Claire stormed out of his office, the door slamming and rattling the Murano glass on a nearby shelf.
He turned to Brady, who tucked the report under his arm and headed for the door. “Don’t look at me. I’m afraid of both of them.”
Jack opened the report on the Seattle deal, but he couldn’t see the words. He thumbed through the notes on the project with Matsumoto, but it may as well have been written in Japanese. He bolted up from his desk, his chair rolling and crashing into the credenza. He stood in front of the wall of glass. Below him thousands of people walked and talked and went about their business.
Business wasn’t on his mind. Evie was. She crowded every inch of his head and heart. Claire had accused him of taking Evie’s power. A laugh caught in his throat. Impossible. The only person able to put out the fire in Evie was Evie.
The sharp tap of footsteps sounded behind him. Red cowboy boots? He spun, trying not to frown. Shiny black loafers. “Good morning, Agent MacGregor,” Jack said.
“My apologies for interrupting, but your executive assistant wasn’t at her desk,” Agent MacGregor said. “Do you have a moment?”
Jack had all day because he wasn’t getting a damn thing done thanks to his thoughts about Evie. “Of course.”
“I have news about Abby.”
Jack braced his hands on his desk. “You got DNA results from the sun tattoo?”
“No.” Agent MacGregor held up a manila envelope and motioned to the small table and a pair of leather bucket chairs near the window. A place to share a cocktail and chat about the Los Angeles Lakers. A place to do business. “I have some photos I need you to take a look at.”
A place for answers. Knowns, Evie would call them. Jack took the seat across from Agent MacGregor. Fifteen years ago, Abby had slipped out of his hands. His fingernails dug into the flesh of his palms.
“I’ve been following up on some cold homicide cases, Jack, and came across this one.” Agent MacGregor pulled out a thin stack of papers. Five, maybe six pages.
Jack’s jaw spasmed. He had deal memos longer than that.
“The victim was a teenage girl discovered fifteen years ago in a park in Orange County.”
Jack stared at those pages. Squiggles on paper. Letters. Words. A story. He motioned for Agent MacGregor to continue.
“Police worked the case for months. No trace evidence. No witnesses. No leads.” Agent MacGregor reached into the envelope again.
“But you have photos.”
“From the coroner’s office. We need you to verify if the deceased young woman found in the Orange County park is your sister.”
Jack closed his eyes. He pictured the bits and pieces of flesh left behind from Vandemere’s bombs. Had the sick, broken artist tortured Abby? Had she felt pain and terror and the deadly chill of darkness with no hope? His gut tightened. Evie was right. Unknowns were a bitch. He opened his eyes and nodded.
Agent MacGregor placed a single photo on the table, one of a beautiful girl in a flowing white dress lying on the grass, face lifted to the sun, golden hair spread out like a halo. “The homicide detective working the case called her Angel Girl,” MacGregor said.
Jack traced the flawless curve of her cheek, the smooth slope of her arm, the tips of her toes painted with pink nail polish. No, not just a girl. Not a nameless angel. A warm rush of blood rocked his fingertips.
“It’s Abby.” Despite the tightness in his throat, the words flowed with ease. Maybe because he’d started this journey seeking only her remains. He slid his finger to the center of her chest where her heart had once beaten with deeply felt sorrows and joys. “How?”
“Asphyxiation.” The single word, drummed from cold, hard facts, was softly delivered. “Bruising on the neck indicates manual means. Lack of trauma to other body parts and no defense wounds lead us to believe she went quickly.”
A matter of seconds? Minutes? Jack pressed his lips together. “The missing skin?”
“From her right shoulder, taken post-mortem.” Agent MacGregor nudged the envelope toward him. “There are additional photos if you need to see them and a detailed report from both the coroner and the investigating officer.” He rested both forearms on the table and leaned toward Jack. “From what I’ve been able to learn, Douglas Woltz fell in love with your sister, but she didn’t return the feelings. Abby was too much in love with the world back then. My guess is she rejected Woltz. She told him no more little gifts, no more paintings, no more stalking. Woltz snapped, choking her in a fit of rage that probably surprised them both. He regretted his actions and placed her body where it would be found and tended to, because he wasn’t a killer, not back then. Before he let her go, he took a piece of her, the sun she loved so much.”
Jack stared at his hands, just inches away from the envelope that contained the proof positive he’d been searching for of his sister’s death. Page after page of reports. Dozens of photos. But did he want to see it all? Did he need to?
“I also found this.” Agent MacGregor reached into his briefcase and took out another envelope, this one fatter. “It’s Abby’s artwork from her time at The Colony. I tracked down one of her roommates who’d kept them all these years. Her friend said she couldn’t get rid of the drawings and paintings because they were too beautiful.” He placed the fat envelope on the table.
Jack stared from one envelope to the other. One of death. One of life. Business was all about choices. Choosing the right people, the right numbers, and the right timing. For the first time in fifteen years, he had Abby within reach, just inches from his fingertips.
With rock-steady hands, he picked up the fat envelope and opened the flap. The contents spilled out, like the sun on a cloudless summer day in L.A.
* * *
12:37 p.m.
The Los Angeles Toy District, a couple of squarish blocks between Little Tokyo and the Fashion District, had hundreds of dolls. Pocket-size dolls bundled by the gross. Dolls that took a bottle and peed. Dolls that burped. Dolls that could say mama and bye-bye.
Evie picked up a doll that could reportedly give hugs. She flicked the switch on the back, and two hard, plastic arms jerked, the metal grinding. Not a good choice. The doll looked more robot than human, and right now, Evie needed a lifelike doll because Carter Vandemere was an artist, a visual guy. She needed a baby with blond curls and soft, fleshy skin, a baby that looked real.
Making her way through a crowd queued up before a vendor selling sizzling hot dogs wrapped in bacon, she crossed the street to another toy wholesaler with stacks of bulk hula hoops and cases of yo-yos. She poked through a table display of leggy dolls with big boobs and tiny waists and a box of baby dolls with plastic hair.
A small Asian woman waved a doll with red pigtails. “Baby for five bucks.”
“Not quite what I need,” Evie said.
“What you need?” The woman curled her finger at Evie, inviting her closer. “Tell me, and I find you something special.”
Evie pictured the doll in Murillo’s Mother and Child portrait. “I need a beautiful baby with soft skin and hair the color of the sun.”
The Asian woman’s face wrinkled, like an apple left too long in the sun. “Don’t have that down here. Mostly cheap overseas crap.” She tapped her chin. “But I help.”
Her tiny feet, outfitted in purple satin slippers with gold thread, slipped through the busy sidewalks of the Toy District, Evie at her heels. Even though it was noon on a Friday, bodies thronged the sidewalks. Evie ran to keep pace with the small woman as they threaded their way through the crowd.
“Shu-Shu help,” the woman said as she ducked through a forest of scooters and plastic suitcases into a toy shop.
A small Hispanic man with no teeth grinned and took her to a bin at the back where stacks of baby dolls with clumps of polyester hair and painted pink cheeks were stacked. He dug into a cabinet under the display and pulled out a doll made of soft, flesh-toned fabric. It wore a pair of footed pajamas like her baby nephews wore and had soft, sun-co
lored wisps of hair and an angelic face.
Like little Angela Delgado’s.
Maybe, just maybe, if the light was right and Carter Vandemere wasn’t looking too closely, this would work.
“Or maybe this one,” the man next to her said. “The eyes are more lifelike.”
Evie took the doll, which was much lighter but made of hard plastic. The eyes had long lashes, the kind that fluttered up and down depending on the position. She brought the doll upright.
Her blood froze. The doll eyes, glass blue marbles, had been crossed out with a thick black marker.
She spun, searching for the man who’d handed her the doll. Not the one called Shu-Shu, the other one who’d been at her side.
Him. Carter Vandemere. Douglas Woltz.
Evie grabbed the shopkeeper. “The man standing next to me looking at dolls, where did he go?”
Shu-Shu pointed to the front door.
Evie pushed through bins of plastic balls in every color of the rainbow. She shoved aside a woman looking at pails of colored chalk and buckets of beads. She burst onto the street. Shoppers with giant black bags crowded the sidewalk. “Thin man, buzz cut,” she said to the people in front of the toy shop. “Have you seen him?”
They shook their heads.
She grabbed the vendor selling iced fruit. “Man running out of the shop. Which way did he go?”
“Don’t know.”
Evie stood in the middle of the street, turning in a slow circle. Carter Vandemere, the Angel Bomber, had been at her side. He’d handed her a baby with hair the color of the sun and eyes marked for death. Now he was gone. She brought the baby, the one with the crossed-out eyes, to her chest and hugged it.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Friday, November 6
1:02 p.m.
He was at my side, breathing against my neck.” Evie rested her fists on the top of Ricci’s car. “All I needed to do was look up. Then one kick to the groin or a hand to the throat, and he’d be down. He’d be in our hands.”
“He will be,” Hayden assured her.
“Do you think this affects the plans for the switch?” Ricci asked.
Hayden shook his head. “If anything, it shows his level of investment in Evie. He wants her in that painting, and he’s following her, ready to make a move.”
“No phone call?” Evie asked Freddy, who’d been tucked into the backseat of Ricci’s unit.
“Nothing yet.”
But she’d had something. She’d had him. She popped her fists on the hood. She’d been so focused on finding a lifelike baby that she’d failed Cop 101: Be aware of your surroundings. He’d been there. Close enough to smell his roasted coffee breath.
She pushed off the car as a black limo pulled up to the police barricade. No, God, please, please no.
The limo stopped and less than a minute later took off, revealing the one man she didn’t want to see, didn’t need to see. For a moment, she considered ducking into one of the winding alleys, but she couldn’t hide, not from this man.
“Good afternoon, Evie.”
She clasped her hands behind her back. That way he couldn’t see them shaking. “Hey there, Parker.”
Her former boss nodded to Ricci. “Excuse us, please.”
Ricci turned, and she grabbed his shirtsleeve. “No, it’s okay. Everyone can stay.”
“Everyone can leave.” Parker nodded once. Every person near the barricade jumped to attention and left: Ricci, Hayden, Knox, three uniforms. Only Freddy Ortiz didn’t budge.
“Everyone,” Parker repeated.
Sweat beaded on Freddy’s forehead as he studied the cracks in the sidewalk. She almost laughed. From the moment she’d met him, he’d been like a sticky piece of gum she couldn’t get from the bottom of her shoe.
“Give us a minute, Freddy.” Evie gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be okay.”
Freddy looked from her to Parker, giving her boss a tilt of his chin—apparently permission to engage with Evie—before he walked to the end of the barricade where he parked his wide butt, his gaze pinned on them.
“You have an admirer,” Parker said.
“Business partner. We’re bomb consultants. Have something that goes boom? We’re in the room.” She tried to smile, but her lips spasmed.
Parker took a yellow legal notepad from the right pocket of his wheelchair. “Status?”
When Parker asked questions, people answered. Termination of employment didn’t change a thing. “Vandemere is still expected to plant the IED sometime today,” Evie said. “Probably after sunset given the dark background of the portrait and possibly in an area with Christian symbols. We’re waiting for him to reveal time and location for the switch. In the interim, tactical is on alert, and Ricci has doubled patrols in the downtown area.”
Parker jotted a few notes, then tapped the tip of the pen on the pad. “No attempts from the Hostage Rescue Team?”
“Hayden doesn’t think Vandemere is the type to go for a talk-down, but Hatch will be on site and try to engage him when he calls Ortiz.”
“And you?” Tap. Tap. Tap.
“As soon as we get the call, I’ll head in with the doll. The goal is to catch sight of him and pick him off. I’ll grab the girl and disarm the IED. Each device has had a thirty-second delay, and I’ll have no issue rendering it safe.”
“I have no doubt you will.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “You think he’s going to go for the doll.”
She scratched at a stain on her sleeve. “I pray he goes for the doll.”
After taking a few more notes, Parker tucked his pen in his pocket and looked her squarely in the eye. “I made a mistake, Evie.”
A feather of something light and warm tickled her chest.
“I should not have doubted your ability and judgment for any length of time,” Parker continued. “I should not have pulled you from the task force.”
She wanted to have a hard heart, to turn her back on this man who turned his back on her, if even for a moment, but she couldn’t. “Then why did you?” The words came out with a soft waver. Yeah, it hurt like hell to admit how much this man’s opinion meant to her.
“A man I know and respect and trust tells me you are in love and talking about marriage and kids. To say I was shocked was putting it mildly. Simply put, Jack Elliott dropped a bomb on me.”
Evie’s knees finally gave, and she plunked onto the barricade so she was eye-level with Parker. “You’re not the only one.”
Parker’s hand settled on her shoulder. He squeezed, and she put her hand over his. “In that moment, Evie, I had a sliver of doubt about you, about your mental and emotional and physical state. In that moment, I decided to fly out and see with my own eyes what kind of state you were in, and after seeing you, it’s clear you’re healthy and capable. I’m sorry, Evie.”
Evie didn’t play games; she didn’t know how. Nor did she hang on to anger and resentment because crap like that oozed and festered and filled the void of broken, empty human beings like Douglas Woltz. “I forgive you.”
Parker spun his wheelchair and headed for Hayden. “And Evie,” he called over his shoulder.
“Yes, sir?” She took off after him.
“I am not accepting your resignation. You are still a member of my team and a sworn agent of the U.S. government. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want a case conference with status reports from every lead, including contingency plans if Vandemere fails to attempt the switch.”
“Yes, sir.” Her boots made happy sounds as she hurried back to the toy store to buy the doll.
* * *
2:09 p.m.
It was after two in the afternoon, and Carter Vandemere had not yet made contact. Evie knew damn well he could be bluffing, promising the switch but in reality setting up the canvas for his next piece of art while she and the Angel Bomber task force waited, which was why she and the team were not sitting around and waiting.
Evie jammed her hands into her back p
ockets and hurried up the steps to the Paz de Cristo community outreach program, where in three hours the staff and volunteers would be serving up fried cod and coleslaw to more than two hundred of downtown L.A.’s hungry and homeless under the shadow of a wooden cross. All major events in the downtown area had been canceled today, but the good work of feeding the hungry and homeless had to go on.
With the first three bombings, Vandemere had selected locations that closely matched the backdrops in each painting. The wooden bench or pew and rosary led her to believe he may pick some kind of religious center. There were roughly fifty churches, missions, and spiritual outreach centers in the downtown area bordered by the 101, 10, and 110 freeways, and most of them had a wooden bench or two. A holy place for unholy acts.
She found the kitchen manager and members of a church youth group shredding carrots in the kitchen. “Can I interest you in a knife, a beautiful head of cabbage, or a gallon of mayonnaise?” the manager asked.
Despite the hell on the horizon, Evie smiled. “Not today, but when I get this bomber business wrapped up, I’m yours.” Her gaze landed for a moment on the teens, caring kids spending a Friday afternoon doing good for others. “Do you have a moment?”
The woman took off her plastic gloves and led Evie into the main hall.
Evie showed her the photocopy of the woman and child. “We’re pretty sure he’ll place her on some kind of wooden bench, possibly in a church or building with Christian symbols. It’s likely she’ll be wearing a red dress, possibly with a blue scarf and white shawl. The baby has blond curls. The minute you see them, call us and evacuate the building.”
The manager took the photo and raised her gaze heavenward. “I’ll show it to the servers tonight, and we’ll be on the lookout.” As she escorted Evie to the door, she added, “I’m going to hold you to your promise to help, and you’re welcome to bring the hunky guy in the suit.”
Jack. Who’d peeled potatoes for a soup kitchen. Who’d stolen her heart. Who’d convinced Parker Lord to doubt her ability. She should hate him, but she couldn’t. Hate was reserved for killers and those who mocked justice. For men with empty cups and broken, irreparable hearts. And Jack had a heart. She rubbed at the sides of her head. Two of them. His and hers. Unfortunately, he also had a little issue with control.
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