The Blind (11 page)

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.”

Sunday, November 1
1:37 p.m.

T
he 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.”

“Carter Vandemere,” Evie said. “What can you tell us about your renter named Carter Vandemere? He was an artist.”

“Don't remember the name, but those artsy-fartsy types, some of 'em just go by initials. Had a renter named
Z
who tried to pay his rent with an original piece of
art
. Piece of shit is what I called it, and not the kind that leads to green.”

“Carter Vandemere,” Evie said again. This guy was starting to piss her off.

Jimmy Ho rolled his chair across the filthy floor to a row of metal file cabinets on the back wall. “What property did you say again?”

“Warehouse off Sixth. Loft number three.”

She stretched her fingers. Damn, Vandemere was so close she could picture her fingers wrapping around his neck.

The landlord poked through a file drawer and eventually took out a single piece of paper. “Yep. Carter Vandemere. Deadbeat low-life. Lived there seven months total. Paid the first four months. All on time. All in cash.” He pounded a fist to his chest two times. “Love those renters. But looks like the guy turned into a real slacker. Got three months behind. Gave him the boot last December.”

“The current renter says you sold off some of Vandemere's stuff.”

Jimmy Ho squirmed. As he should. There were very clear laws about how and when to sell off goods tenants left behind.

“Vandemere did this.” With her phone, Evie showed him a picture of the third bombing victim's right foot. “And this.” A snapshot of the first victim's right thumb. “And this.” A jogger who got too close to the second bomb and had her right leg severed at the knee.

Jimmy Ho blanched, a nice creamy white tinged with green. “Okay. Okay.” He pushed back the phone. “At the beginning of last December, I phoned Vandemere and told him to pay up or he'd be on the street. He told me he'd have the money that evening. I popped over to the warehouse in the afternoon 'cause I know these deadbeats. They think they're smart, but they're the ones who don't have nothing, no brains, no property, no pot to piss in. So I get there around noon and find him loading up his car.”

“What kind of car?”

“Hell if I know.” The landlord shrugged. “Then he takes off.”

“Where was he going? Was he alone?”

“I have no idea, 'cause by that time, I was seeing red.” Jimmy held up both hands. “Hey, stop looking at me like that. I'm not the criminal here.”

“Any forwarding address?” Evie asked. “List of references?”

“I ain't running no Ritz-Carlton. People come and go, and they leave enough money behind to keep everything running.”

“What did Vandemere look like?” Ricci asked with the same level of irritation nipping at the back of her neck. “Race? Big guy? Little guy? Old? Young?”

The landlord picked at his teeth with the sharp tip of a letter opener. “Is there any kind of reward money involved?”

Evie's hand shot out, her wrist slamming into Jimmy Ho's hand. The letter opener flew across the room and clanked into the file cabinet. “Think harder, Mr. Horvath. You met Carter Vandemere at least once. What did your renter look like?”

Jimmy dipped his head as if deep in thought, then shrugged. “Green, Agent Jimenez.” He smiled, a gold tooth on the side of his mouth glinting in the dirty light. “All I saw was green.”

On the way to their cars, Ricci said, “Man, that guy is slime.”

Evie ran her hands along the arms of her jacket and shimmied, trying to shake off the ick. “Yeah, and we just rolled around with him.”

“The pisser is, the guy genuinely doesn't remember a thing about Vandemere.”

“Yeah, he's too blinded by all his shiny riches.”

They reached Ricci's car. “I'm going back to the warehouse lofts. I'll talk to the other renters and see if we can get a visual ID. You want to come?”

Evie rapped the top of his car. “I'll be there later.”

After Ricci left, she turned in a slow circle. “My nephews love this game. I'll play.” She put her hands to her mouth and called, “I spy with my little eye…Jack.”