The Blind (21 page)

Thursday, November 5
11:11 a.m.

I
want a list of every employee on payroll and every person who's been issued a visitor's pass in the past year,” Jack told Claire.

His words came out calm and measured, but Evie saw the rolled-up cuffs and thin line of sweat along his hairline as he paced in her office at LAPD. From the very beginning Evie knew they were looking for someone with intimate knowledge of the
Beauty Through the Ages
collection, so she wasn't surprised that the person calling himself Carter Vandemere was most likely an employee of Elliott Enterprises.

Giving Jack some privacy, she ducked into Hayden's office down the hall and let out a squeal. “Kate!” Evie threw her arms around Hayden's fiancée. “Here to help catch another serial killer?”

“I'll leave that up to the experts.” Kate returned the hug.

Evie held Kate at arm's length. “You look fantastic, positively glowing. Is it the new job or the shine from your new engagement ring?” She grabbed Kate's hand and held the giant rock up to the light and whistled.

“Probably a bit of both.”

Hayden ran into the room, his jacket off and tie folded back over his shoulder. “The beat officer near the bus stop hasn't seen anything, either.”

Kate's teeth dug into her bottom lip.

“Seen what?” Evie asked.

A looked passed between Hayden and Kate.

“What is it? Something to do with Vandemere?”

“Nothing to do with the case,” Hayden assured her.

She looked from Hayden to Kate, her boot tip beating a tattoo on the floor.

“It's Smokey Joe,” Kate finally said.

“He's missing,” Hayden finished for her.

Evie's boot stilled. “And you planned to keep this from me?” she belted out.

“I didn't want to distract you from the investigation,” Hayden said.

“Distract me? That's ridiculous. Where was Smokey last seen?”

“The front desk clerk at the hotel reported seeing him sitting on a lawn chair near the pool and gardens early this morning.”

“And then?”

“Gone.” Kate's voice cracked.

“Are you saying he just walked out onto the streets of downtown Los Angeles?” Evie asked with wide eyes.

“This is the sightless man who thinks he can drive a car,” Hayden reminded her.

“I'll say something to Ricci. He has dozens of men combing the downtown area, and we'll have them keep their eyes open for a cranky old blind man with a burr up his butt.”

1:04 p.m.

Evie rested her chin on her fisted hands and stared at the envelope. Carter Vandemere had dotted the
i
on her name with a heart. On a sketch pad in his art studio of terror, he'd drawn her body, or at least his perception of it, in lush, curvy detail.

“You're thinking,” Ricci said. They'd just finished the daily task force meeting, but no one was eager to leave the room.

“I've been known to do that on occasion.” She tossed the envelope to Ricci. “Jack's right. I'm involved on a very personal level, compliments of Carter Vandemere. So I've been asking myself, why me?”

“And?” Ricci asked.

“Jack. It always comes back to Jack,” Evie said. “Vandemere used Jack's prized art collection as the basis for mass murder and destruction. He set the paper heart bomb in Jack's desk, and he placed the IED in Brady's car. Vandemere wants to cause Jack pain.” The clock ticked above the door, but she couldn't hear it. Too much whirring in her mind. “So maybe it's time to give him the power to hurt Jack even more.”

Ricci stared at her over the tips of his fingers. “I'm loosely following this. What's your plan?”

“We make a deal with Vandemere. In this deal, he gives us Sabrina and baby Angela, and we offer to give him someone he values more.” Across the room, Jack stiffened, but she refused to look at him.

Ricci angled his hands, aiming his fingertips at her. “You.”

“I don't think so.” Jack shot up from the windowsill.

“Unfortunately, what you think in this situation doesn't count,” Evie said.

“Jack's right,” Cho said. “That's dangerous at best, stupid deadly at worst.”

Hayden quieted the murmurs by lifting a single hand. “But Evie is far from stupid. What do you have in mind?”

“The switch is just a ruse to flush him out of the shadows and get him within
our
sights, and when that happens, we'll have our sharpshooters in place.”

Ricci tapped his fingers against his chin. “We have a half dozen crack shots in SWAT.”

“Exactly,” Evie said. “Parker can even send our guy, Brooks.”

Jack opened his mouth. Evie glared.

Knox, who now had the blood of Dottie Francis on his hands, asked, “How would we get word to Vandemere?”

“He craves media attention, gets off on seeing his name in the papers and hearing his name on television. The media would be quickest and easiest.”

“You think he'd fall for it?” Ricci asked.

Everyone turned to Hayden, the criminal profiler who'd been poking around Carter Vandemere's head. “He's driven by an almost insatiable need for attention. But we're dealing with a serial killer who works with bombs. He causes destruction from afar and will be wary of any situation that puts him at risk. He won't bite.”

A heat rose up the backs of Evie's legs. “So we make him a risk-free deal.”

“How?”

“We tell him we'll let him strap a bomb to me before the switch.”

“No!” Jack banged his hand on the table, and papers and coffee cups jumped.

On the heel of her boot, she turned toward him, pushing down the urge to throw him bodily out the door. “You don't get a vote, Jack.”

Ricci tapped his pressed fingertips against his lips. “I'm head of this investigation, Evie, and I say no. Unequivocally no.”

They didn't get it. She ground a fist into the center of her forehead. They just didn't get it. Jack stood with his arms across his chest, his stare cold and unyielding. But she'd seen him change over the past week, seen him walk barefoot in the sand and celebrate with cake. Time for others to change their attitudes. Her hand dropped to her side as she took off out the door, calling over her shoulder. “Back in a flash.”

She ran to her office and picked up the bomb components she'd been tinkering with. Running back to the conference room, she set the IED on the table. Cho sat up straighter. Knox jumped up from the table.

“That's not live, is it?” Ricci asked.

She flicked the switch. “Now it is.”

The rest of the world disconnected. No movement. No smells. No sweat trickling down her back. No rush of air from the overhead vent. Oddly enough, the only sense she was aware of was sound.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Her fingers flew over the wires. Steady. Sure.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Before the ticks reached thirty, she threw up her hands. “Done.” A breath rushed over her lips.

No one said a word. They all stared at her with wide eyes, a few with mouths gaping open. She wasn't sure if they were shocked that she'd set the IED in motion or rendered it safe in less than thirty seconds.

“I'm his girl,” she said. “I know my stuff, and I know his bombs.”

Ricci unlaced his fingers, blood flooding back to his white knuckles, and he aimed a finger at her. “Don't you ever,
ever
do anything like that again under my watch.”

“Come on, Vince,” Evie said with a half scowl. “Did you really believe I couldn't disarm that thing?”

He didn't say anything, and she turned to Hayden next to her. “And you, Hayden, you didn't move an inch because you, too, knew that I could handle this. That I can handle Vandemere.”

Hayden said nothing because she was right. Frustration bubbled in her veins.

Knox finally sat back in his chair. “Everyone in this room knew you could do it,” he said. “Including me.”

She wanted to hug the man. Each of the task force members around the table nodded. Only one man didn't. Jack was stone still.

Ricci let loose a sigh. “Evie can do it. I've seen her render safe IEDs like this and others that are twice as sophisticated.”

Jack's granite visage cracked. “What if Vandemere changes things up? What if he uses a different device?”

Everyone turned back to Hayden. “It's unlikely. A bomber's signature, especially over a period as short as a few months, stays pretty much the same. If we were looking at an IED created in a year or two where he had more time for research and development, we could be looking at a higher level of sophistication.”

“Not likely,” Jack said. “But it's
possible
.”

“Anything is possible,” Hayden admitted.

“The odds are in my favor,” Evie said. “The reality is, I'm damn good at handling things that go boom.”

“What about the
baby
?” Jack asked.

Evie pictured a bald head, flat eyes, rubbery skin. An image from her past, one that haunted her every day since she'd walked out of the Albuquerque Police Academy. “We can use a doll.”

Ricci pushed back from the table. “You think your boss would go for it?”

Evie opened her mouth, but Hayden spoke first. “Parker trusts her implicitly.”

Evie swallowed the scratchy thickness inching up her throat. Her boss also trusted her to keep her nose clean on this one. With a shaky nod, she stood and walked away, ducking her head so she didn't see her face reflected in the window.

Thursday, November 5
4:04 p.m.

K
ate ran a comb through Evie's hair, the tines tangling in the tips.

“Is this really necessary?” Evie asked with a wince.

“No,” Kate said as she untangled the comb. “But you will be less distracting this way.” Kate, a former broadcast journalist who'd spent thousands of hours in front of a camera, whisked the comb through the handful of hair until it landed in a soft, smooth wave over Evie's right shoulder. Then she fisted a handful on the left side and went on the attack. “In broadcast news, viewers should be focused on what you're saying, not on”—she waved her fist—“this.”

“It's called hair, and I swear it was washed, combed, and fully submissive when I left for work this morning.”

Kate battled the attitudinal locks. “Ever thought about cutting it off?”

Evie had never been a fan of dresses, never wore nail polish, and owned only a handful of jewelry. “It's my one nod to my girly side.”

“Good. It's absolutely beautiful.” Kate smoothed the left side of Evie's hair and let it fall down her back. “Does Jack like it?”

On his chest, across his back, down his thighs. In the mirror of the vanity, Evie watched red creep up her neck and across her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “Did you hear from Smokey Joe?”

The tines of the comb bit into Kate's fingers. “Not yet. He doesn't know this area, and there are so many cars here.”

“I'm sure Smokey's fine. He survived the Viet Cong, prostate cancer, and a serial killer. He can survive L.A. traffic.” Evie unclenched Kate's fingers from the comb. “As soon as he's done pitching his fit, he'll show up and stick his tweaked nose right back in the middle of the investigation.”

“I'm sure you're right.” Kate unfolded her arms and took a bag of cosmetics from her purse. “You worry about those you love.”

Evie regularly worried about her nephews, her brothers and teammates while they were on duty, and Jack. She worried about his safety as he nosed his way into her investigation, about his health when he worked without play, about his heart when something happened to those he cared about. Yes, she worried. She wrapped a lock of hair around her finger. Because she loved him. He was controlling and stubborn but underneath it all, a man of passion and power.

Kate dabbed a puff into a compact of loose powder. Evie wrinkled her nose, bracing for the blow, because unlike Jack, she sweated. About her job. About those she cared for. About young mothers and little babies abducted under her watch. But not about going on television and issuing an invitation to a serial killer. This time she wanted to be in the spotlight.

“There,” Kate said as she spun Evie from the mirror. “Beautiful.”

Jack had said the same thing, and under his gaze and hands, she felt beautiful. She felt womanly. And it all felt right. She'd come to L.A. to catch a bomber, and instead a man had caught her, and the funny thing, one-track Jack didn't even realize it. She did. Because make no mistake about it, she chose to get caught.

One of the producers waved her over. “We need you on set, Agent Jimenez. Are you ready?”

After the Houston bombing, Evie had been running from the media who'd crucified her, and just a week ago, she'd ducked behind broadcast reporters in Bar Harbor. Oh, how things changed. “
Vámonos
.”

In the course of SCIU operations, she rarely worked with the media. Hayden took care of most of that, except when it had to do with the president. Then it was always Parker at the commander-in-chief's side. The producer had Evie take a seat in the chair and hooked a small battery pack to her waist and clipped a microphone to the collar of her jacket. Ricci had opted to not go with a press conference, as they needed a controlled environment. They wanted to keep the interview focused on a few scripted questions and answers.

The camera swung toward her and the broadcaster. “Today I'm here with Special Agent Evie Jimenez of the FBI's Special Criminal Investigative Unit and one of the leads on the Angel Bomber investigation.” The broadcaster turned from the camera to her. “What can you tell us about the current status of the investigation?”

“We would like to assure the citizens of Los Angeles that our multi-jurisdiction task force is out in full force, keeping the streets and people of Los Angeles safe.” Not too much. Vandemere needed to think he still was steering the ship.

“Where is the next bombing likely to take place?”

“We're focusing on the downtown area, no specific district yet. We don't know when he'll strike on Friday, but it will most likely be at a time and place with a high concentration of people.”

“What should everyone be looking for?”

Evie suggested, and Ricci agreed, to focus on the woman and child. Behind them an image of Sabrina and baby Angela appeared. “We're looking for this woman and child who may be dressed in clothing very similar to this painting.” A photo of the fourth portrait popped onto the other side of the screen.

“Is there anything else, Agent Jimenez?”

“I have a message for Carter Vandemere or for anyone with the ability to get Mr. Vandemere a message.” She looked directly into the camera. “Call me on your favorite
tip
line.” Vandemere considered Freddy an ally and had already used his tip line. It was their best shot at direct contact.

The reporter squirmed, and she could tell he wanted to ask more questions but simply nodded. “Thank you, Agent Jimenez.”

When the cameras turned off, the broadcaster helped her unclip her microphone. “Thanks for playing by our rules,” she told him.

“Thank Jack Elliott.” He tossed the mic on the chair. “Next time you talk to him, tell him we're even.”

She continued to marvel at Jack's connections, at his wheeling and dealing, at him.

“Think you'll nail him?” the broadcaster asked.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The bomber.”

“Absolutely.”

“You sound rather confident.”

“I am.”

The broadcaster removed his mic. “I'm done here after seven. Any chance you can get away for an hour and grab some sushi?”

“No.” A hand landed on her arm, a monogrammed cuff link glinting under the hot, bright lights overhead. “She's working.”

As Jack escorted her from the production studio, she leaned in and asked, “Jealous?”

“No, because unlike most women, you don't play games.”

Evie didn't understand relationship games. If she liked a man and wanted him in her bed, she let him know, and there was only one man she wanted in her bed right now. “True.”

“So what now?” Jack asked.

“We wait for Vandemere to call.”

His face clouded with doubt. “And you're just going to sit around and do nothing?”

“Of course not. I'm going to go get a cup of coffee.” She slipped her arm into his. “You're coming with me.”

5:27 p.m.

“Good evening,” the woman behind the coffee counter at The Bean Thing said. She wore a bright green nametag that read,
Margot
. “What can I get for you?”

“A serial killer would be nice,” Jack said.

Evie dug her elbow into Jack's stomach, then fished out a business card from her purse. This was the fourth coffee shop they'd hit in her quest for a match of the paper coffee cup found in Vandemere's trash can. For a man who was supposedly cool and in control, Jack had been agitated the entire time, as if he'd had a double-shot or two of espresso. “I'd like to speak to the manager or owner?”

“That would be me. I'm also the cashier and chief coffee cup washer.”

Evie took out Vandemere's used coffee cup. “I'm interested in a customer, possibly one of your regulars who buys a lot of coffee to go.” Evie wished she had the age-progressed image from Freddy, but he was still waving his Photoshop magic wand. “I'm looking for a man wanted in conjunction with the Angel Bombings. Are you familiar with the case?”

“Of course.” Margot ran her finger along a stain on the wooden counter. “He's down here, isn't he?”

“Yes.”

“And you'll get him?”

Her job was to catch killers, but being an Apostle required more. She also gave people hope. “He doesn't stand a chance.”

Margot wiped her hands on her apron. “What can I do to help?”

“We're looking for a male between the ages of thirty and thirty-five. A loner. He wears polished brown shoes. He considers himself an artist, and he drinks this.” She held up the coffee cup from Vandemere's trash.

The woman took the cup. “The cup's not one of ours, but the order's familiar.” She pointed to the grease-penciled letters.
AM-NF-CN.
“One of my regulars drinks Americano with non-fat milk and cinnamon.”

Jack's arm, pressing into hers, tensed. Or was that muscles along her arm? How a man drank his coffee seemed insignificant, but it was another dot in the image slowly taking shape. Evie took the age-progressed sketch from her bag and handed it to the coffee shop owner. “Does he look like this?”

The woman squinted. “A little in the eyes, but the shape of his nose is wrong.” She tapped her chin. “And there's something off about his chin and mouth.”

“Would you be willing to look at some photos for us and a sketch we're working on?”

“Sure.” A bell over the door tinkled, and Margot handed back the sketch. “Can we wait until closing? It's just me most of the time, a little fish trying to compete with the big guys, and I always get a post-dinner crowd. A few espressos and plenty of decafs.”

Before Evie could say a word, Jack whipped out his checkbook. “I'm sure that will cover your evening receipts.” Jack set a check on the counter. “I'll go get the car.”

Margot picked up the check. “Is he for real?”

Evie craned her neck. Ten thousand. “Very real.”

The coffee shop owner tucked the check into the cash register and whipped off her apron. “Is he single?”

“No.” Evie seriously loved this man.

7:03 p.m.

Bang. Bang. Bang!

Jack scrolled to the next page of the massive security report of people who were issued security passes into the Elliott Enterprises buildings within the past year.

Bang. Bang. Bang!

Whirrrrrrrr!

“Dammit, Claire,” he called through the open door of his office. “Can you put an end to whatever is causing that racket?”

“Night crew working on the floor below. Do you want me to have them hold off until you're done here?”

He had new tenants, an advertising and public relations firm, taking over the entire thirty-fifth floor after the first of the year, and a construction crew was retrofitting the space for them. The investment now would earn him long and hefty lease payments in the near and not-so-near future. He rubbed at the center of his forehead. At one point he'd defined himself by the deals he made, but now it was all about lives to be saved.

Sabrina Delgado and her baby, Angela, would be strapped to a bomb, a living, walking weapon. How many would die? How many would suffer under the fallout?

He swiped his palm down his face. This is the type of stuff Evie dealt with daily. How the hell did she live with it? And how the hell could he live with it? With her? With the idea of everything he cared for blowing up in his face?

Bang. Bang. Bang!

“That's okay, Claire. I'll go elsewhere.” His executive suite was closing in on him. “By the way, that's a beautiful scarf.”

His assistant fingered the length of blue, purple, and beige silk at her neck. “A gift from Evie.”

Evie. Bright and colorful. Wreaking havoc with his staff. With him. But in the best way.

He checked his watch. “Speaking of Evie, have you seen her? She was supposed to stop by after she rounded up Freddy Ortiz.” In one of her more sound moves, Evie was going to have the coffee shop owner talk to Freddy Ortiz and help him manipulate the age-progressed image of Vandemere. That had been over an hour ago. Evie was supposed to be back in his office to go through the names and photo IDs of people with Elliott Enterprises security ID badges.

“She's here,” Claire said. “But she needed to run a quick errand. She told me to tell you she'd stop by when she was done.”

“Where is she?”

“I'll let her tell you about it when she finishes.”

7:05 p.m.

Evie pulled her jacket around her and stepped onto the roof of the Elliott Tower. The air was dry and cool up here, clearer, too. No whiffs of exhaust fumes, hot asphalt, flower bunches, or hot dogs wrapped in bacon. Quiet, too. Just the faint echo of a bus on the street below.

She strolled to the copper fountain area and called out, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

A shape shifted near the fountain.

She took a seat on one of the benches, propping her boots on the fountain.

At last a head with sprigs of gray hair stepped out from the shadows. “How'd you know I was here?” Smokey Joe asked.

“Women's intuition.”

“You don't do that girly stuff.”

Evie ran a hand down the controlled curls of her hair. “I have my moments. The truth is, Claire, who knows everything about this place, let me up here, same as you.”

“Go away.”

“Sure. After I boot you in the butt.” Evie banged one boot, then the other on the concrete ledge. “Would you prefer me to do it with my right foot or left foot?”

“Put a cork in it, Evie.”

“I don't think so. Captain Ricci has had people running around looking for you all day, and Kate is worried sick. Literally. I caught her throwing up.”

“She'll get over it.”