent some time in some pretty ugly places, saw a lot of ugly things, did a few, too. Got in more than my share of fights. It's not a part of my past I'm proud of.”

A cloud passed over Evie's face as she stood and reached for her car keys. “We all have parts of our pasts we want to forget.”

Monday, November 2
6:02 a.m.

W
hy, there you are, Evie!” Mrs. Francis, the night clerk at the EZ-Rest Motel, set a fresh batch of muffins on the front desk counter. “I was getting ready to send out the hounds for you. You must have gotten in pretty late last night. Everything okay?”

“Everything's great,” she said. Her teammate Jon MacGregor was in town hunting down Jack's missing sister, she and Jack had tracked Vandemere to the Abby Foundation, and last night they got a visual lead from a girl who liked cats.

“You let me know if you need anything for your room,” Mrs. Francis continued. “I asked housekeeping to leave you two bottles of shampoo for all that beautiful hair of yours, and I made another batch of blueberry muffins. I saw how much you enjoyed them the other morning. I take it you're not one of those girls who's afraid of fat and sugar and gluten, are you?”

“I adore fat and sugar and gluten, especially when they taste like this.” Evie picked up an oversized muffin.

“The secret to a good blueberry muffin is lemon zest. All that sweetness needs a bit of tartness for balance.”

As Evie ducked into her car, she took a giant bite of muffin. She wasn't good at the whole balance thing as she tended to skew hard, but Mrs. Francis was clearly onto something. She'd have to get the recipe for these.

When she reached LAPD, she stopped first by the evidence room. “Got a big shoe for me?” Evie asked the clerk behind the desk.

He poked through a series of totes on a counter along the side of the wall and pulled out a plastic bag with a large blue tennis shoe, the sneaker of the man who'd taken a shot at her.

“Any fingerprints?” she asked as she signed for the evidence.

“A partial, but no matches so far,” the clerk said. “We should have DNA results back by next week.”

Little good that would do her. This was the first week of November. The bomber would strike this week.

“Thanks.” With the bagged shoe tucked under her arm she went to her office, where she found Hayden sitting on one side of her horseshoe-shaped desk and Smokey Joe on the other.

She held up the shoe. “Big or little?”

Hayden looked up from his laptop. “Big.”

She set the shoe on Smokey Joe's lap. “Big or little?”

The old man slid his gnarled fingers over the leather, laces, and sole. “Definitely big.”

She grabbed the sneaker and glared at it. “So it's likely the guy who took a potshot at me, the guy wearing this shoe, was not the same one the homeless woman, the one known as Cat Girl, saw the night Lisa Franco was abducted. She said he had medium-sized, narrow dress shoes.” A growl gurgled at the back of her throat. “Which means it's possible that the shooter has nothing to do with the Angel Bombings.”

“Think the guy shootin' at you was a mugger?” Smokey took a bite of his cinnamon roll and washed it down with a swig of coffee. “Or maybe one of them druggies. These big cities are filled with muggers and druggies.”

“The shot occurred the first day I joined the investigative team. I asked a lot of questions that day, met with a lot of people. It would make sense that the shooter was someone not too happy about my presence on the Angel Bombing task force.”

“What about that Jack fella?” Smokey asked. “Someone want to take a piece out of his hide?”

“Not that I know of.” And after last night, she understood so much more about him, especially his involvement in the case, probably one he didn't even understand. He had spent some time in dark, cold places, which was why Abby's sun was so important to him.

A head popped into the doorway. “Hey there, Smokey Joe. The line is set up, and your computer's good to go.”

Smokey hopped up and grabbed his cane. “Gotta get to work. You kids holler if you need anything.”

Evie sunk into the chair vacated by the old man. “Smokey is
working
here?”

“Two months ago Ricci set up a hotline dedicated to the Angel Bomber, and they received thousands of calls,” Hayden explained. “Smokey suggested he listen to see if he could pick up anything others may have missed.”

Because when one sense goes, others usually sharpen. “It can't hurt.”

“Yesterday Smokey listened to almost one hundred calls, and he says he's not leaving until he listens to them all or you catch the bomber.”

Evie smiled. Smokey was the type to never give up. Like all of her team. “He'd make a good Apostle.”

“I'm sure Smokey Joe would agree.” Hayden pushed back his laptop. “We should probably get Berkley to talk to the homeless woman you spoke with last night to see if she can get a sketch of Lisa Franco's abductor. Right now, the girl with the cats is our best lead.”

“Honestly, I don't think even Berkley could get something out of that girl. Not once did she look me or Jack in the eye. It was the oddest thing, holding a conversation with someone who refused to look at you. Frustrating, too, because it felt like I was missing out on part of the conversation.”

Hayden nodded. “When it comes to communication, words are overrated. Most communication is done through face and body movement. I'm not surprised she wouldn't make eye contact. It's not an uncommon behavior for people who live on the streets.”

“But why? Why couldn't I get through to her?”

“Could be a matter of societal distrust or fear, lack of confidence or low self-esteem, or a symptom of a mental disorder. Or it simply could be she decided to put on a pair of blinders last night. People very much choose what they want to see.”

Evie fired up her computer, wondering if Jon had made any inroads in finding what happened to Abby when she landed on the streets of L.A. When she looked up five minutes later, Hayden was still staring at her. “Okay, Hayden, what do you
see
?”

“Your hair. The up-do looks very nice on you.”

“It's been getting in my eyes.”

“I see.” With a half smile he turned back to his computer.

“I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“
See
things that aren't there.”

“Exactly what am I not seeing?” Hayden asked with a smile. She was still getting used to seeing her uber-serious teammate smile so much. Evie blamed it on Kate, his fiancée.

“Nothing.”

“The same nothing that has you wearing lipstick.”

“Lip balm. The air's much drier here.” Her cheeks warmed with a blush. What the hell? She never blushed. “Really, Hayden, I don't have time to talk about cosmetics with you. A clock is ticking and I have…” She tossed the shoe on her desk with disgust. “A big shoe.”

“And you're questioning if this shoe belongs to the bomber?”

“Cat Girl swears the man who was with Lisa did not have big feet.”

Hayden closed his laptop. “Time for a field trip.”

Hayden's job as a criminal profiler was to get into a killer's head and become the monster, or in this case, a shooter with big feet.

They drove the few blocks to the alley where the shooter took the first shot at her and Jack. Hayden stood just outside the mouth of the alley. “I'm standing here and spot you and Jack talking in the alley.”

“We were
arguing
in the alley.”

“Fine, arguing. It's after seven and dark. Why am I in the alley?”

“You're following me, possibly looking for a place and time to ensure I'm no longer on the case.”

“I stand here more than a minute. It's a clear shot, but I don't shoot. I'm sweating. My hands are shaking. You and Jack continue to argue. Still I don't shoot. Why?”

“You're afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Getting caught.”

“Or?”

“Actually killing someone.” Evie pinched her bottom lip. “But the bomber has no problem with murder. He shot that gallery owner in Venice.”

Hayden extended his arm with an imaginary gun. “Finally, I shoot. The shot goes high and wide. Why?”

“Because you're a lousy shot.”

“Or?”

“Because you don't want to kill. You just want to scare us away.” Evie slipped her hands in her back pockets. “This doesn't sound like the bomber. His bombs are designed to kill, to hurt, to maim. The carnage is part of his emotional satisfaction.”

“So?” Hayden asked.

“So maybe my shooter wasn't Carter Vandemere, just someone trying to scare me off.”

“That's one scenario. Know anyone like that?”

She pictured a wall of good words to live by, including,
Thou shalt not kill
.

6:45 a.m.

“Good morning, Mr. Elliott.” Claire set a six-inch stack of papers on his desk. “Here are all of the items that need to be signed or have your direct authorization.”

He hadn't stepped foot in his office for four days and hadn't done a lick of Elliott Enterprises business. Shocking to anyone who knew him. But right now, he needed to be focused on the bomber. And Abby. It was a good thing that during the past ten years, he'd managed to surround himself with the best: the best executive assistant, the best financiers, the best legal team, the best executive team. For the past four days, they'd kept the machine that was Elliott Enterprises running smoothly. He'd power through this paperwork and get back to the station. Today Evie planned to hit the streets and scout out possible locations for the bombing, and he planned on being at her side.

“The items requiring your signature are already dated and notarized where needed,” Claire added. “The German deal is in triplicate, so use a good pen.”

He reached for his desk drawer. Footsteps pounded in the hallway, and Brady jogged into his office. “Hey, good to see you. I was starting to think you and the FBI agent came to blows.”

“Are you insinuating that she knocked me out?”

“That or you popped her, which would have landed your ass in jail.”

“We're playing nicely.”

“How nicely?” Brady asked with a grin.

Jack held out his hand, motioning to the folder Brady carried. “Status on the Seattle project?”

Brady sat in the chair across from his desk. “I put a push on the planning and zoning commission, and we should get the nod next Monday, Tuesday at the latest.”

“Good work.” He opened the folder. More ducks exactly where they needed to be. “I also want you to talk with some of Matsumoto's suppliers and find out what his track record is. Then give Mats a call and ask him point-blank if he's talking to other venture firms.”

“You want
me
to talk to Matsumoto?” Brady's eyes grew bright, then clouded with wariness.

“You know our position.” Jack curled his fingers around the drawer pull.

Brady cocked his head. “You sure Agent Jimenez didn't cuff you on the head. I've seen her in action.”

There were moments Evie left him dazed, but not in this case. Brady could handle the Matsumoto deal because Jack needed to get these papers signed and then get to the police station. He jerked open the top drawer.

Click.

He reached for a pen but froze when his knuckles brushed against the small plain brown box.

Pop. Riiiiiiip.

The box shuddered.

“Down, Brady!” Jack yelled as he dived to the ground.

Monday, November 2
7:14 a.m.

J
ack's office, a sea of black and white, now sported a new color: red.

Evie ducked under the crime scene tape stretched across the door and went directly to the desk where Jack and Brady stood, Brady's face ash white and Jack's flushed in anger. An officer stood at their sides, taking statements.

“That son of a bitch,” Jack said, his lips barely moving. “He got in here, right under my nose.”

Evie assessed. No blood. No abrasions. Not a single thread snagged on his jacket. Likewise, Brady was uninjured. She picked a red tissue paper heart from his ginger hair.

“There's plenty more.” Brady jabbed a hand at Jack's desk.

Hundreds of little red tissue hearts were scattered on the glass-top desk and black marble floor.

“Exactly how did it go down?” Evie asked.

A vein in Jack's neck thickened. “I opened the desk drawer, heard a click, and the box burst open.”

In the drawer were the remains of a small brown box. The anti-movement switch must have triggered some kind of firing train inside, but lucky for Jack and Brady, the box didn't hold shrapnel, nails, or bits of barbed wire, just red, fluttery hearts.

Jack rested a knuckled hand on his desk. “What the hell was he trying to pull?”

“It's always about the message.” Evie pinched the red tissue heart between two fingers and spun it. “This is Vandemere's way of showing us some love, the cocky SOB. It's also a message for you, Jack, that he has the power to get into your inner sanctum.”

“It'll be the last time. Claire, get security on the line.”

“Yes, Mr. Elliott,” Claire said. Today Claire wasn't beige but a ghostly white.

“What I don't get was how he got in,” Brady said. “With you gone, Claire's had the office buttoned up tighter than a duck's arse.”

“Get a record of who's been through this door or using my elevator.”

Brady headed for the door, but Evie waved him back. His hair was an array of ginger spikes. “You okay?” she asked.

Brady's normally affable face remained somber. “I can honestly say that was the first time my life flashed before my eyes.”

She blamed it on the unknown. In the split second after that click, Brady knew something was coming at him, but he didn't know what and with how much force. In that sliver of moment, he didn't know if he was going to live or die. “What did you see?” she asked.

The corners of his mouth quirked. “A guy who needs to stop working weekends and get a life. Maybe a girl. Definitely a stiff drink.”

She thumped him on the back. “I'm going to get him, Brady.”

“When you do, it's okay if he loses a testicle or two.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

The crime scene techs arrived, and one motioned to Jack. “We'll need your suit, Mr. Elliott.” Good. Every member of the team knew the danger behind those paper hearts. This was no prank.

“Of course,” Jack said. “I keep a spare change of clothes in the closet.”

“I'll get it.” Evie's heart had settled back in her chest, but her blood was still amped. Like Jack, she needed to do something. The closet smelled like Jack. Rich leather and that hint of citrus. She thumbed through the silky suits.

“The dark blue one,” Jack said. “Red tie.”

She picked out the dark gray with a light gray striped shirt. No tie. She handed him the clothes. “Here you go.”

His eyes narrowed, but just as she hoped, a hint of a smile curved his lips. “At least I know what to expect from you,” he said.

Evie had told him, What you see is what you get. No surprises. No hidden agendas. She was worried for Jack's and Brady's safety and mad as hell at the bomber for slipping in under her radar.

In the reception area, Brady, who was sitting at Claire's computer, waved them over. “Just called up security records. Your office has been accessed five times in the past four days, all times by Claire.”

“True,” Claire said. “I had to get papers or file things.”

Evie motioned to the badge at Claire's waist, this one with a reprint of a painting of a child holding a dove. “Anyone have access to your badge?”

“I keep it on all the time at work.”

“And when you leave work?”

Claire's upper body bristled. “I leave it in the console of my car, but my car's always locked.”

“And so was Jack's door,” Evie said. “I'll need a list of people who've been in your car or have had access to your keys.”

The woman had aged ten years. She was thinking the same thing as everyone else in the room. If that brown paper box had been filled with one of the bombs used on the Angel victims, Jack and Brady would be dead. “Of course, Agent Jimenez.”

Jack rolled his head along his neck as if he was trying to shake off the tension.

“Come on,” she said, dipping her head toward his private elevator.

“I need to stick around until the police finish their sweep of the building.”

“No, you need to come with me. I need your eyes.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To church.”

11:11 a.m.

The gates of the True North compound stood wide open. A sandwich board sign on the shoulder of the twisting mountain read,
Healing service today!

For a moment Jack gave thanks that Evie, Brady, Claire, and no one else in the Elliott Tower was in need of healing. A bomb had gone off in his office. At his desk. Brady said his life flashed before his eyes. Jack had seen only fury.

“Looks like we won't need to invoke the name of the all-powerful executive assistant,” Evie said as he pulled onto the compound drive. She'd been casting surreptitious glances at him on the drive to Topanga Canyon as if he were about to explode. She might be onto something. After having hundreds of paper hearts explode around him, something was simmering low in his gut, at the back of his head, and center of his chest.

The faithful had gathered to pray, and by the number of cars in the parking lot, the faithful were many. Jack found a spot in an overflow lot in a dirt field. Evie had explained on the drive over that after her teammate Hayden had walked her through the shooting, she sensed the shooter wasn't their bomber, just someone trying to scare her away, and that was the same day they'd visited North.

The True North church was a big cinder-block building with no windows and a vestibule filled with stained walls instead of stained glass. Jack held open the door for Evie, and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the low lights of the main room. Inside row after row of folding chairs faced a raised stage that stretched across the width of the building, backed by a black floor-to-ceiling drape. Probably two or three hundred people, mostly senior citizens and a few students and young families, raptly watched the stage.

North stood center stage, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. “For here in His name, the blind receive sight, the lame walk, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is preached to the poor. And who are the poor?” He pounded his chest. “I am the poor. You are the poor. And only one can bring riches. Only one can heal.”

Evie and Jack slipped along the back of the building through the standing-room-only crowd and stopped near the side aisle.

“And that is the almighty savior who is right here, right now.” North held out his hands, palms facing upward.

“He thinks he's God,” Jack said against Evie's ear.

“More like one of his instruments. I went to one of these things with my great-aunt Louisa when I was in high school. She was a former opera singer having issues with her throat.”

“Was she healed?”

“She never complained again.” Evie stood on tiptoe. “Do you see him anywhere?”

Him. Their shooter. Jack despised violence, especially after his street days, but fight surged through his veins. He'd love to get his hands on the man who'd taken a shot at Evie.

“I'm sensing someone here,” North continued. “A soul in need of healing. Something to do with the chest. No, the lungs.”

A gray-haired woman cried out and jumped to her feet. A man in a white smock, one of North's lackeys, jogged down the aisle with a microphone and held it under her chin. “I was just diagnosed with COPD.”

A murmur swept over the crowd.

North held out his hands. “Come, sister, come.”

The crowd roared. Someone cried out, “Alleluia!”

The woman, steadied by the man in the white robe, joined North onstage. North placed his hands on her shoulders. “In His name you are healed.”

She collapsed to the ground. A cheer tore from the crowd. Two men in white smocks stepped out from the wings.

Evie grabbed Jack's thigh. “Guy in the smock to the right of the curtain. Brown hair. Build is right. What about the face?”

A good thirty yards away, Jack tried to get a good look, but it was too dim on that part of the stage. They hurried up the side aisle and ducked through a slit in the drapes. A trio stood around the woman with the lung disease, hands clasped in prayer. When the man with the brown hair looked up and saw them, he took off out the back door.

This time Jack didn't interfere. Evie took off and got Brother Big Shoe on the ground in less than seven seconds.