“Now what do you feel?” Evie asked.
“Sand between my toes. Warm sand.”
Next to him Evie made a soft grumbling noise. Sand rained gently on the tops of his feet. “Now what do you feel?”
This woman wasn’t going to let up. With a deep breath, he tilted his head back and let the thoughts drain from his mind. No bomber. No destruction. No work. No digging into his past. No worrying about the future. The only thing that existed was this moment with a barefoot woman on the beach. Again, a shower of powdery sand fell on his feet. “I feel rain without water. Tiny bits of sky falling on my feet.”
“Beautiful!” A hand slipped into his and led him across the sand, the warm granules growing cool. “Now what?” A soft hitch, one of wondrous expectation, edged her words.
“I’m walking through frosty sugar.”
“And what do you hear?”
He rolled his head along his shoulders. “Waves. Whispering to one another. Telling secrets.”
She grew silent, and he opened his eyes. She stood next to him, her gaze transfixed on the ocean set afire by the setting sun. At last she inched up on her toes and landed a kiss on his lips, a hot and fleeting spark. “Thank you.”
He was about to ask for what, when he remembered what she’d said. When one of your senses falters, the others take over. She couldn’t hear the soft sounds, the hush-hush whisper of the ocean that he and most other people took for granted.
Chapter Nineteen
Sunday, November 1
6:44 p.m.
Here are the photos you requested, Agent Jimenez, and as soon as Rene Masson’s brother calls, I’ll patch him through.”
“Thank you.” Evie took the three massive binders from the LAPD clerk who worked the records section of the Pacific Community substation that served Venice. She handed them to Jack. “You know, I could really get used to having an extra set of hands around, Mr. Chauffeur.”
Jack set the folders on the table and held out a chair for her. “Anything else?”
“A second set of eyes?” She slid one of the binders his way.
Together they searched through hundreds of pages of records in the investigation of Rene Masson’s murder following a B&E last year: witness statements, diagrams, reports from latent, and hundreds of crime scene pics.
“What exactly did the shooter steal?” Jack asked.
Evie flipped through the property report. “Looks like he busted into the petty cash drawer and emptied it. According to Masson’s records, he kept about three hundred dollars in there.”
“Interesting that he’d take the petty cash but leave behind an eight-thousand-dollar Rolex.” Jack pointed to the watch on the victim’s right wrist.
Evie looked at the timepiece. A nice work of art in gold and diamonds. “So the shooter’s deadly and dumb.”
Thumbing through the final binder, Evie studied Masson’s autopsy pictures. Single GSW to the back of the head. Smart shot. Experienced shooter. No defense wounds. Multiple contusions to the face upon impact with the floor. Upper right shoulder—
“Oh shit,” she said on a rush of air.
Jack snapped his gaze from the binder.
She pointed to a red patch of raw flesh on Masson’s shoulder. A perfect square, as if someone had taken an X-Acto knife and stripped away a two-inch piece of skin.
“Hey, Campo,” she called out to the homicide detective investigating Masson’s murder. “We need a bit of illumination. What’s up with Masson’s shoulder?”
“Yeah, we wondered about that,” Campo said. “We thought maybe he had some medical work done, but we checked and didn’t find anything.”
“Could it be gang related?” Evie asked. She was about to make a big jump, and she needed debris cleared. “I know some initiation rites for new members include bringing home proof from victims.”
“Haven’t seen any of that around here.”
“But I’ve seen it before,” Jack said.
So had Evie. A ripple of gooseflesh cascaded over her body. In the pages of pictures she viewed every night before bed: “Lisa Franco, the bomber’s third victim, had a patch of skin like this taken from her right shoulder. These things are most likely souvenirs, little mementos for the killer to take out at his leisure and enjoy. Helps him reminisce and remember the good times.”
The homicide detective took a seat at the table. “You’re thinking your bomber killed my vic? What’s his motivation?”
Her mind whirred through all the things she knew about Vandemere. “Masson agreed to sponsor an art show for Vandemere but didn’t get many, if any, interested buyers. The gallery owner, needing his valuable real estate, gave Vandemere the boot.”
“A rejection,” Jack said. “We’re starting to see a pattern.”
“Exactly, and I’m beginning to think Vandemere had a series of rejections that sent him over the edge.”
Campo put both hands behind his neck and squeezed. “You just flipped my investigation on its ass.”
“Mine, too.” Because Vandemere’s canvas just got bigger. “He’s not afraid to kill beyond his art and with weapons other than bombs.”
* * *
9:54 p.m.
“Take a right and pull up to the Mexican food place,” Evie said.
“Interesting choice,” Jack said. Everything about Evie was interesting. That knot of hair. Her bare feet in the sand. Where she chose to eat a late-night dinner.
“I like spicy food,” she said. “Reminds me of home.”
Jack squeezed out of her rental and rested his hands on the hood. “And you just happened to pick the restaurant where Lisa Franco, the Angel Bomber’s last victim, worked as a waitress?”
“It’s a business dinner. We’ll eat, and I’ll get a little business done on the side.”
A woman after his own heart.
Inside the restaurant, they sat at a corner booth where Evie had a full view of the restaurant. One by one she studied the staff members and tables full of customers. He picked up a chip and dabbed it into a bowl of salsa with bright orange chunks.
“Wait!” Evie grabbed his hand. “That one has habaneros in it.” She dipped her chip into the salsa and bit. “Definitely habaneros. You might want to try that one.” She pointed to the other small bowl with pale green chiles.
Jack dipped his chip in the habanero salsa and took a bite. “Not bad.”
She stared, then reached across the table and tapped his forehead. “Not a drop of sweat. You’ve been full of surprises today. First poetry on the beach and now spicy salsa. What else are you hiding under that fancy suit?” Her gaze was bold.
He’d love to face Evie in a boardroom. And a bedroom. He scooped up another mound of salsa. He blamed that random thought on her boots against his ass, not to mention the kiss she’d landed on his lips. “You know about chiles?”
Evie took another chip and dipped. “I grew up in New Mexico surrounded by chiles and horses.”
“You ride?”
“Some. My folks couldn’t afford a horse, so I worked out a deal with a woman who owned a stable in our neighborhood. The deal involved a shovel, mountains of horse crap, and a sweet little old appaloosa named Noggin.”
“So the boots are legit?”
Evie’s chip paused above the salsa bowl. “’Scuse me?”
“The boots, jacket, and jeans, they’re not part of some act to position you in a more authoritative role with the people you work with on both sides of the law.”
“An act?” She laughed. “As a girl I never played dress-up. For better or for worse, I’m the real deal, Jack. What you see is what you get.”
* * *
11:25 p.m.
Evie held true to her word and did business through much of dinner. She questioned the bartender, two waitresses, and the busboy who’d worked with Lisa Franco the night she disappeared. No one reported noticing anything unusual or disconcerting about Lisa or any of the patrons that night. A good thing for her, her dinner companion didn’t
seem to mind. She loved that Jack wasn’t intimidated by her work.
After dinner, the waiter brought them the check, and when he placed it in front of Jack, Evie tried to snag it.
Jack’s fingers tightened around the paper. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I invited you to dinner. I will take care of it.”
Jack didn’t move, as if he didn’t understand the language she spoke. She didn’t budge. At last he let go of the check. “Thank you.”
She knew this was some kind of power play. Being with Jack was like being in a boxing match. Jabbing and ducking and occasionally touching. Like that moment on the beach when she’d risen to her toes and kissed him. The action had been spontaneous, surprising even her, but she didn’t regret it. She was attracted to powerful things, and this man was all about power.
They waited at the table until the busy manager finally had a moment to talk.
“I don’t remember anyone but regulars that night,” the manager said. “Like I told the police, I don’t remember anyone acting odd or particularly interested in Lisa.”
“What time did she leave?” Evie asked.
“She closed the place. So it was probably around eleven thirty or so.”
“Did she leave alone?”
“I walked with her. We keep the street parking for customers, so we went to the parking lot on the corner.”
“You escorted her to her car?”
“Not that night. Lisa stopped to talk with the cat girl.”
“Cat girl?”
“Young homeless woman who has a bunch of cats. Lisa had a soft spot for the street kid and used to take her and the cats leftover fish tacos.”
Outside Jack didn’t question where they were going or why they didn’t take her car. Her boots needed to be on the street. The night was crisp and cool. Jack’s suit still looked like it came straight from a magazine ad. He was clearly out of place among the street people, but as she was finding out, he had his uses. Like straddling her leg and slipping off her boot. She could still feel the taut muscles of his thighs.
She found a quartet of men sitting on milk crates in an alley. “We’re looking for the cat girl,” Evie said.
“Do I got four-one-one written on my forehead?” one of the men quipped.
Evie took out her shield. She had to try. “Would you care to rethink your answer?”
Another man scratched the beanie slung low over his forehead. “Wasn’t she over at the dining hall off Second tonight?”
“Nah, that was Bat Man. I last saw Cat Girl at the hot dog stand in Gotham City.”
The men snickered. Evie turned to Jack and held out her hand, and with a straight face he pulled a bill from his wallet.
She waved the hundred-dollar bill in the air. “There’s one more if I actually find the girl at the location you give.”
The men grumbled among themselves, and a skinny one with a sore oozing on his left arm pointed behind them. “Try the alley behind the second produce warehouse. There’s a little space with an awning where she sometimes hangs.”
As they took off down the alley, Jack settled his hand at her back. “He’s a tweaker.”
“Yep, and every one of those dollars is going straight into his arm.”
Behind a row of produce warehouses that smelled of overripe melon, they picked their way through uneven pavement and wooden pallets. Light from the street didn’t reach this far, and shadows huddled and shifted.
At the second building under an awning, a pair of yellow, slitted eyes stared at her. Something at the back growled, a sound too low to be a cat. Evie slipped under the awning and found a young woman sitting against the wall, a tabby in her lap.
“I’m Special Agent Evie Jimenez, and I’d like to talk to you about Lisa Franco. She worked at the Mexican restaurant on the corner.” She squatted. “Four weeks ago you spoke with Lisa over by the car park. She gave you a bag of fish tacos.”
The girl edged back. She was so bundled up in layers, it was hard to tell her age and build.
“Your friend died the next day. You were most likely the last person to talk to her before she was abducted. Do you remember seeing anyone following her?”
The girl hissed and spat at Evie’s hand.
Jack sat on a stack of pallets. “Your cat is beautiful. What’s her name?”
The girl with the cat in her lap snapped her gaze to his shoe. “Bella.”
“Bella,” Jack repeated, his voice wrapped in the same softness of the sugary sands of Venice Beach. “Who are the others?”
“Simon, Topper, and Crook. They’re feral.” She leaned toward Jack but still didn’t meet his gaze. “They don’t like most people.”
“Your friend, Lisa. Did the cats like her?”
“Bella did. Lisa used to bring us stuff from the restaurant.” She scratched under the cat’s chin. “Bella loved the fish tacos.”
“I bet she did.” Jack stared at his shoes. “I bet Bella misses Lisa.”
“She does.” The cat girl dug her fingers into the scruff of the feline’s neck. “She really does.”
“I bet you do, too.”
The girl shrugged.
“He’s a bad man,” Jack continued. There was a simple rawness to his words, and Evie knew a part of him was thinking about Abby. Had the bad man done anything to his sister?
The girl hugged the cat to her chest.
Jack remained where he was but his words grew softer, drawing the girl closer. “The man who took Lisa could hurt Bella.”
The girl and the cat started to rock. “He…he hasn’t been around since that night.”
Thank you, Jack. Thank you. Thank you. Evie sat on the pallet, wooden splinters digging into her butt, and forced her lips to stay closed.
“Do you know his name?” Jack continued.
“No, but I’ve seen him around a few times.”
“Does he live around here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does he live on the streets?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He doesn’t smell like the street.”
On the streets of Albuquerque, Evie’s dad had worked with those who called the streets home. On workdays he’d come home smelling of sun, ripe sweat, dust, oil from the asphalt, and a dash of despair.
“What does he look like?” Evie asked. “Hair color? Eyes?”
The young woman buried her face in the scruff of the cat’s neck.
“What kind of shoes did he have?” Jack asked. “Work boots? Tennis shoes?”
The girl rocked faster. “Dress shoes. He wore shiny dress shoes.”
“Big? Little?”
“Medium. Kind of skinny. Brown.”
Evie pictured the giant tennis shoe of the man who took a shot at her and Jack.
“If you ever see him again, can you call me?” Evie held out her card. The cat girl turned away.
Jack took out one of his cards and set it on the curb. “To keep Bella and the others safe.”
As they walked away, the cat girl picked up Jack’s card and slipped it between her layers of clothes.
* * *
11:53 p.m.
“You gonna tell me you learned that at Harvard?” Evie asked when they reached her rental car.
“No.”
Evie stopped in front of the driver’s side door, blocking his way. He could try to physically move her, but given the fiery glint in her eye, that would most likely lead to a scorch mark or two on his suit. He could tell she wanted answers and wasn’t backing down.
He slid his hand in his pocket, his fingers tapping the keys. “I learned it on the streets of New York,” he said.
“Spent a lot of time there?”
“A bit.”
She rested her butt on the car door. “Who are you, Jack?”
“Haven’t we been down this road before?”
“Yep, and it looks like you took me on a little detour.” She crossed her legs at t
he ankles. “So how did you end up on the streets of New York?” For someone who looked so relaxed, she was holding on tight. She wasn’t about to let go.
He settled back against the car. “After the accident, my mother couldn’t look me in the eye. She didn’t say it, but she blamed me for Abby’s death. I picked that spot on the river. I was driving the car. And I let go.”
“More importantly, you blamed you.”
“Yeah, I did. I was beating myself up, and it got pretty bloody. A few months after the accident I finally took off. New York was close and big, the perfect place to get lost.”
“Did you get lost?”
He rubbed at the center of his forehead where life had handed him a few hard knocks. “For a while. I spent some time in some pretty ugly places, saw a lot of ugly things, did a few, too. Got in more than my share of fights. It’s not a part of my past I’m proud of.”
A cloud passed over Evie’s face as she stood and reached for her car keys. “We all have parts of our pasts we want to forget.”
Chapter Twenty
Monday, November 2
6:02 a.m.
Why, there you are, Evie!” Mrs. Francis, the night clerk at the EZ-Rest Motel, set a fresh batch of muffins on the front desk counter. “I was getting ready to send out the hounds for you. You must have gotten in pretty late last night. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s great,” she said. Her teammate Jon MacGregor was in town hunting down Jack’s missing sister, she and Jack had tracked Vandemere to the Abby Foundation, and last night they got a visual lead from a girl who liked cats.
“You let me know if you need anything for your room,” Mrs. Francis continued. “I asked housekeeping to leave you two bottles of shampoo for all that beautiful hair of yours, and I made another batch of blueberry muffins. I saw how much you enjoyed them the other morning. I take it you’re not one of those girls who’s afraid of fat and sugar and gluten, are you?”
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