She hopped up from the ground and snatched the paper. The date on the e-mail was one week prior to the first bombing.
“My research team’s been digging up information on North,” Jack said. Of course they have because Jack was digging out from a shitload of guilt. “I forwarded their reports to you and contacted the Topanga Community police station to find out if they’ve had any issues with North or at his compound. I’m waiting for a callback from the captain.”
She pressed the heels of her boots into the earth to keep from kicking Jack’s butt back to his shiny corporate tower. She appreciated his astute observations, contacts, and piles of money, but he wasn’t trained to deal with explosives and the mutants who found great pleasure in using them for criminal activity. Few people were.
“Jack, I’m not the sensitive type, but I get it. Guilt is a big dog with sharp teeth, and it’s got you by the ass. But the thing is, you made the deal. You brought me here and got me on board. Now it’s time to let me do my job. A clock is ticking.” She picked her way across the scarred earth.
Jack fell in step beside her. “What’s your plan of action?”
This guy wouldn’t let go, which is probably one of the reasons he raked in the millions. She puffed a lock of hair hanging across her forehead. “Contact North for a little heart-to-heart.”
“He won’t talk to you. He has a serious distrust of authority figures and the media, as both groups are keeping watch on him and his almost cult-like organization. Apparently he’s quite charismatic with loyal followers from all walks, many quite fanatical and some handing over their life savings or moving onto the compound. According to my sources, he doesn’t let many into his inner sanctum.”
Most of these zealous, out-of-the-mainstream groups rarely did. “A subpoena will change all that.”
“Subpoenas take time.” He leveled a hard gaze at her. “Which you don’t have.”
Jack must be a brute in the boardroom, but he was right. “You have an alternative plan.” She didn’t phrase it as a question. She could see that every inch of him was ready to take off and take charge.
“I’ll contact his executive assistant.” Jack’s confidence bordered on arrogance.
She had no problems with arrogant men. She worked damned well and often with men who thought they were one step removed from God. “Executive assistant. Like your Claire. That’s your secret weapon?”
“Do not doubt the power of the Claires of this world. The guard at the gate, who has been trained to fend off outsiders, especially those seeking Brother North, will patch us through to his assistant without hesitation. When we get the assistant on the line, we’ll tell her we’re here with a significant donation, cash in hand, earmarked for North’s pet mission project near Bunker Hill. Wanting to be the harbinger of such great news, the executive assistant will deliver the message and get us in the door. It’s a matter of netting the little fish to use as bait for the big fish.” Spoken like a man who knew a thing or two about rods and reels.
“I’ll buy into your smooth moves,” Evie said, not bothering to hide her skepticism, “but do you honestly think North is going to talk to you, the man behind the Abby Foundation and its offensive nudes?”
“No, which is why I won’t be using my real name.” He motioned to his car parked on the street.
The guy had an ego, but he also had a history of successful million-dollar deals. If this deal went down, they could shave hours off an investigation where seconds mattered. “Okay, Jack, let’s see if the fish are biting.”
* * *
1:19 p.m.
Evie’s boots kicked up fine, silty dust as she and Jack followed their escort, a short man with arms like hams, along a footpath snaking through the twenty-acre True North Retreat and Renewal Center to Brother Gabriel North’s private residence.
“Why the gun?” Evie asked their escort. She’d seen the bulge under his jacket the minute he met them at the front gate of the fenced compound.
“Lots of undesirable critters in the canyons,” the escort said.
These grassy hills and scrub canyons an hour northwest of downtown L.A. were home to mountain lions, coyotes, and rattlesnakes, maybe even a few dangerous critters with two legs. This area, close enough to L.A. to house plenty of rich and famous, had its share of rundown shacks, hippie vans, and hand-written Keep Out! signs.
The spiritual center looked more like a summer camp that stopped having fun thirty years ago. The main building, a long block structure with a chipped tile roof, sat on a hill surrounded by scrappy bushes, a few bent sycamores, and an ancient white school bus. There was a fire pit circled by felled logs and a half dozen small outbuildings with sagging roofs.
They reached a small hacienda-style house with a red-tiled roof and a large courtyard. North’s executive assistant met them at the door. “Right this way, Mr. Ellis.”
Deal done. Evie tipped an imaginary hat to Jack. Jack managed a half smile.
Brother Gabriel North was a man in need of a shave and a haircut, or maybe he was trying to rock the Jesus look. Despite his ragged appearance, he wore an air of superiority. The pastor held out his hand and asked, “Seeking True North, Brother Ellis?”
Jack shook his hand. “Bearing gifts.” He patted the breast pocket of his jacket where his checkbook extended. “And seeking the truth. I’m hoping you can help my friend here.” He slipped his hand along Evie’s back, the touch warm and firm. “This is Special Agent Evie Jimenez of the FBI’s Special Criminal Investigative Unit.”
The pastor, blinded by Jack’s checkbook, blinked as if noticing her for the first time. He snapped his fingers at their escort. “Brother Jenkins, please show Brother Ellis and his friend out. A good day to you both. God bless.”
Evie gave props to Jack for being a straight shooter. They didn’t have time to waste on this one, plus she had a feeling a man like Brother North knew all about bullshit. “I’m FBI,” she said. “Not ATF, and I’m not interested in the weapons you are stockpiling in the outbuilding on the northeast end of the property.”
Brother North and Brother Jenkins shared a panicked glance. Jack shifted, inching his body in front of hers.
Evie none-too-gently nudged Jack aside with her shoulder. “You can talk to me now, Brother North,” she continued. “Or I can come back later and bring one of my good friends who does happen to own one of those snazzy blue ATF jackets.” She paused, taking time to read the Ten Commandments, which were emblazoned on the wall behind North’s desk.
The pastor’s shoulders stiffened, and he sucked in a sharp breath through flared nostrils.
Bull’s-eye. Evie took out her phone.
With pinched lips, Brother North invited them to sit at a group of chairs before an unlit fireplace. “What is it you need, Agent Jimenez?”
“I need you to tell me why you threatened to blow up the Beauty Through the Ages art exhibit.”
“That’s not art but the devil’s work, and we were within our First Amendment rights to stage that protest. It was a peaceable assembly.”
“There was nothing peaceable about the note you sent to Jack Elliott threatening to set fire to his art collection.”
A light fired in the preacher’s eyes. “God’s words are so much more powerful than man’s. The Lord wanted to be heard; I was merely His vessel.”
“Yes, you certainly got our attention.” Evie needed to keep this guy talking. North took issue with the content, had a mission downtown, and didn’t shy away from explosives. “So why protest this particular collection?”
“It’s pornography, degrading to women, poison to men, and detrimental to families.”
Next to her Jack shifted, the fine fabric of his suit making whispery noises.
“I’d been preaching on the sanctity of the body at the same time one of the newspapers reported that Mr. Elliott had purchased the nude painting for more than one million dollars. All this while just blocks from the exhibit on Skid Row men and women and children were living on the st
reets and starving. I felt this was a real-world exercise in living out our faith and getting this important message out to others.”
“But you didn’t get much media attention, did you?” According to the reports from Jack’s people, not a single reporter covered the protest.
“The devil’s got hold of the media.” A vein popped out on North’s forehead. “Bunch of liberals who talk about truth but are well off the path.”
“This lack of media coverage upset you.” Because guys like North craved attention. They longed to have their messages heard.
“Agent Jimenez, you and I both know that the more witnesses the better,” North went on. “However, our efforts were not in vain. We shared our message with hundreds of people walking by. Some stopped long enough to hear about True North, and others took our literature.”
“So you’d label your protest a success?”
“Anytime a single follower turns to True North, we have success.” He pressed his palms together in front of his chest, his fingertips pointing to the heavens. “Simply put, just like you, Agent Jimenez, I want to save lives.”
“Yet you stockpile guns and explosives.”
“Strictly to protect the flock. I have a clear set of rules to guide me, including that one.” He pointed to the section of words behind his desk: Thou shall not kill.
Clearly this guy was giving off mixed messages. “What were you doing around lunchtime on Tuesday, October sixth?”
North ran a hand along his scraggly beard. “We have healing services for the aged on the first Mondays of the month, so I spent all day on Tuesday following up with prayer calls.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“My assistant can give you my phone records.”
Yes, the almighty assistant and right hand of God. “Please have her send them to me.” This guy may have an alibi, but he also had plenty of minions to do his will. She tossed her business card on the coffee table. “I’ll be in touch.”
When she reached the office door Jack still sat near the fireplace, his checkbook on his knee. He tore off a check and gave it to North, who flinched when he saw the name on the check but pocketed the money.
The guard escorted them past the gate, and once they reached Jack’s car, she asked, “You actually gave a donation to a man who all but called you and your art collection an enemy of the family?”
“Makes good business sense, especially in this deal, because after that exchange I’m sure you’re not done with North.” He reached for the door handle but didn’t open the door. “How’d you know about the munitions?”
“I didn’t.”
Jack laughed, the sound so unexpected and bold, it sent gooseflesh racing across her skin. “You were bluffing?”
“Don’t look at me like that.” She popped him on the upper arm, the flesh rock solid. “I’m sure you bluff all the time.”
“Of course, but I’m dealing with money, not life and death.”
She lifted her shoulders. “All the more reason to bluff.”
Jack remained motionless, only his eyes moving as he studied her with slow precision. Thirty seconds. One minute. Again she marveled at his steely control. At last he stepped from the car door. A half smile curved his lips as he tipped an imaginary cap.
Chapter Eight
Thursday, October 29
7:29 p.m.
By the time they fought traffic back to downtown L.A., darkness had set in. Evie had spent most of the drive researching the victims who’d been strapped to the first three bombs. One was a student, another an exotic dancer, and the last a waitress. While she tried to find links between the victims, Jack had spent much of the drive sneaking peeks at her laptop.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Evie had asked him.
“I signed off on the German deal today, and right now, I’m focusing my energies on these bombings.”
Evie no longer bothered arguing with him. It was like arguing with a brick. Or herself, she realized with a smile.
Jack drove toward the library where her car was parked, but the police had blocked off the street. Hundreds of men, women, and children holding tiny flickering candles marched down the street in front of the L.A. Public Library where the third bombing had occurred, singing a song about hearts holding on until the end of their troubles.
She breathed in the song, let it seep through her body. That’s why she was here, to end the troubles. When they reached a roadblock, Jack turned into an alley.
“You can drop me off here,” Evie said. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“You can’t just take off in the dark in the middle of downtown Los Angeles.”
“Jack, what part of federal agent do you not understand?” She unlocked the door. “Anyone who looks crossways at me should be worried.”
“True.” He pulled into a loading dock, which was empty at this time of night. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
She hopped out. “You really are a control freak.”
“Also true.” He spoke with an unabashed authority that grated against her spine.
“Do you ever lose an argument?” she asked with a snap.
“Only when I choose to,” he said with a flash of white teeth.
She raised her hands but fought back the urge to strangle him. Jack Elliott was cut from the same cloth as her boss, Parker Lord. He was the self-proclaimed master of his universe, which right now intersected with hers, and she was grateful. Not only had he made the art connection, he offered a sizable reward and expedited her meet and greet with Brother North.
The night was cool, and she wrapped her denim jacket tighter about her as they wove through the concrete maze of the downtown financial district, a graveyard at this time of night. No business suits or messengers on bikes. No hot dog vendors offering a quick lunch. No—
Crack! Something hot whizzed past her right shoulder. A chunk of the squat office building behind her shivered and exploded. She ducked and lunged at Jack just as he threw himself at her, curving his body around hers.
They slammed into the pavement. Her cheek ground into dirt and rock. Slivers of concrete and wood rained down on them. Jack’s chest pressed against her back, his heart booming as fast and hard as hers.
When the dust cleared, she pushed herself to her elbows, simultaneously pushing him off.
“What was that?” Jack asked.
“A bullet.” She scrambled to her feet and hauled out her Glock.
Jack bolted to her side. “What are you doing?”
“Going after the guy holding the gun.”
He grabbed her arm. “You’re running after someone who shot at us?”
“Yes, Jack. That’s what I do. Chase bad guys.” She pried his fingers from her arm and took off down the alley, calling over her shoulder, “Call Ricci. Tell him what happened and get me some backup.”
She sprinted down the alley and onto the street and swiveled her head. Key was finding someone moving fast. There. Big man. Brown bomber jacket.
“You’re mine, buddy.”
Evie sprinted down Olympic, her cowboy boots pounding. Bomber Jacket took off at a dead run. He hopped over a concrete bench and ducked into a small side street. She followed. The pavement grew uneven; the skyscrapers gave way to gray block buildings and deserted storefronts.
Footsteps clacked behind her. Her backup? The gunman’s buddy? She shot a glance over her shoulder and cursed. “I told you to call Ricci.”
Jack slipped his cell in his pocket. “Done.”
“Dammit, Jack, I don’t have time to look out for you.”
“Then don’t.”
She bit her bottom lip to keep from unleashing on him. Nothing could hurt this guy because he was padded with too much ego. She hopped the concrete wall and took off around the corner. A man selling mariscos wheeled in front of her. She leaped, diving through swirls of shrimp-flavored steam.
The shooter wove in and out of thick bolts of fur and fabric. He jammed his shoulder into a box of bolts, w
hich spilled across the sidewalk and into the street.
“Hey!” a shopkeeper yelled.
Evie hurdled over the bolts. She could make out blue jeans and a black baseball cap. And she smelled him. Man did she smell him. Ripe sweat.
She shimmied between cardboard boxes of ribbons and bows. The shooter crouched and disappeared into a sea of mannequins with fancy party dresses. She batted at lace and ruffles and darted through wide stiff skirts with hoops.
A good foot taller than her, Jack swiveled his head left and right. “Across the street.”
A blur of brown disappeared across the street behind a row of poufy bridesmaid dresses on headless mannequins. She pushed her way through a group of teenage boys. The shooter shoved at the mannequins, which fell like a set of human dominoes. He slipped into a crack between buildings.
She clawed her way over the downed plastic bodies. The crack was a narrow alley filled with metal garbage cans. And bad news for him, a wall of chain link topped with barbed wire spanned the far end. This close she could smell not just ripe sweat, but raunchy, ripe sweat. And this sweat ball was hers.
He ran at the fence and grabbed at the barbed wire. “Aargh!”
She grabbed his foot and yanked. The shoe slid off, and she fell on her ass. Silver flashed above her. A bullet zinged past her and into a garbage can. She ducked behind another garbage can as he threw his body over the barbed wire.
On the street, sirens blared and feet shuffled. Two uniformed officers ran into the alley.
“That way,” she told the officers between huffs of breath. “Bomber jacket, blue jeans, black baseball cap.” She held up the sneaker. “One shoe.” She kicked at the trash can. He was in her hands and slipped away.
The Blind Page 5