The Blind

by Shelley Coriell

  Detonate.

  “Show me the artwork.”

  Chapter Four

  Wednesday, October 28

  8:22 p.m.

  Her Glock still at her side, Evie slipped out of Jack Elliott’s sleek black Audi and followed him down a buckled sidewalk to a narrow, red-bricked, three-story building in the heart of L.A.’s old warehouse district. A sign on the oversized green door with shiny brass handles read, Abby Foundation.

  The old warehouse had been converted into a hip gallery with a few stylized benches, edgy paintings, and funky sculptures. Madison Avenue Jack looked sorely out of place.

  His face a polite mask, Elliott opened a door leading to a staircase. “This way, please.”

  “After you, please.” She and her Glock were so much more comfortable bringing up the rear. Again she wondered if he could be the bomber.

  She frowned. At heart, serial bombers, like long-range assassins, were cowards, and there was nothing cowardly about Jack Elliott. When he spoke, people jumped. Nor did he have poor impulse control. To the contrary, Elliott was a man in charge and in control.

  When they reached the third floor, her nose twitched. A tinny, oily odor hung on the air along with something base and loamy. Chemicals. Her fingers tightened around her Glock.

  Elliott flicked a switch, and soft light poured from half globes hanging from poles extending from exposed rafters of the high ceiling. The loft had been divided into work areas, the nearest one filled not with wiring, timers, or propane cylinders, but blocks of marble.

  “Artist’s studios?” Evie asked.

  “The Abby Foundation hosts artists-in-residence programs.” At the far end of the hall, he swiped his ID badge along a magnetic strip reader and punched a series of numbers and letters into a keypad.

  She held her breath as he opened the door. Was the key to stopping the most wanted bomber in America within her reach? He switched on a light. She made a small o with her lips, the air rushing from her lungs. She knew squat about art, but she knew the paintings on the walls before her were very fine and very old, and were most likely very, very expensive. More than that, they tugged at her, calling her closer. “They’re beautiful.”

  The corners of Elliott’s lips shifted. If she were generous, she’d call it a smile. “I call it Beauty Through the Ages. It’s a collection dating from the fourteenth century to today.”

  She drew up in front of a portrait of a smiling dark-haired woman with generous curves bathing in a lake set aglow with silvery moonlight. “You think these are tied to the Angel Bombings?”

  He pointed to the third painting. “In the Titian, the woman is stretched out on a white blanket beneath a tree, similar to the third victim, who’d been lying on a white robe at the park outside the library.”

  A wave of gooseflesh inched across her arms. The similarities were chilling.

  “Now look at these images from the second bombing.” With his phone, he showed her a photo of a dark-haired woman, a gold-and-pearl choker embedded in the mangled column of flesh that had once been her throat, the choker similar to the second painting. “And here’s a photo from the first bombing.” The next photo showed a twisted piece of metal, which in its pre-explosion state would be a dead ringer for the cross the woman in the fourteenth-century painting held. “What do you think?” For the first time since she’d met him, Elliott did not ooze calm and confidence.

  The blood racing through her limbs heated. “How long have you had the collection?”

  “I purchased the first piece a year ago. Three months ago I secured the final portrait.”

  “Did you personally buy every piece?”

  “Yes. I paid fair market value and then some for these specific pieces.”

  Jack Elliott was starched shirts and pin-striped suits. He did his wheeling and dealing from a throne of icy glass in a corporate castle that sliced the sky like a blade. His life seemed cold and calculated. Except for his paintings. “Why these pieces?”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  She tore her gaze from the art. “They’re beautiful?”

  The lines around his mouth softened. “Since the beginning of time, there’s been a good deal of ugliness in this world: war, famine, natural disasters, hatred. But through it all, pockets of beauty survived. The collection celebrates the enduring power of beauty.”

  This guy was all about power. A jolt of electricity rocked her chest. And he was right. “You’ll need to step out of the gallery, Mr. Elliott. I’m officially declaring this a crime scene.” Because some sick SOB was using these portraits to create powerful messages.

  Elliott let out a long breath but in no way appeared deflated. If anything, the intense look, the one he’d been wearing when he was on the phone with Germany, was back. “I’ll call Captain Ricci and have him meet us at the downtown station.”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?” Affront stiffened Jack Elliott’s already starched suit.

  “Chasing after serial bombers is best left to those who do not have Harvard MBAs. I will contact Ricci and brief the task force.”

  Elliott jabbed a hand at the wall of beauties. “I’m clearly involved. You need me.”

  “Agreed, and I’m sure we’re destined to have some nice, heart-to-heart chats.” Right now Elliott was key, but he was also an unknown.

  “We need to get moving on this.” Urgency edged his words.

  “That’s the plan.” Elliott opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. This guy may be king of his universe, but not hers. “Mr. Elliott, exactly why did you send Brady and your jet across the country to pick me up?”

  “You’re the best.” Another cold, hard fact neither of them could dispute.

  “Exactly, Mr. Elliott. Now please let me do what I do best.” She flexed her fingers, placed her fingertips on the broad plain of his chest, and nudged. The element of surprise—because she got the feeling no one shoved Jack Elliott around—must have worked for he backpedaled out of the gallery.

  Then she reached for her phone. She had to contact Vince Ricci at LAPD, dig up background information on Elliott and these portraits, and get details on who had access to this collection, but first she needed to take care of a not-so-minor detail.

  She punched in Parker Lord’s number to tell him she had just defied presidential orders and inserted herself into the Angel Bomber investigation.

  * * *

  9:42 p.m.

  Jack stood on the balcony of his penthouse just down the street from the Elliott Tower and held a glass of bourbon up to the moon, hidden tonight by streaks of clouds. The liquid was too dark. He waited until the clouds shifted, leaving the moon to set the night aglow. The whiskey warmed and brightened. There, that was the color of her eyes. He turned the glass, the ice clinking. The color was right, but the ice was all wrong. There was nothing cold about Special Agent Evie Jimenez.

  This morning when he’d seen the tabloid photographer’s gruesome images and made the connection to his Beauty Through the Ages collection, he’d immediately called an associate who worked for the FBI and asked for the best bomb investigator on the planet.

  He took a sip and set the glass on the ledge, the ice bobbing and sending fractured bits of caramel light across the balcony. He dipped a hand into his pocket and took out his phone.

  “Jack,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “Good to hear from you. How did things go this evening?”

  Jack checked a laugh. Like Parker Lord didn’t know. “Your Agent Jimenez is quite impressive.”

  In his office, she’d stood before him, her flushed cheeks as red as the cowboy boots on her feet. A pile of wild, dark brown curls hung askew from her head, and fire shot from her eyes. For a moment Jack wished he were a painter of great art instead of a mere collector, but even with the skill of one of the masters, he would not be able to capture on canvas the fire inside Agent Jimenez.

  Jack had seen the all-consuming passion, felt it rolling across his office. “I showed her the p
aintings and the crime scene photos your man got for me. She agreed that there’s a connection. I’m surprised she hasn’t called you.”

  “Oh, she has.” Parker did not check a laugh. “Four messages within the past hour, each louder than its predecessor.”

  “And you haven’t returned her calls?”

  “I’m waiting on word from the president.”

  “Not sure if that’s healthy for the state of California. If she blows, she’ll go hard.”

  “That’s my Evie.” Parker’s fatherly tone was not lost on Jack, but it surprised him.

  Except for her size, there was nothing diminutive or childlike about Agent Jimenez. With those red boots, tight jeans, and wild hair, she could pass for a teenaged street walker, but she had plenty of impressive miles on those boots. The background check he’d run on her showed a woman with an exceptional and decorated service in the U.S. military and a storied career with Parker’s FBI team. Nothing about her past gave him pause until the bombing two months ago in Houston. She’d been the lead officer overseeing the disposal of a bomb at a Houston medical clinic when the bomb exploded, injuring a toddler, Agent Jimenez, and another officer. “The fallout from Houston didn’t in any way compromise her ability to do her job, physically or psychologically?”

  “Absolutely not,” Parker said. “She took a hit from some shattered glass, but she’s been released by medical. Like I told you, Jack, she’s the best. She lives for her work and, despite what the president says, doesn’t make mistakes. If it were me or anyone I cared about strapped to one of those bombs, I’d want Evie working the scene.”

  Which is why he personally brought Evie on board. Jack always worked with the best. He took another long sip of bourbon, the ice clinking at the barely there tremble in his hand. On this one he needed the best.

  After he finished the call with Parker, he dialed up the investigator he’d hired this morning, a former Navy SEAL who’d been running a private investigation firm in Los Angeles for more than thirty years.

  “Any news?” Jack asked.

  “We found a possible match at the third bomb scene, but nothing definitive at this point.”

  “Keep me posted.” But Jack wasn’t about to sit back and let others do the work, even good ones like Agent Jimenez and his PI. He took his computer from the patio table, set it on his lap, and called up the photos of the third crime scene. With the moon shining overhead, Jack began to search for the sun.

  Chapter Five

  Thursday, October 29

  7:16 a.m.

  Evie had been in her share of war rooms, but none with so many naked women on the walls. This morning someone on the Angel Bomber task force had made enlarged prints of each of the paintings in the Beauty Through the Ages exhibit and hung them on the walls of one of LAPD’s case conference rooms. Images that inspired a three-month killing spree were now inspiring a team set on capturing that killer.

  And she was a member of that team.

  After a near-sleepless night at a cheap motel north of the Arts District, she finally got a call from Parker.

  “The president wasn’t happy about you taking the high school disrupt in Maine,” Parker had said, his tone crisp and factual.

  “Bullshit,” Evie had argued. “He wasn’t happy that I was on TV. I’m the face of a botched bomb disrupt that has the American public doubting his administration’s ability to control both foreign and domestic terrorist activities. This is all about him covering his ass.”

  “And he will continue to do so until next year’s election.”

  Something akin to a growl clawed up Evie’s throat. “Officer Gilley took full responsibility for his actions in Houston, and Internal Affairs cleared me of any wrongdoing or negligence.”

  “The president finally read the IA report, and he agreed to lift your suspension.”

  Yes! She’d fisted her free hand and punched the air. It was about time.

  “But you need to keep your nose squeaky clean on this one.” A laugh had rumbled on the other end of the line. “Well, at least as clean as you can keep it.” Parker’s voice had softened. “Remember, Evie, your job is to preserve life, all life, including yours.”

  And with that Parker had assigned her to the multi-jurisdiction task force investigating the Angel Bombings. Less than fifteen seconds after hearing those beautiful words, she was on the horn with Vince Ricci and told him about the Beauty Through the Ages collection. Within minutes, Vince had mobilized his team and called a task force meeting.

  She stood in front of a copy of the fourth painting, the portrait of the woman in the red dress and child with a halo of golden curls. She’d held enough of her nephews to know that cheek. Soft and warm, powdery and sweet. “You are not going to die.” She ran her finger along the cheek. “Do you hear me? You will not die.”

  “Took you long enough,” a deep voice said from behind her. Vince Ricci gripped her shoulder and gave her a one-armed squeeze. She’d met the LAPD bomb squad captain two years ago at a special FBI training session on weapons of mass destruction for large, urban police forces, and she’d been impressed not so much with the big man’s brawn but his brains. He’d proven to be one of the session’s more contemplative students with a knack for creative problem solving and well-thought-out tactical ops.

  “I called Parker after the second bomb requesting your services,” Ricci said. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “In time-out.”

  Vince chuckled.

  “It wasn’t funny.”

  Vince’s lips thinned. “I’m sorry about Houston, but I’m glad you’re here. Everyone’s anxious to hear about your pretty pictures.”

  “According to Jack Elliott, beautiful pictures.” She turned from the beauties and rested her butt on the conference table. The portraits were key, and so was the holder of those keys. “Have you talked with Elliott yet?”

  “No, but I have a unit securing the gallery.”

  “Good. I want to get a tap put on his phones and get someone digging into his past.”

  “You’re not thinking Elliott’s the bomber, are you?” Ricci ran a hand through the snowy-white waves of his hair. “He’s a pretty big deal in this town, a real mover and shaker.”

  Honestly, she didn’t know what to think about Jack Elliott. He was intense and focused, and he had the first solid tip in an investigation that had been stymied for three months, but he was also a control freak, doling out critical information on his own terms and oddly determined to insert himself into the investigation. “I don’t think he’s flipping the switch, but his interest in these bombings is far from casual.”

  When all of the task force members had gathered, Ricci clapped his hands, then rubbed his palms together. “Okay, Evie, show us what you have.”

  Bill Knox, the LAPD homicide detective who’d been working the third bombing that killed Lisa Franco, smirked. “Can’t wait to see what she has under wraps,” he said loud enough for even her to hear.

  Evie had put up with this crap all of her life. Guys like Knox didn’t see the soldier who exploited unexploded ordnance in Somalia or served on a team of international peacekeepers hunting down weapons of mass destruction in Syria. When they met her, guys like Knox couldn’t get past the X chromosome. But eventually they came around. Every one.

  Evie pulled a stack of reports from her bag and plopped them on the table in front of Knox. “Take one and pass them down.” She went over each bombing, showing with painstaking detail the similarities with the first three paintings.

  Quiet hung over the war room until Steve Cho, one of her colleagues from the FBI, let out a soft whistle. “This changes everything.”

  “Especially given that for the first time we have an idea what the next victims will look like and a hint as to where the bombing may occur,” Evie added. In the fourth painting, the mother, who was holding a rosary and the child, sat on some kind of wooden bench, possibly in a church.

  Ricci closed the report. “Where do you plan to go
from here?”

  “I’m finding out who has access to the Abby Foundation gallery and tracking down the names of anyone and everyone who knows about the collection. Right now it’s all about people.”

  “Oh, goody,” Knox said with a lift of his unibrow. “A touchy-feely type.”

  Captain Ricci opened his mouth, but Evie stopped him with a quick shake of her head. She’d been in the trenches before; she knew the battle tactics that worked best for the entire team. “Cho, can you remind everyone in the room what type of forensic evidence we have collected on the three bombings.”

  “No DNA,” her FBI colleague said. “No errant fingerprints, not even a partial, and no witnesses to any of the bomb and victim drops.”

  “What about the IEDs?” Like the old saying, to know the artist, study the art. Likewise, to know the bomber, study the bomb.

  Cho reached into his briefcase and dug out a series of diagrams. “Pipe bombs, and not of the Average Joe persuasion. Both ends welded with metal caps. A metal rod inserted into a pipe and bolted into place. Makes for a structurally strong housing that delays the explosion.”

  “He took significant pains to optimize explosive force,” Evie said with a shake of her head. “He wanted pain, and he knows enough about the science of explosions to know how to cause it.”

  “We’re thinking someone with a tech background, possibly ex-military,” Ricci said. “The bombs are carefully and consistently constructed, indicating a meticulous, methodical maker.”

  Evie took out her notebook. “What about the initiation device?”

  “Remote controlled. Thirty-second delay.”

  Evie shuddered. “Nice. He’s a watcher. Got an official profile worked up yet?”

  Ricci tapped the tips of his fingers. “With so little to go on, we’re looking at a standard bomber profile.”

  She opened her notebook. “A white male with above average intelligence in his prime. Age thirty to fifty. College educated but underemployed. He’s a loner with overwhelming feelings of inadequacy. He came from a broken home and has a strong desire for revenge, either against real or imagined perpetrators of wrongs against him.”