The Blind (18 page)

Tuesday, November 3
3:32 p.m.

F
our dots of dried blood coated one side of the tiny rectangle of metal. Evie held the razor blade up to the sunlight streaming through the window of Carter Vandemere's
art
studio. Did the blood belong to Mexican restaurant waitress Lisa Franco? Gallery owner Rene Masson? Some other nameless victim?

She was still meticulously going through every item in the workshop when the uniformed officer standing guard at the door called out, “Hey, Evie, you got a visitor downstairs.”

She slipped the razor into the plastic bag. Four dots of blood. Four more dots that drew her that much closer to Vandemere.

“He says it's urgent,” the officer added.

Yeah, she knew about urgent. Evie snapped off her gloves and booties and tossed them in the box just inside the door.

“You want to head out to the art store in Whittier with me?” Cho asked. They'd found the store receipt dated two months ago, and with any luck, a clerk might ID the buyer of the art supplies.

“No, I need to take care of some stuff down at the station.” Namely Jack. She'd told Officer Hawes to release him after an hour, giving them both time to cool off. The meticulous work of combing through Vandemere's tools had refocused her energy, and she hoped that Jack had found a redirect for his. When she'd had him hauled away from the crime scene, the cool, collected businessman looked like he was ready to blow more than a few buttons on his pin-striped vest.

It was possible he was waiting for her below. Her boots pounded down the back steps of the warehouse. If so, was he ready to apologize? Ready to go another round? When she reached her car, her boots skidded to a stop. A wide ass was leaning against the hood.

“You don't look too happy to see me, Lady Feeb. Were you hoping to see someone else?” He waggled both eyebrows and patted the hood.

A serial bomber or billionaire in a buttoned-down suit would have been at the top of her list. She took a seat next to Freddy. “You got something for me?”

“I got some interesting pictures earlier of Mr. Jack Elliott being escorted out of here by the police. Could make me some serious money 'cause there's a story there.”

“Don't even think about it.”

“I can think about it all I want, but don't worry, I'm holding back until we get Bomber Boy.” Freddy nudged her knee with his. “So what's up between you and The Suit?”

“You must be fabricating things again.”

“I'm a news guy at heart, an observer, remember? I've seen something sparking between you and Guthrie Gotbucks.”

“That would be the cataclysmic clash of our personalities and lifestyles. I don't like suits, and he likes women who have a bit more skill with a hairbrush.”

Freddy tugged at a curl that had escaped the chaos on her head. “I kind of like the hair. Reminds me of a few of my nieces when they get out of bed and watch Saturday-morning cartoons.”

She smacked away his hand. “Why are you here, Freddy?”

His face grew serious. “Got some intel. A friend of mine who's—shall we say—familiar with the darker side of the L.A. art scene did some nosing around, and he found a woman who posed for an artist around here. The woman told my buddy the artist was into some pretty bad shit that's right up Bomber Boy's alley.”

“You got a name and address?”

“Better. I got us an appointment with her that starts”—he checked the clock on his camera—“in seven minutes.”

4:01 p.m.

Zelda had no last name. She also had no lower teeth, and as far as Evie could tell, no bra or underwear under the gold tube dress clinging to her skinny frame. She wore bright red lipstick that bled into wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and combat boots, perfect for walking the streets.

Zelda, along with a whiff of old cigarettes and dollar-store perfume, climbed into the passenger seat of Evie's Beetle, which was parked at Union Station.

“You must be Durant's friend,” Freddy said from where he was crammed in the backseat.

The woman winked a heavily caked eyelid. “I'm everyone's friend.”

According to Freddy's friend, Durant, who knew about the darker side of L.A.'s art scene, this woman might have met Carter Vandemere. “You posed for an artist six months ago?” Evie asked.

“Art?” Zelda took a long drag on a short cigarette. “I don't know what he was creating on that canvas, and I don't want to know, but, yeah, I posed for this guy. He offered to pay double my going rate if I agreed to a little kink.”

“What kind of kink?” Evie asked. Hayden said Vandemere didn't have much success with women, so it was possible, even plausible, that he employed the services of prostitutes.

Zelda tugged the zipper down the back of her dress, the two halves of gold parting and revealing a two-inch scar on her shoulder. “Hurt like a mo-fo,” Zelda said, “and after the first cut, I made him quadruple the payment.”

Evie's stomach twisted and she closed her eyes, but she couldn't blot out the sick horror of Vandemere making the cut and a world where a broken woman was desperate enough to sell her skin. She flexed her fingers and cleared her throat. “Did you get his name?”

“John.” A crackly cackle slipped over her lips. “Just another John.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was wearing a hat and sunglasses when he picked me up. Didn't want to be seen. Get that all the time. Back at his whacked studio, I had my back to him the entire time, but I remember he was a skinny guy, brown hair, nice shoes. That kind of struck me as odd, given that he was squattin' in the old canning factory.”

“The one by the canal?”

“Yep, that's the one.”

Evie stretched her fingers. She could almost feel this guy, he was so close. “Any distinguishing characteristics? Scars? Accent? Jewelry?”

“No, nothing like that, but I remember his car. Blue Honda Accord. Pretty plain Jane, but I got his license plate number.”

Every once in a while a blue bird, a bit of unexpected goodness from an unexpected source, landed in her lap.
Please, God, let this be a freakin' bird
. Evie cleared her throat. “You got a license plate number on this guy?”

“Yeah, a little security. I take down the license, text it to a friend. She does the same with me. Us gals on the street, we kind of look out for each other. You know, in case something happens.”

Hell, yeah, something was about to happen. Evie's hands shook as she took down the license plate number from Zelda and hauled out her phone to call California DMV.

Before the aging prostitute left she jutted a veiny hand into the backseat. Freddy took a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and slipped it onto her palm.

Twenty-eight minutes later Evie was stroking that blue bird. She had a name. The blue Honda Accord was registered to Adam Wainwright, the director of the Abby Foundation.

5:38 p.m.

Claire was gone for the evening, and the door to Jack's office was shut, but Evie had seen his car in the lower-level executive parking spaces. The last time she'd seen him, a sworn officer of the LAPD was escorting him out of Carter Vandemere's art studio. Jack had gone peacefully and without cuffs, but he'd been livid.

The inside of Jack's office was lit but empty. Damn, she must have just missed him. She was about to rush to the parking garage, when a door on the far wall opened. Jack stepped out, his hair damp and jaw cleanly shaven. He wore another suit, but not one of his three-piece jobs. This one was solid black, with a narrow jacket and trousers. Beneath the jacket he wore a black shirt and black tie. Monochrome done right. The man could wear a loincloth and look like he belonged on a Hollywood red carpet.

“Nice duds,” she said as he made his way toward her. She breathed deeply. And nice, nice smell. Two of her nephews, the sons of her second-oldest brother, had a pet Weimaraner, and when the boys left for school, the dog would roll around on the boys' blankets and clothes as if he couldn't get enough of their wonderful little-boy smell. Guilty. She loved Jack's big-boy smell and would love to roll around the blankets of his bed.

He straightened the cuff links at his wrist. She straightened her hair.

“Jack—”

“Evie—” they said at the same time.

Evie took a step back. “Go ahead.” What she had to tell him was going to punch him in the gut.

Jack sat on the edge of his desk. He stared at his hands, then lifted his gaze to her, those denim eyes as warm as the jacket she wore over her heart. “I'm sorry, Evie. I overstepped my boundaries this morning.”

“Yes, you did.” She took a step toward him.

“I should not have interfered or questioned your ability to do your job.”

“Also correct.” Another step.

“But sometimes around you, Evie”—he tugged at the hem of her jacket, pulling her into the
V
of his thighs—“I don't think.” His head dipped, and he brushed his lips against hers. Soft and sweet but powerful enough to warm her to the tips of her toes.

She slid her hands along the lapels of his jacket. “That's a bad thing?”

“I'm not sure.” The admission was raw and delivered on a shaky breath, and so unlike the Jack Elliott she'd met a week ago. That man had been sure of everything.

She released his lapels and stepped back because she was about to dial up the number on his personal Richter scale. “I got a new lead.”

“Something on Abby?”

She shook her head. There was no way to soften this one. “A man we believe to be Carter Vandemere picked up a prostitute six months ago in a blue Honda Accord. The car's owner is Adam Wainwright.”

Jack stood and buttoned the top button of his jacket. “Adam is not the bomber.” Mr. Confident was back.

“He fits the bomber profile. He's a failed and frustrated artist working at a desk job launching other people's art careers.”

“He looks nothing like the heavyset kid who lived with Abby at The Colony.”

“It's been fifteen years. People change.”

“Dammit, Evie. I handpicked Adam. He's part of my executive team.”

“Bad guys, the really good ones, have a talent for hiding what they don't want others to see.”

“I'm a successful businessman. I see past the bullshit.”

“People see only what they want to see.” She grabbed his hands. “Listen, Jack, whether you like it or not, I have to follow up on this lead. I called Wainwright's phone, and a unit stopped by his house, but we can't find him.”

Jack rolled his head about his neck as if his thoughts were too heavy to hold his head upright. He checked his watch. “In fifty-two minutes Adam will be with me. We're having an exclusive preview for VIPs of the
Beauty Through the Ages
exhibit, which is being boxed up this week and sent to the museum where it will be officially put on exhibit.”

She looped her arm through his. “Excellent. I'll be your date. Will there be cake?”

The pinched skin around Jack's mouth smoothed. He took her hand, giving it a squeeze. “Probably.” Looping his arm over her shoulder, he led her to the elevator and stopped. “You can't go like that.”

“Like what.”

He ran his finger down her nose, the tip of his finger coming away with a black smudge.

Tuesday, November 3
6:21 p.m.

H
old this.” Jack handed her the stuffed Chihuahua.

Evie backed away. “I am
not
carrying around a stuffed dog.”

“Just hold it while I get the dress off the mannequin. It's the only extra small in the store.”

Jack had taken her to one of the boutiques on the bottom floor of the Elliott Tower to shop for something appropriate to wear to an Abby Foundation VIP dinner. The shop had already closed for the night, but Jack, being Jack, had
associates
who apparently wouldn't mind the late-night sale. After a thorough search of the store, he'd decided on the red sweater-y thing in the display window. She decided to avoid another argument so they could get going and she could get her hands on Adam Wainwright.

In the dressing room, she slipped the dress over her head, the fabric gliding over her skin like melted butter. Jack really did have exquisite taste.

Back in the boutique, he handed her a pair of black heels.

“Holy crap, Jack. Those heels are five inches high. I could kill myself.”

“Says the woman who handles bombs for a living.”

She poked her feet into the heels, which were surprisingly comfortable.

Near the cash register, Jack slid his fingers over a necklace with glittery black beads.

“I do not need any jewelry.” This was taking too much time. She needed to grill Wainwright.

Jack tilted his head and studied her. “You're right, Agent Jimenez, no jewelry. You have enough sparkle already.”

As she left her credit card information and the tags at the cash register, she spotted a display of silk scarves, her eye drawn to a pretty beige square with swirls of teal and purple. It reminded her of peacock feathers. She snapped off the price tag and added it to her pile. Slipping the scarf in her bag, she turned to Jack. “Let's fly.”

Jack, who'd been leaning against the register counter, his arms crossed, shook his head. He took her hand and led her to a freestanding oval mirror. “What do you see?”

“Jack, I don't have time for this.”

He spun her so she faced the glass. “What do you see?”

“A woman in a red sweater.”

“Exactly.” He slid his hands along her sides where the silky cashmere clung to her waist and swished in drapey folds below her hips. His gaze settled on the soft folds of the deep V brushing the swells of her breasts. His lips touched down along the bare slope of her shoulder. “A woman.”

7:17 p.m.

“Pretty swank,” Evie said as Jack escorted her past the string quartet stationed outside the Abby Foundation's front door and into the bottom-floor gallery, lit tonight by candles in handblown glass. Waiters carrying trays of champagne flutes and steaming hors d'oeuvres threaded through the standing-room-only crowd. “How many people are here tonight?”

“About fifty.” Jack nodded to the president of the Abby Foundation board and one of the art critics for the
L.A. Times
. “All VIPs who've supported the Abby Foundation over the years.”

“So where's Wainwright?” She kept her voice low, but he could hear her impatience, feel it. Her body thrummed with energy.

Jack ground his back teeth. Evie was hardheaded and unyielding. Arguing with her was like…like arguing with himself. Especially since she wasn't one bit intimidated by him. He was still having a hard time with that one. Few people in this world were as fearless. “Adam is giving tours of the third-floor exhibit.”

She headed for the stairwell. “
Vámonos
.”

On the third floor, a dozen people mingled, some talking with Brandon Brice, the Abby Foundation's current artist in residence and others trickling in and out of the
Beauty Through the Ages
gallery. Adam stood at the door to the exhibit like a loyal sentry, and Evie zoomed in on him like…like a federal agent hell-bent on capturing a serial killer.

As Evie escorted Wainwright to one of the studios, Jack positioned himself at the door to the gallery. While she looked like a federal agent, Evie also looked like a beautiful, intelligent, passionate woman, and it wasn't just the dress. He ran a hand along his forehead. She'd look even more beautiful, intelligent, and passionate out of it.

“Intriguing little thing.” A pair of rose-lacquered nails landed on his arm.

He kissed the cheek the woman offered. “Good evening, Reggie. You look beautiful, as always.”

Reggie's lips curved in a pout. “Beautiful but on the back burner.”

He supposed he had this coming. Last year he'd met Reggie Thurston, the owner of a string of wildly successful shoe stores, across a boardroom table, and within twenty-four hours of that first meeting, they were partners in business and occasionally in bed.

“You missed the fund-raiser for the orphans,” Reggie went on.

“I've been busy.”

She tilted her head toward the door where Evie had taken Adam. “With the little firecracker?”

“With business.”

Reggie laughed.

“What?”

She patted him on the cheek and slipped into the gallery, adding over her shoulder, “You are so blind, Jack.”

7:30 p.m.

Adam Wainwright looked like a man whose necktie was too tight. Red face. Veins popping up along his temples. Odd. He wasn't wearing a tie.

“I have a room full of important people out there, people who have the power to make or break the work I do with the foundation,” Wainwright said with a snip. “So you better make this quick.”

Evie pictured the scar on the prostitute's shoulder, the one taking the place of a two-inch square of flesh. Did the sick mass of humanity who sliced it from her body take his time? Did he savor each cut? Or did he rush through the process? But more important, was Adam Wainwright that sick mass of humanity?

She took out her phone and showed him the picture she'd snapped in the parking lot fifteen minutes ago. “Do you recognize this car?”

“It's mine.”

“You drive it regularly for both work and pleasure?”

“Yes.” A snap joined the snip. “What's this about?”

“Ever pick up a prostitute in it?”

Adam rubbed at the veins along his temples. “That's not my scene.”

“Are you sure? I have a female prostitute who claims a man driving this car picked her up on June third of this year.”

“I already told you, Agent Jimenez, I don't swing that way.”

“Did you loan your car to anyone that day?”

“No.”

“Does anyone else have keys to this car?”

“No.”

“Mr. Wainwright, I'll need you to come down to the station so we can let the witness see for herself.”

“No.”

She tugged at her bad ear. “'Scuse me?”

“That won't be necessary. I was doing something else on June third of this year, and it had nothing to do with picking up a prostitute.” He took a series of deep breaths and slipped off his jacket.

“You have witnesses that can vouch for you?”

He hung the jacket over an easel. “Quite a few. All very credible.” Slowly, he unfastened the buttons on the cuff of his left sleeve. “I was at a hospital on Wilshire Boulevard. As a patient. My partner left me on June second, which is the day I did this.” Adam pushed back his shirtsleeve and rotated his forearm, displaying a thin pink scar that ran two inches above his wrist. “Pathetic, huh? I wasn't really trying to kill myself, just get the attention of the man who I thought was the love of my life. Didn't work. He never showed up, called, or sent a get well card.”

The scar wasn't red or angry, but she could see it was still raw. Evie had never experienced that kind of pain, probably because she'd given her heart to her career. She shifted her gaze to Wainwright's face, etched with pain. Her heart went out to the man, who clearly could not have been driving his car. Jack was right on this account. “I'll need to know who had access to your car and keys that weekend.”

“Just Mr. Elliott.”

“Jack Elliott?”

“After I attempted my pathetic little cry for attention, which took place here in my office, I got wise and called nine-one-one. An ambulance took me to the hospital where I was under suicide watch for forty-eight hours. I was worried about my car sitting on the street in this neighborhood, so I called Mr. Elliott and told him about my monumental screw-up. He had my car moved to the Elliott Tower parking garage, which has better security.”

Evie could see Jack taking control and taking care of everything. She pictured Claire's scars and heard Brady's words:
Jack Elliott's my savior
. A man who pulled people out of dark places because he'd been there himself. A man who refused to let go.

Adam tugged his sleeve over the scar and tried to smooth the lines on his face. “Do you still need me to go down to the police station?”

“No.” Because if Adam Wainwright wasn't driving his car that weekend, he wasn't Carter Vandemere.

9:49 p.m.

“My job would be so much easier if you'd just admit you're the bomber.” Evie slipped her arms around Jack, who stood in front of the glass wall of his office on the thirty-sixth floor of the Elliott Tower.

He cupped his hands around hers. “I wish it were that easy.”

Right now nothing was easy. After leaving the VIP gathering at the Abby Foundation, Jack brought Evie back to his office, where he checked his calendar and verified that he had one of the garage parking attendants pick up Adam's car and leave it in the parking garage. The keys had been dropped off and kept in Claire's desk.

“This is the second time a security breach has been connected to Claire,” Evie pointed out. The first being that her security card had been the only one to access Jack's office in the days before the paper heart bomb exploded.

Jack turned around and faced her. “Claire is not the bomber.”

“No, she's not, but it's possible the bomber is using her to get access to you.”

He was a dark silhouette against the L.A. skyline. She couldn't make out his face, but she felt the anger rolling along his body, tightening and tensing his muscles.

“He's not going to win,” Jack said. Confidence was so damned sexy on this man.

“I know.” She slid her hands along his chest.

His hands pressed against hers. “He is not going to hurt the people I care about.” Jack's heart thundered against her palm in a message stronger than words. He cared. About his staff. About her.

His head dipped, a slow, calculated movement, giving her a chance to back away from the deal.

A laugh bubbled up her throat, and she threw her arms around his neck, capturing his lips with hers. His hands slipped around her back, and he drew her against the solid wall of his chest, a groan—one she felt more than heard—ripping low in his gut, across his chest, and against her lips. She welcomed it with a soft groan of her own. His hands slicked across the buttery folds of the dress he'd chosen for her, slipping it from her shoulders and past her hips, where it fell to the floor like a brilliant spill of paint.

His fingers fanned through her hair, lifting it, then splaying it across her shoulders and chest. He stepped back as if to admire his handiwork. “Beautiful,” he said around a smile.

With less gentleness, he tore off his jacket, shirt, and tie. In the moonlight his skin was molten gold. She ran first her eyes, then her fingertips along the dips and mounds of his chest, smiling as his skin rippled and gleamed with heat.

Her fingers froze just above the skin peeking out above his right hip. She stepped back and blinked. “You have a tattoo.”

He pulled her to him, his lips sliding along her neck. “Yes.”

“When did you get it?”

“Discuss later,” he said against the hollow of her throat.

She pushed him away. “Discuss now.”

His breath came out in ragged puffs. “This is another power struggle, isn't it?”

“Probably.”

Jack eased back but kept his hands around her hips. “I got it in New York.”

She unlatched his belt and tugged down the waistband of his trousers, exposing an elongated four-pointed star. “What is it?”

“A compass. To remind me that I am the master of my fate and captain of my soul.”

She traced the tip of the star. “I've heard that before.”

“From the poem ‘Invictus.' My brooding seventeen-year-old self loved it.”

She ran her index finger along his waistband. “And you chose to tuck it away and not share your message with the world.”

“It was a message for one.” His entire body stilled for a handful of endless seconds before he unfastened the button of his dress pants, the fabric falling and exposing the full tattoo with a curving letter
N
and arrow. A compass from a man who knew exactly what he wanted in this life and how to get it. And he'd chosen to show it to her.

She threw herself into his arms, his hands exploring every heated inch of her, pausing only when he found the piece of raised skin on her thigh. “And you have a scar,” he said. “Recent.”

“Houston. Falling glass.” She pointed to the tiny white scar dissecting her eyebrow. “Same place I got this.”

He kissed her from the tiny scar through her eyebrow to the one on her thigh and every place in between, and she melted into him, wondering how she could ever have thought him cold.