The Blind (17 page)

He moved first, but she wasn't far behind. He pulled her to his chest. She ran her fingers up his arms, ten tiny lightning rods. He pressed his mouth against hers and breathed in her spicy scent. Droplets of water trickled from her hair, and he swore he heard the sizzle as they landed on his skin.

A truck rattled up the drive along with a whiff of diesel. Manny hopped out, followed by the vet. Jack pulled himself away but couldn't take his eyes off her lips, now red and swollen, and for a moment his. “I need to go.”

Evie placed both hands on his chest as if to steady them both. “I understand.” She took a step toward him, those wide, full lips curving into a smile. “But when you're done, I want to finish what we started.”

7:22 p.m.

“And in the latest news from the Angel Bomber case…”

Evie, who'd been hunched over her computer at Jack's Ojai kitchen table for the past hour, grabbed the remote and turned up the volume of the small TV sitting on the counter. This afternoon Ricci had released Greta Antony's sketch of the young man who'd been overly attentive to Abby Elliott at The Colony fifteen years ago.

“Police are looking for a Caucasian male in his early to midthirties,” the newscaster continued. “He's approximately five-ten and has brown hair. He may be overweight and wear his hair long. Here's a sketch of him in his mid- to late teens.” Greta's sketch of the heavyset boy flashed onto the screen. “Here's the same man progressed in age fifteen years.”

Evie edged closer to the TV. Was this Carter Vandemere? Was he lurking in downtown L.A.? Bent over a workbench wiring his latest murder weapon?

“If you've seen this individual, contact LAPD immediately on the Angel Bomber hotline.”

And most important, would anyone recognize him and report his whereabouts?

When the newscaster finished, Evie switched off the TV and stretched her arms and shoulders. She'd spent the past hour studying street plans, building schematics, and event listings for downtown, zeroing in on those hosting events this Friday in churchlike settings. With the sketch released, maybe they'd snatch up Vandemere before he set up his next
show
, but in the meantime, they were scouting possible locations and warning potential victims. They were closing in on this guy.

She closed her laptop. Just an hour earlier, she'd been closing in on Jack who was still in the barn with Sugar Run and the vet. Was he avoiding her? Did he regret the kiss? Was he shocked at her bold pronouncement that she wanted to finish what they started? Or had she scared him away?

She knew nothing about seducing a man. Growing up, most of her close friends had been boys, and ninety percent of the people she worked with these days were men, not that she'd ever tried seducing any of them, which wouldn't have worked anyway because she'd always been one of the guys. A cop in work boots and work jeans who could swear and sweat with the best of them. She had few curves and a hard edge, hardly desirable. At times like this she wished she had a sister, someone to ask about things she'd never understood, like how to make herself desirable to a man like Jack, a man who collected fine, beautiful things. She wouldn't dare ask her mother who'd hop on a plane with the talk of grandchildren, which would scare a man like Jack away.

Jack wasn't the commitment kind, because he was committed to his work. And when he did make time for a woman, she guessed he didn't go for the type who wore more dirt than perfume. She needed help. She pushed aside her laptop. And in the past she'd always turned to her team. She stretched her fingers, popping her knuckles, and picked up the phone.

“Hey, Sugar and Spice.” Her teammate Hatch had a thing for nicknames. He also knew about the fine art of seduction. Before he reconnected with his ex-wife this past summer, he had women coming in and out of his bed like a toy store at Christmastime. “How's your bomber?”

“In my sights. I need your help.”

“Got a reluctant witness you want me to chat with?” Hatch asked. He was the team's crisis negotiator. He could talk bombers into giving up their IEDs and two hundred rioting prisoners into ditching their shivs and heading back to their cells.

“I have a reluctant man I want in my bed.”

“Reluctant? Is he intimidated by you?”

“Not this guy. He's got an ego the size of a skyscraper.”

“Straight?”

Evie's belly warmed where Jack's arousal had pressed into her as they kissed behind the barn. “Um…everything points in that direction.”

“Another woman in the picture?”

“Nope, but I guess you could say he's married to work. The guy doesn't know how to turn off.”

“Hmmmm. And he knows you want him in your bed?”

“I communicated that quite clearly.”

“You sure he's into women?”

“Yes, but I'm guessing he prefers those not so messy.”

Hatch made a soft clucking noise. “Then show him another side.”

“There is no other side. I'm one of those what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of girls.”

“Exactly, you're a
girl
, Evie. Maybe you should let him see more of that.”

But she wasn't girly. She didn't own blingy things or perfumes and powders. She pictured her brothers' wives. One was a teacher, another a paramedic, another a cop, and another a restaurant owner. They were all strong women. They had to be to be married to her brothers, but they still had softer sides. One wrote poetry, another grew roses, one played guitar in a church band.

Show him another side.

Her mother had taught her to bake.
If you want to catch a man, Evie, you don't need womanly wiles. You need this.
Her mother had held up a wooden spoon. Evie hadn't been too concerned about catching a man, but she'd loved the cooking lessons.

Rosalee, Jack's housekeeper, had put dinner, a black bean lasagna, in the oven. There was also a green salad with oranges and jicama. But no dessert. Evie poked around the pantry and found a few staples and powdered cocoa. And oranges. Oranges were everywhere.

Show him another side.

After thanking Hatch, Evie set her phone on the kitchen counter where she could see incoming e-mails and slipped out of her jacket.

An hour later she popped a pan of chocolate sponge cake into the oven and rinsed the orange cream from the mixing beaters, when boots sounded on the back steps followed by the sound of scraping.

“How's Sugar Run?” Evie asked.

“Calm. The vet said his leg is fine. We just need to get him acclimated to his new surroundings. Right now he's pretty jittery anytime he's out of his stall.” Jack hung his jacket on a hook by the door. It was so strange to see him out of a tie and those shiny platinum cuff links and tie tack. “How'd it go with you?”

“Also calm. Nothing new on Vandemere.”

Jack sniffed. “Rosalee's black bean lasagna?”

Evie nodded. “Rosalee assumed I'd be staying for dinner.”

“Are you?”

“Is that an invitation?” And does that include your bed? Evie nibbled on her bottom lip. She could still taste him, and she wanted more.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Evie let out a long breath. “You may want to go shower. You smell like a horse.”

Jack laughed. “It's been a while since I've been around horses.”

He headed up the winding wooden and wrought-iron staircase. She breathed deeply. She liked a man who could wear sweat and still be sexy. Check that. She liked Jack Elliott.

Fifteen minutes later, Jack was back in the kitchen with freshly washed hair and wearing clean jeans and a soft plaid shirt. He sniffed. “What's that?”

“Chocolate cake with orange cream. I made it.”

“To celebrate?”

“To use up some of the oranges around this place. Really, Jack, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.”

She took Rosalee's lasagna out of the oven while Jack started a fire in the kitchen's beehive fireplace. It was so domestic. She bit back a snorting laugh. If her mother could see her now, she'd be sending out wedding invitations. Hah. Both she and Jack were married to work, which meant they'd make great lovers. No expectations. No strings. No worries.

She set the lasagna on the table, when Jack's phone rang. He answered it, his face leaching of all color. Tearing off her oven mitts, she grabbed his arm as he looked like he was about to topple over. “What happened?”

“A bomb just went off outside the Elliott Tower parking garage. Brady's been hurt.”

Monday, November 2
10:51 p.m.

T
here she is!” Evie pointed to the woman standing near the coffee machine in the waiting room at Good Samaritan Hospital.

Jack ran to Claire and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Where is he?”

“Bed number fourteen,” Claire said. “The doctors are just finishing up.”

“Is he okay?”

“Don't let him fool you. He's pretty shaken up.”

Jack found Brady stretched out on a hospital bed with a rakish patch across his forehead. His lips were deathly pale but smiling. “You know, I should get blown up more often. I've had two very beautiful nurses attending to my every need. One brings me Popsicles, and the other wraps my feet in heated blankets.”

Jack sank into the chair. He had no words.

“What happened?” Evie asked.

“I got in my car after work. It was parked where it always is. Lower level parking garage, space twelve. As I pulled out of the garage and onto the street, I heard a loud pop, and then boom! The glass on the passenger side shattered, and then there were flames.” Brady's smile wobbled. “Everywhere. Which is about the time I bailed.”

“Before the explosion, did you see anyone in the garage, on the street, or even on a nearby roof watching you, possibly aiming something that looked like a remote at your car?” Evie asked.

“No.” Brady ran a hand through the hair spiking up from his head. “Is that what happened? Someone flipped a switch and torched me?”

“That's usually the case with these kinds of vehicle-borne IEDs. Have you talked to Captain Ricci yet?”

“Yep, and from what it sounds like, he's got half of LAPD on the streets right now.”

“As he should.” Jack's fingers fisted and unfisted, and he finally picked up the chart hanging from the end of Brady's bed. “What did the doctors say?”

“I'm fine, Jack. Just a few cuts and bruises.” He pinched his chin and cocked his head. “I kind of have a nice rough-and-tumble look going on, don't I? Might help me with the chicks. What do you think, Evie? Would you kiss a mug like this?”

Evie planted a kiss on his forehead. She turned to Jack. “Listen, I, uh, need to go. I'm going to have a busy night.”

“I know.” His gaze slid over her. “I'm going to stay here until the doctors release Brady, and I'll take him home.”

“I'll check with Ricci and make sure someone swept Brady's place. Just in case.”

A chill stole across Jack's chest, icing his words. “You think this was Vandemere?”

“I'm thinking a lot of things right now, mainly that I need to take a look at what's left of Brady's car.”

Because Evie dealt with bombs and the sick minds that used them for destruction. He reached for her hand, and they stood dusty boot to dusty boot. If it weren't for that terrified call, those boots would be parked next to his bed in Ojai, or more likely, in the middle of the kitchen floor because he wanted her that much.

He opened his mouth. He wanted to say more, but this wasn't the time or place. With a squeeze of his hand, he turned away.

“Jack!” Evie dug through her bag. “The cake would have made a mess in my purse, so I brought you this.” She handed him an orange.

11:17 p.m.

Inside the Elliott Tower parking garage, Evie poked through the plastic tub that held the remains of a PVC housing and a single blasting cap. “Doesn't look too sophisticated, and it certainly doesn't have the firepower of Vandemere's other IEDs.”

“No, but we're pretty sure it's his.” Ricci took her into the lower-level parking garage, and in the parking spot marked for Jack Elliott were a hundred tiny red tissue-paper hearts.

“You know what he's doing, don't you?” Evie didn't let Ricci answer. “He didn't want to kill Brady, he wanted to rattle Jack. He's a resentful SOB. I'm guessing it has something to do with being rejected by the Abby Foundation, but it may go back even further to his sister, Abby.”

“Any news on her?”

“My teammate Jon MacGregor is beating the streets.”

As Evie was about to leave the garage, Jack pulled his car into the lower executive level. He looked as tired as she felt. “Did you get Brady home?” she asked.

Jack nodded. “And he's snoozing thanks to some very good drugs.”

“By the way, this is a crime scene. You shouldn't be here.” He should be safely tucked in his penthouse condo where she had an officer posted.

Jack tipped his head to the uniform at the guard station. “The officer let me in.”

“Did you slip him a fat check?”

“No, I told him I have a lead on who did this.” Jack ran a hand down the tired folds of his face. “I just got a call from Callie Portillo, the homeless girl with the cats. Around four thirty today she saw the man with shiny brown shoes who'd been following Lisa Franco the night she disappeared.”

Evie clasped her hands to the front of her chest and closed her eyes as if deep in prayer. “Please, please tell me she got a look at his face this time.”

“Unfortunately, no. But she got a good look at his shoes as he was climbing down the stairs with a backpack on his back.”

Evie's eyelids popped open. “Stairs?”

“Yes. Callie had been sitting with some of her cats behind an old building down by the L.A. River, and she saw this fall from the bottom of his shoe as he walked down the stairs.” He held up a red tissue-paper heart.

Any ounce of tiredness she'd been feeling swept away with the wings sending her heart racing. “And we have a location on these stairs?”

“It's the old canning warehouse.” Jack's eyes brightened to the color of cobalt glass and were just as sharp. “I'll show you where.”

“This isn't your sandbox.” She sounded like a broken record.

Jack jabbed his fingertips at his chest. “He's aiming sand at me and people I care about.”

“Exactly, Jack, and sometimes that means you can't see what you need to see.”

Tuesday, November 3
12:02 a.m.

When she was a kid taking religious education classes, Evie had learned about stairways to heaven. Right now she was looking at a stairway to hell.

According to Cat Girl, the man who'd abducted Lisa Franco was leaving this building with a backpack a few hours before a vehicle-borne-IED went off, injuring Brady Malloy, Jack Elliott's best friend and right-hand man.

Outfitted in body armor, she and two men from Ricci's team made their way up the stairs. On the fourth floor their handheld spotlights illuminated a large room with two doors leading to what must be two smaller rooms. The main room was empty. Both doors were closed. A shiny new padlock hung from the door on the right. The muscles along the backs of Evie's legs tightened. Shiny new locks on old abandoned buildings were usually hiding things.

She took in a deep breath. The air smelled of dust, old rubber—her nose twitched—and solder. Aiming her light at the padlocked door, she studied the area. “Bulge on the floor. Looks like a pressure-sensitive device, and on the door is a trip wire.” This place was designed to warn the occupant of anyone approaching and slow law enforcement entry. “Okay, men, let's get this place cleared.”

10:04 a.m.

Black dust was everywhere. Smudged across door handles. Streaked on the wooden arms of the futon. Peppered on Evie's boots. They'd cleared Vandemere's workshop late last night, and crime scene technicians had just finished processing.

After she snagged a few hours' sleep back at the station, it was time for Evie to get her hands dirty. She clapped the crime scene tech's shoulder. “Thanks, Ronnie. I appreciate the thoroughness.”

“Let's hope this is the last time my guys need to do this.”

“I'm always full of hope.” That's why she poured herself body and soul into her work, why she joined Parker's team. “How many good prints?”

“At least a dozen unique.”

“Let's get those run through IAFIS. I also want them checked against the last victim, Lisa Franco. If we get a match, it's one more nail in Vandemere's coffin.”

She snapped on a pair of gloves and with Cho went straight to Vandemere's workbench. Time to get a handle on the bomber's construction process and a look into his crazed mind. There was a soldering iron, wire, timers, electrical tape, pipes, and a wicked-looking jar of nails and rods.

“And lookie here,” Cho said as he hauled out two boxes below the bench. “RDX and sodium chlorate.”

There was no glee in this discovery. Only horror.

As she was poking around the trash can, she found a paper coffee cup with a generic label and
AM-NF-CN
written in grease pencil on the side. There was also a wadded-up sketch of a woman with large breasts. However, the shining star in the trash can was a receipt from an art store in Whittier for the purchase of stretcher bars and more than one hundred dollars in oil paint. It was a cash deal, but it was possible a clerk might remember him, especially with the prompt of Greta Antony's sketch.

Evie knew the moment Jack entered the room, and it had nothing to do with her heightened smell or vision. She felt him. After his best friend almost being blown to shreds, Jack was a teakettle about to blow.

“Everything okay with Brady?” she asked.

Jack nodded. “Ricci wants me to take a quick look around.”

She turned to Ricci, who nodded. “Since all this stuff keeps coming back to Jack, I want to see if anything strikes him as familiar or significant.” Abby Elliott was linked to Vandemere. Was it possible that Jack shared a past with the twisted bomber?

At some point the room grew silent. She looked up. Every eye in the room was on Jack, who stood at her side holding a large sketch pad. A single vein pulsed thick and ropy along the side of his neck.

She took the sketch pad from him and almost dropped it. The drawing was rough, a series of pencil scratches, but she knew the face. Big brown eyes, wide mouth, thick eyelashes and brows, all framed by a crazy knot of hair. She saw it on those rare occasions when she looked in a mirror. But the body was wrong. Those weren't her curves and swells.

“Holy shit,” Cho said. “He's got Evie sitting on a wooden bench and holding a rosary and baby.”

“That's enough.” Jack's words were as loud and sharp as the crack of a pistol. “I'm having you pulled from this case.”

Evie tugged at her ear. Now that the initial shock of finding a sketch of her in Carter Vandemere's workshop had faded, she could think clearly. “I told you about my little hearing issue, right? Did I mention that sometimes I have a ringing in my ears? Kind of jumbles up sounds, and things don't make sense. Like now. Surely I didn't just hear
you
say you're having me pulled from my case.”

“Stop being a smart-ass, Evie.”

“But I am smart, Jack, and I'm good at what I do.” She forced a calm despite the crazy spewing from his mouth. “I'm not getting out of this investigation.”

“Look at that!” He aimed a hand at the sketch.

She turned away. She knew what was going on in his head. Crap like having your best friend almost blown to pieces played with your mind, and not in a good way.

He cupped his hand around her jaw and forced her gaze on the sketchbook. “Look at that.” Jack's lips barely moved. “Tell me what you see.”

“Me.”

“Exactly. Artists create preliminary sketches like this for larger, more complex works. Vandemere plans to use you in the fourth bombing.”

With little gentleness, she extricated herself from his hand. “Ain't gonna happen, because there's no way in hell he'll catch me. I'm a trained law enforcer.”

“You're stepping down.” Jack's command struck her squarely in the chest.

She took a step toward him. “And what gives you that right?”

“I brought you into this investigation, and I can take you out.”

“Oh, yeah?” One more step and she was inches from his face. “Is your name Parker Lord? Do you currently serve as president of the United States? Because unless you can say yes to either of those questions, you have no control over whether I stay in this investigation or not. Got that? You don't control me.” Her voice came out in a lethal whisper.

He grabbed her wrists. This time she didn't let that touch soften her.

“Officer Hawes.” She dipped her head at a uniform standing in the doorway. “Please cuff Mr. Elliott and take him downtown.”

She turned back to Carter Vandemere's workbench of terror but not before she caught a glimpse of the molten fire of Jack's face.