The Blind

by Shelley Coriell

  She pictured infants in swings, strollers, and their mothers’ arms. Stay safe.

  * * *

  8:59 a.m.

  The Paz de Cristo warehouse smelled of roasted turkey and unwashed bodies. Evie and Jack wound their way through row after row of picnic tables and benches to light spilling from a door leading to an industrial kitchen.

  A woman with plastic gloves and a potato peeler in her hand waved them in. “Excellent! So glad you’re here. A youth group from Pasadena was supposed to help, but their bus broke down on the One-Ten Freeway.”

  Evie took out her shield. “We’re looking for Officer Alfred Nunez? We were told he volunteers here every Sunday.” Paz de Cristo was one of downtown’s many outreach programs that served the hungry and homeless.

  “Yep. Great guy. He’s getting the last tier of the wedding cake.” The woman pointed her potato peeler at a two-tiered cake on the counter with red roses and gold piping. “He should be back in a few minutes.”

  Jack put on a pair of gloves and picked up a potato peeler and began to peel potatoes. Evie wasn’t surprised. He was a man most comfortable at work. And she liked that about him.

  “Someone getting married?” Evie motioned to the wedding cake.

  “The couple who bought the cake was supposed to get married yesterday, but the bride called it off right before she walked down the aisle,” the kitchen manager said. “Literally. She was watching her two little flower girls toss petals as they made their way toward the altar and realized she didn’t want to have kids with the man waiting at the end of the aisle for her. Heartbreaking for everyone, but I’m grateful they thought of us. The cake will easily feed two hundred of our guests.”

  As Jack started on his second potato, Officer Nunez, a twenty-year veteran of the streets of downtown L.A., walked in with more wedding cake. “You from Captain Ricci’s team?”

  Evie nodded. “Thanks for meeting with us.”

  “Hope I can be of help. This guy’s messing with my streets, and I want him stopped.” He set the cake on the counter. “What can I do?”

  Evie took Abby Elliott’s junior-year school photo from her bag. “Do you recognize this girl?”

  Officer Nunez rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “She’s a sweet-looking young woman but sad.”

  “At the time this picture was taken she was very sad,” Jack said.

  “She would have landed in the downtown area about fifteen years ago,” Evie added. “She was tall, about five-ten and thin. She was an—”

  “—artist,” Officer Nunez said with a snap of his fingers. “Yeah, I remember her. She was a painter. Used to sit outside on sunny days and paint. Luz was her name.”

  A spike of heat ran up Evie’s back. “That’s Spanish for light. Have you seen her recently?”

  Officer Nunez shook his head. “Not for years. She was one of the more talented artists and was working regularly down at one of the beaches. I figured things must have taken off for her and she got to a better place.”

  A place of light and laughter, Evie prayed. “But she lived down here?”

  “Yep, the Twin Citrus building off Santa Fe. It was one of those places with cheap rent, but a developer came in a few years ago and turned it into fancy lofts. No street kids hanging out there these days.”

  “Did the girl you knew as Luz have any friends?” Evie asked.

  “She was well-liked, always laughing, the kind of person who drew others to her.”

  “Any boyfriend?”

  “Not that I remember, but I only knew her for that one summer.”

  “Do you remember any young males, between the ages of fifteen and twenty, who may have been interested in her or maybe who she sat for as a model? A loner type. Also an artist who may have a bit of a darker side.”

  “Nothing comes to mind.”

  Evie handed him her card. “If you think of something, let me know.”

  Officer Nunez handed the photo back to Evie and tilted his chin at Jack who’d peeled the potato down to a stub. “Did you know her?”

  “She was my sister.” Jack’s throat convulsed. “I mean, is.”

  It was heartbreaking to watch Jack’s face. She couldn’t imagine being in his place, thinking one of her brothers long-dead but then having a sliver of hope lodge in her heart.

  Officer Nunez must have had a lurch in his own heart. He took off his apron and gloves. “You know, I can’t help you find Luz, but maybe I can help you find a piece of her.”

  The street cop took them to the Twin Citrus Lofts, which were five stories of half-million-dollar flats. “The developer spruced up the building, but he also wanted to stay true to this place’s roots.” Officer Nunez patted the smooth, white trunk of an orange tree. “He put the citrus trees out front to commemorate this place’s origins as a citrus-packing plant, and in a nod to the artists who once lived here, he maintained the original stairwell. Kind of cool. Even for an art-dud like me.”

  The on-site property manager let them in and showed them the stairwell. Evie stood on the bottom floor and looked up, a crazy kaleidoscope of color and shapes stretching above her. On the bottom floor were dozens of art pieces: a mural of the downtown skyline, a giant blue eyeball made with spray paint, and portraits in every shade of the rainbow.

  As they walked up the stairwell, Jack searched for Abby’s artwork, squatting low to the ground and standing on tiptoe. Evie looked for any art that spoke killer because it was possible this was the place Jack’s sister met Carter Vandemere. There were plenty of twisted faces, hopeless faces, lost and hurting faces, but none filled with terror that marked Vandemere’s work.

  On the fifth floor, Jack finally grew still. He stood in front of a chest-high landscape with a group of sea turtles swimming in a crystal-blue lagoon.

  “It’s one of hers.” Jack traced the tiny signature at the bottom, Abby, a smiling sun tucked in the loop of the Y, his finger tentative, as if not sure if the image existed or his eyes were playing tricks on him.

  Evie made no attempt to rush him. A clock was ticking, but he needed this time to remember what was and what could be. He pressed his hand into that sun, color and a smile flooding his face. “She’s alive.”

  She would never argue otherwise. As an Apostle, she couldn’t. Like Jon MacGregor, she would need proof positive of death before she’d ever give up hope that Abby Elliott was alive and painting in a place filled with sun.

  When Jack finally turned away, he got as far as the adjacent wall where he stopped again, this time before a portrait of a girl with a cat in her arms. The entire thing was done in black and white and oddly somber. It had a powerful pull, and Evie had stood before the image a good ten minutes before dragging herself away.

  “One of Abby’s from her darker days?” Evie asked.

  Jack shook his head. “She didn’t paint on her dark days, but I’ve seen something like this before.”

  “At one of the downtown galleries?”

  He took a step back, the lines around his mouth disappearing with realization. “No, it was at the Abby Foundation.”

  “A piece from one of your artists in residence?”

  “No, but someone who wanted to be. The foundation receives about five hundred grant applications every year, and once the selection committee narrows the applicant pool down to forty or fifty artists, I see the portfolios.”

  “Are you a judge?”

  Jack laughed. “No, I’m a control freak, as you would say. I want to be kept abreast of who we’re supporting.” He tapped his finger on the cat’s forehead. “I remember something very similar to this. Talented artist, but he didn’t make the cut.”

  Evie searched for a signature, but another artist who’d created a mural of a parking lot with spray paint had smudged the bottom of the girl and cat painting. “So, it’s possible this artist knew Abby.”

  “And the good news for us is that we have contact information on all Abby grant applicants.”

  * * *

  11:07 a.m. />
  On the second floor of the Abby Foundation, Jack hauled a storage box from the archive room and set it at Evie’s feet. Eight more followed. “There we go. Every grant application the foundation has received in the past five years.” He slapped the top of a box, a flurry of dust rising about them. “And every application includes a portfolio and written application, including an address and phone number.” Which could be key in finding an artist who may have known his sister.

  Evie slipped off a lid and thumbed through the folders. “You guys ever hear of computers? Amazing little things. So good at storing and organizing information.”

  Jack sat on the floor next to her. The storeroom was warm and stuffy, and he’d discarded his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “All of our applicants are required to send hard copies of portfolio pieces so we get a true representation of their work. Digital files, by the nature of computer screens, don’t.”

  Evie’s hands stilled on the files.

  “What?” Jack asked.

  “Your sleeves.”

  “What about them?”

  “You rolled them up.”

  “And this is significant?”

  Her teeth dug into her bottom lip as she studied him. It was the same look she gave the bits of bomb debris. “It’s different. You’re different.” With no further explanation, she dug back into the file folders. Dust floated around them. Already Evie wore a smudge of gray on her forehead and another on her right cheek. Because she was a woman not afraid to get dirty or ask tough questions, like about the women he took to his bed, who were strong, independent, and wildly successful in their chosen fields. Evie to a T.

  “Here we go,” Evie said as she pulled out a folder thirty minutes later. “Here’s another sad girl in black and white, but this time she has a bird clutched in her hands.”

  Jack peeked over her shoulder; her hair, which smelled of berries, tickled his nose. “I’d say that’s the same artist. What’s the name?”

  Evie flipped to the application page and sucked in a breath. “Vandemere, Carter.” She flipped through the rest of the portfolio. “But how could that be? These aren’t as graphic as the images on his online portfolio.”

  Jack swung his body so he sat next to her, his shoulder pressing into hers. He could feel the tremor. Was it him, her? “Work like his online art would have no chance in getting a grant from the Abby Foundation.”

  “But these definitely have an edge.” She paused at a portrait of a woman leaving bloody footprints in a garden.”

  Jack dug through the papers and pulled out the first page of the application. The fist clenching his heart let up. “Here’s his address. It’s in a low-rent area off Seventh.”

  Next to him Evie had once again grown still.

  “Did you hear me, Evie?” He gave the paper a victorious shake. “We have his address. Right here.”

  Slowly, she raised the final page of the application package, which included notes from the applicant jury and a large red REJECTED stamp. “Look at the date,” her voice wavered.

  “August eighth of last year,” Jack said, his forehead scrunching into a series of sharp folds. “Is it significant?”

  “That’s exactly one year from the first bombing.” Evie’s hand shook, the paper rustling. “This rejection—from the Abby Foundation, from you—was the seminal event that tripped his wire and pushed him over the edge.”

  Jack reached for his phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Ricci. We need to get a team out to this address. We’ve got him.” Then they would get Abby.

  Evie took the phone from his hand and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “We are not doing anything. Jack, this rejection date is one more link between you and the bomber, and I sure as hell am not going to take you to his front door. I want you back in your office and behind your desk where I know you’ll be safe.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sunday, November 1

  1:37 p.m.

  The warehouse building Carter Vandemere listed as his residence sported seven boarded-up windows, four chunks of missing awning, and one stray pug peeing on the cracked front steps.

  They’d been watching the building, which had initially been used as a tire warehouse, for the past two hours. Except for the peeing pug, Evie had seen no signs of life.

  Cho was on the roof next door, and a half dozen squad cars were posted within the square block. Jack was tucked securely in his office. Evie knew because she’d deposited him on the marble doorstep and watched him walk through the etched glass doors. When it came to these bombings, everything kept coming back to Jack: the Beauty Through the Ages collection, the connection to his sister, and now the date of the first bombing coinciding with the day Vandemere was rejected by the Abby Foundation.

  Evie flexed her fingers. “It’s time.”

  Ricci settled mirrored sunglasses in place, looking even more Hollywood than usual. Evie scrubbed the cuff of her denim jacket on the grimy window of the bottom floor. The single vast room was empty but for a pair of broken chairs, a pile of sun-rotted tires, and stacks of what looked like empty meat and cheese tray holders.

  Ricci pointed to the flight of stairs crisscrossing the back of the building. On the top floor they found an entrance to four apartments. She checked for pressure-sensitive boards, trip wires, and packets of irritants. None. She unholstered her Glock and inched toward the door with a handwritten number three.

  Rap, rap, rap.

  Refrigerated trucks at the Asian foods warehouse across the street hummed.

  Rap, rap, rap.

  Blades of light slipped through the barred window at the far end of the hall. A lock clicked. Her pulse spiked. The door opened a crack. An eye blinked.

  She held up her shield. “Agent Evie Jimenez, FB—”

  The door slammed. Something on the other side crashed.

  “Got us a runner!” Evie took two steps back. Ricci opened the door as far as the chain would allow. She landed a kick square on the chain. A chunk of door frame groaned and splintered.

  They rushed in, leading with their firearms. A bare white ass disappeared down a hall. She hurdled over an upended table and pounded down the hall and into a small bathroom where she found him trying to climb out the window.

  “I am packing a gun, and you are not. My gun is pointed at your lily-white ass. What I do with my gun and how it affects your ass are up to you.”

  * * *

  1:40 p.m.

  Evie flicked the driver’s license onto the table. Edward Lagos. California resident. Male. Age twenty-five. The guy was unmarried, lived alone, and had some serious antisocial tendencies. He hadn’t once looked her in the eye.

  “So why’d you run?” Evie asked.

  “I thought my landlord sent you. I’m two months behind on rent.”

  “Since when do sworn agents of the federal government go door to door to collect rent?” She leaned her shoulder against a metal shelving unit covered in flowering plants.

  “Give me a break,” Lagos said. “You woke me after forty-eight straight hours of work.”

  And from the looks of this place, Lagos didn’t work with circuit boards, switches, reels of wire, batteries, or propane cylinders. Not a whiff of PVC glue, sulfur, or gunpowder. The man liked flowers.

  She pushed away from the sugary plants and walked to a three-foot canvas perched on an easel in the center of the room. “You don’t have anything with, say, people in it?”

  “I don’t do people.”

  “Nothing with beautiful women?”

  “I prefer the beauty of botanicals.”

  Evie poked at the canvases behind the sofa and stacked on the kitchen table. She had to try. “Do you ever use a pseudonym?”

  “No.”

  She placed the knuckles of her fists on either side of the chair he was sitting in and looked him in the eye. “Ever hear of Carter Vandemere?”

  One twitch. One blink of an eye. That’s all she needed to nail this guy.
Her palms itched.

  His face remained as flat and soft as the flowers on his canvases. “No.”

  She pushed off and went back to the window. If this guy was a bomber, she was a beauty queen contestant.

  “How long have you lived here, Mr. Lagos?” Ricci asked.

  “Skylar. My name is Skylar Lake, and I moved in six months ago.”

  “Did you know the former occupant?”

  “No. He was long gone by the time I got here. Landlord kicked him out. Even sold off a bunch of his stuff.” He frowned at Evie. “That’s why I was worried. The guy who owns this place is a money-grubbing capitalist pig.”

  After wrapping up the interview with the flower guy, Evie and Ricci headed down the steps to hunt down the landlord who might have references, next of kin, or something on Carter Vandemere. It was like those dot-to-dot puzzles her nephews worked. One dot led to another. She just had to keep chasing damn dots.

  On the bottom floor of Lagos’s apartment building, Evie spotted movement at the far end of the alley. She spun on her boot heel.

  Ricci raised an eyebrow. “You want to check it out?”

  A matted black cat slipped out from behind a garbage bin, and she shook her head. “Let’s go talk to a money-grubbing capitalist pig.”

  * * *

  3:09 p.m.

  James Horvath III was the owner of Jimmy Ho’s Wash & Go coin-operated car washes. In addition to the car washes, he owned three rental properties, including the old warehouse building Carter Vandemere had listed as his residence on his Abby Foundation grant application.

  They found the self-professed king of car washes in a cinder-block office behind the original Wash & Go in East L.A. off Whittier Boulevard. For a guy who made his living with soap and water, Jimmy Ho was a dirt bag. He wore enough gold chains around his neck to pay for two nephews’ orthodontics.

  “Yep, that’s my place,” Jimmy Ho said when Evie asked him about the warehouse property off Sixth Street. “Old pile of shit, but you wanna know something? There are plenty of people who want to rent old piles of shit. Had a film production company last month that rented the bottom floor for two weeks. Made some serious green. Green’s everywhere, even in old piles of shit.”