The Blind

by Shelley Coriell

  His shoulders jiggled with a laugh. “They warned me about you, but I didn’t believe them. Oh, God, this is going to be fun.”

  Fun? Who the hell was this bozo? More important, did he have anything to do with the IED planted at the high school? She hauled her service revolver from her shoulder holster. “You want fun?”

  He stopped laughing.

  “Who are you?” Evie asked. He reached for his pants pocket, and her knee dug deeper. This time he winced. “I said, who are you?”

  “Brady Malloy of Elliott Enterprises. Card’s in my pocket.”

  She dug into his wallet and withdrew a California-issued driver’s license. Home address in Los Angeles. Organ donor. Excellent. If he had anything to do with that backpack of C-4 in the high school gym, she could help him part with a few organs. She pulled out a fancy embossed business card. “Okay, Mr. Brady Malloy of Elliott Enterprises. Says here you’re a public relations guy.”

  “I’m good with people.”

  Unlike her. She climbed off his midsection but did not holster her firearm. “So what the hell is a public relations specialist for a”—she checked the card—“an equity investment firm from Los Angeles doing at a bomb disruption at a high school in Bar Harbor, Maine?”

  “Following you,” he said with wide-eyed sincerity.

  Her fingers tightened around the card. The honesty surprised her. So did the fact that he got the jump on her. “And now that you’ve found me?”

  He stood and dusted the snow tufts and dead leaves from his jacket. “I’m here on behalf of my employer, Mr. Jack Elliott. He’d like to hire you to deal with…an incendiary situation.”

  This time Evie laughed. Clearly this guy had no idea who she was. “I’m no dick for hire.”

  “Mr. Elliott doesn’t want a private detective. He wants you. He wants an Apostle.”

  She wasn’t surprised he knew who she was. Thanks to the Houston job, anyone who watched the nightly news knew she was the bomb and weapons specialist for Parker’s team, but like all of the Apostles, she was too busy catching this country’s most vile criminals to take side jobs. Malloy’s boss was probably one of those guys who threw money around and expected others to hop and skip. Too bad for Mr. Jack Elliott that as a kid, she never got the hang of girly games like hopscotch.

  She holstered her sidearm. The rumble and tumble with the ginger had left her thirsty. “Wish I could say it’s been a pleasure, Mr. Malloy, but frankly, this chitchat is keeping me from a much-needed shot of whiskey.” She headed for the mouth of the alley. “Adiós.”

  Malloy cleared his throat. “Mr. Elliott has information on the next Angel Bombing.”

  An invisible hand yanked Evie to a stop, and she spun toward Malloy. For three months investigators from LAPD, ATF, FBI, and an alphabet soup of other agencies had been hunting for the bomber responsible for a series of explosions that had killed seven, maimed or injured 105, and scared the hell out of 3.85 million residents of the City of Angels.

  Thanks to her suspension, she wasn’t officially on the case, but she’d been all over it, poring through case notes, collecting images, and keeping everything in a folder she took out every night and read like a bedtime storybook.

  “What kind of information?” Despite her shackles, she couldn’t back off from a lead.

  Malloy once again settled that earnest gaze on her. “Mr. Elliott would prefer to tell you in person.”

  She bowed, sweeping her hand through the alley. “Tell him to come into my office.”

  “He’s in Los Angeles.”

  “Then get him on the phone.”

  “He’d prefer to tell you in person.”

  Evie pushed a wayward curl off her forehead. “And I prefer a little less bullshit.” The Angel Bomber had been consistent in creating chaos. His bombs went off the first week of every month for the past three months, and they were just days away from November first. “Exactly what does your boss know about the bombings?”

  Malloy shuffled his feet, kicking at airy snowdrifts, before finally looking her squarely in the eye. “Mr. Elliott believes the next victims will be a brown-haired woman in a red dress and a baby with blond curls.”

  The image slammed her like an M120 mortar.

  “That’s all I know,” Malloy continued. “He insists on telling you the rest in person. He has his private jet ready to fly you to L.A.”

  And she had a presidentially mandated suspension hanging over her head like a two-ton anvil. She shifted from one boot to the other. In bomb investigations forensic evidence didn’t solve cases, people did. This guy’s boss could have a tip that could lead them to the deadliest bomber in the country, or hell, this guy’s boss could be the bomber.

  Again Malloy motioned to the alley. “Are you ready, Agent Jimenez?”

  Mr. Elliott believes the next victims will be a brown-haired woman in a red dress and a baby with blond curls.

  Save the baby!

  “Hell, yes.”

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday, October 28

  7:24 p.m.

  Ding.

  Ding.

  Two voice mails had come in while Evie had been flying from Maine to Los Angeles. She brought up the call log. One from her teammate Hatch Hatcher, the other from—

  “Shit,” she said under her breath.

  “Everything okay?” Brady asked as he guided the car out of LAX.

  “Yes.” Although her answer might be different after she listened to the second voice mail, the one from the president of the United States, but she wasn’t going to do that until she talked to Parker. She checked her texts. Still no word from her boss, but that wasn’t surprising as he’d been in San Francisco all day working a case.

  Evie had spent most of her day on Jack Elliott’s private jet. Plush leather recliner seats. Fully stocked minibar. Hi-def movie theater with a state-of-the-art sound system. She’d been most interested in the jet’s in-flight Internet service, which she used to run a background check on Jack Elliott. Evie was impressed with what she found. Elliott was the proud owner of a Harvard MBA, ran a legit equity investment business in So Cal, and had money coming out his ass. No record. No ties to extremist groups. Not a hair out of place. So why the hell did he allegedly know so much about the bomb investigation of the decade?

  As Brady exited the freeway and aimed the car at L.A.’s downtown financial district, the bomber’s fallout was everywhere. Three billboards so far: Angel Bomber Hotline 1-555-NO-BOMBS. Handbills with a similar message were taped to light poles and plastered on bus stop benches. On a marquee outside a church off Olympic Boulevard was the message: Pray for our fallen angels.

  Brady pulled the car into the Elliott Tower parking garage, and the parking attendant slid open the glass window of his booth.

  “Evening, Mr. Malloy,” the attendant said. “I’ll need your—”

  Evie reached across the car and flashed her badge. The parking attendant took down the number.

  Inside the Elliott Tower, a thirty-six-story high-rise, she jerked to a stop before a display window in a fussy boutique on the bottom floor. A mannequin in a slinky gold gown rubbed noses with a fake Chihuahua wearing a gold-and-diamond collar. Another mannequin in a red sweater-y thing cradled a fake poodle dressed in an elf outfit.

  “Really?” Evie asked.

  Brady Malloy grinned. “Welcome to L.A.”

  “More like welcome to another planet.” Despite the late hour and heavy cloud cover, the city wasn’t completely dark. A warm, soft light hung over downtown L.A. like a golden halo.

  They made their way through the marbled entryway to a guard station where Brady signed her in. Once again a security guard took her badge number, adding in the margin “red boots.” He also snapped a photo for a visitor’s pass.

  “Would you like a pint of blood with that?” Evie asked the guard, who took a plastic card rolling out from a printer and attached a clip to the top.

  “We’re very serious about security,” the guard e
xplained as he handed her the ID badge, her mug shot emblazoned on one side along with a bar code.

  “Even more so since the bombings started,” Brady added. “All businesses downtown have stepped up security, and police have increased patrols.” Because the bomber would most likely strike in a matter of days.

  Near the elevator, Brady motioned to a ladies’ room door. “Do you need to use the restroom or anything?”

  “I’m good.”

  Frosted doors of an elevator etched with the giant letters EE slid open. A face with one eye where an ear should be stared at her. The face had no nose. She read the brass plaque on the bottom of the painting. Picasso. She knew little about art, but even she recognized that name. What kind of man put Picassos in his elevator? She flipped over her visitor’s pass. The same kind of guy who put flowery reprints of Vincent van Gogh on ID badges.

  Brady escorted her to the thirty-sixth floor, where she strolled through a lobby lined with artwork from Bellini and Vermeer, and she’d bet the college funds she’d started for each of her seven nephews that these were the real deals.

  “Your boss likes fancy paintings?” Evie asked.

  “My boss likes,” Brady quirked his mouth, “collecting.”

  She pictured the artwork on her refrigerator door back in her rarely used condo in Albuquerque, all originals by her nephews, but unlike the art in her home—finger-painted landscapes and portraits made with crayons—these paintings did nothing to warm the offices. The top floor of the Elliott Tower was cool, almost cold.

  A woman in a beige suit, beige lipstick, and beige hair greeted her with a short nod. “Good evening, Agent Jimenez. Mr. Elliott is wrapping up an overseas call. Can I get you a cup of coffee, tea, or mineral water?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Or perhaps some heated towels to, uh, freshen up?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Are you sure?” Her nose wrinkled.

  “Yes.” Evie wasn’t one to check in with mirrors throughout the day, but her newly minted ID card showed a serious case of helmet head, sweat stains on her tank, and alley grit on her denim jacket.

  “Please have a seat. Mr. Elliott will be with you shortly.”

  Evie had been sitting way too much today. With the door to Elliott’s office closed, she paced the length of the room. She checked her phone again. Another message from the president’s office and a media alert on the Angel Bomber investigation. Ignoring the president, she clicked on the link to a breaking news report from a Los Angeles television station.

  “In the latest move to track down the Angel Bomber terrorizing downtown Los Angeles,” a news reporter was saying, “authorities announced today that a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward is being offered to anyone providing information leading to the capture of the bomber. According to Captain Vince Ricci of the LAPD, the bomber will most likely strike within the next week and may again target heavily populated areas.”

  Evie stopped in front of the secretary’s chrome-and-glass desk. “Can you please tell Mr. Elliott I’m here?”

  “As soon as he wraps up his call,” the woman said. “He’s finishing a very important business deal with associates in Germany.”

  The nameplate on the woman’s desk read Claire Turner, Executive Assistant. Her title should have read, Guard Dog. “More important than stopping a serial killer?” Evie asked.

  Claire’s polite smile didn’t crack. “Mr. Elliott will be with you as soon as he finishes the German deal.”

  Or not. Evie headed to the door beyond Claire’s desk.

  “You can’t go in there!”

  Says who? Evie side-stepped a beige arm and threw open the door. Elliott’s inner sanctum was the size of the ice rink where her oldest nephew played hockey. Centered in front of a wall of glass overlooking the dark skies and bright lights of the downtown L.A. skyline sat a shiny glass desk the size of a small country. Behind it was a man who reminded her of a European prince. Dark-haired and angular, he wore a snow-white dress shirt with a dark, pin-striped vest, monogrammed cuff links, and an air of privilege. She’d personally drop to her knees and kiss his royal ring if he could help her nail a killer. And if he was the bomber, she’d do her damnedest to make sure he got himself fancy new duds, the kind with black and white stripes.

  “Good evening, sir.” She squared up in front of him, her back and resolve ramrod stiff. “I’m Special Agent Evie Jimenez. I’m here about the Angel Bombings.”

  Keeping his gaze on a computer screen, he showed her his palm.

  She clasped her hands behind her back and shifted from one boot to the other. She made it fifty-seven seconds before she cleared her throat. “Mr. Elliott, I’m sorry to interrupt your business, but if you have information on a killer, I need to know as soon as possible. There’s just three more days until the first of November, which means he could right now be scouting out or abducting his next victim.”

  Without looking up from his computer screen, Elliott extended a single index finger and jabbed it at her and then the door.

  Claire’s lips thinned. “If you’ll come this way, please.”

  “No, I don’t please. Mr. Elliott and I have business to discuss.” She dropped her bag on the floor, hiked her jeans, and climbed across Elliott’s desk. Raising her index finger, she pushed, End Call.

  Claire gasped. Brady, who’d followed them into the office, groaned.

  Evie shimmied back across the desk, her boots thudding to the marble floor. “Now we can talk.”

  Jack Elliott’s gaze finally snapped to her. She’d expected slate gray or obsidian or even sharp green. Instead he had faded blue eyes, the color of worn denim.

  “Who are you?” His words, on the other hand, came out hard and sharp.

  Amazing. He’d been so intently focused on his phone call that he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He would make a great bomb tech. She took out her business card. “Special Agent Evangelina Jimenez. I’m here about the Angel Bombings.”

  He took the card, his fingers curving around the paper as he brought a fist to his chest for a heartbeat before slipping it into a pocket on the inside of his vest. “Thank you for coming, Agent Jimenez.” His voice was strangely calm.

  If she were him, she would have yelled, that is, after body-slamming anyone who crawled across her desk. Disconnecting his phone call had been bold and borderline rude, but it had snagged his attention. Score one for Team Stop-the-Serial-Killer.

  He slipped off his Bluetooth and shut down his computer. “Claire, get Germany back on the line and ask Heinrich to send our contracts division the new addendum. Then forward all docs to legal and accounting. Brady, call Roy at the Lakers office and get a pair of courtside tickets for a game this weekend and send them to Heinrich’s liaison in New York.”

  “The waterfront deal went through?” Brady asked with a catch in his voice.

  “We’re scheduled to close tomorrow.” The cool denim of Elliott’s eyes warmed. “Heinrich sweetened the deal with a hundred-thousand-dollar donation to the Abby Foundation.”

  Brady whistled. “Congrats, boss, on the biggest deal of your career.” Brady saluted the man behind the desk.

  Elliott clicked a button on his phone. “Darryl, please bring my car around.” He pushed a button under his desk, and a wooden panel in the wall slid open and revealed another shiny glass-and-chrome elevator. “My apologies for the delay, Agent Jimenez. This way, please.”

  She kept her boots firmly rooted on the front side of the desk. This was a man who gave orders and expected full compliance. Too bad. “Exactly where do you want to take me?”

  “To an art exhibit. It’s just a few blocks from here in the warehouse district.” Facing the mirrored elevator door, he adjusted his shiny platinum tie tack so the oval was vertical, then pushed the elevator’s Down button. The silvery doors parted with a muted ding.

  “What does an art exhibit have to do with the Angel Bomber?”

  “Everything.” He delivered the single word as i
f it were an undisputable fact. “It will make sense when you see the exhibit.”

  She had infinite patience with bombs but not with people. “It will make sense if you tell me exactly what you know about these bombings.”

  Jack Elliott blinked, as if genuinely surprised she wasn’t jumping to attention. He slipped a hand in his pocket, a soft jangle sounding. “The bomber’s first three bombings have been re-creations of the first three paintings in the exhibit.”

  Evie’s fingers twitched. Investigators had nothing on the bomber. If Elliott was onto something…She wiped her palms along the thighs of her jeans.

  Approach with caution.

  “I’ve been studying this case for months and never heard any mention of paintings or art exhibits.”

  “The connection wasn’t obvious in the first two bombings because the post-explosion damage had been so extensive, but the tabloid photographer’s shots in the third bombing clearly show a connection.”

  A money-grubbing tabloid photographer had been on-scene at the third bombing and snapped photos of the terrified victim before, during, and after the IED detonated. Then the slug held a bidding war and sold the gruesome images to a gossipy online news rag in the U.K. Evie didn’t admire his motive, but she knew the value of those images.

  Clear debris.

  “Those photos were released three weeks ago, hours after the explosion,” she said. “Are you telling me you just now made the connection?”

  “I was single-mindedly focused on the German deal.”

  She could believe that. She’d had to disconnect his phone to get his attention. Jack Elliott was a guy buried in and married to his work. No ring on his left hand. No family pics on his credenza. No office supplies made from recycled juice cans on his desk.

  Set charge.

  “And no one else has seen these disturbing similarities?”

  “It’s a private collection.” The jangling stopped, and she pictured that hidden hand tightening into a rock-hard fist. Something flashed in his eyes, but it was so fast and fleeting that she couldn’t make it out. “And I’m the owner.”