The Blind (19 page)

Wednesday, November 4
6:12 a.m.

E
vie stood at the kitchen counter, a knife in her hand and a frown on her face.

“Personally, I thought sex was pretty damned incredible last night,” Jack said. After making love in his office he brought her to his penthouse and made love to her again in his bed, and if he had his way, he was very much looking forward to repeating the act in his kitchen.

He crossed the room and nuzzled the side of her neck. She tasted sweet and salty. He slipped his hands under the black shirt she'd thrown on and ran his palms up the silky curves along her waist and chest.

“It was.” Evie pushed him away and aimed the knife at his chest. “Where's your juicer?”

“My what?”

“Citrus juicer.” She stabbed the knife at the counter, and for the first time he noticed a small mountain of sliced oranges on the counter. “I was craving fresh-squeezed orange juice this morning, so I went to the store and bought oranges, but now I need a juicer.”

Jack ran his hand along the stubble of his chin. “I don't have one.”

“You own twenty acres of citrus—”

“—but don't own a juicer. I know, Evie, I'm in serious need of help.”

She tossed the knife in the sink and wound her arms around his neck, the sweet, sunny smell of oranges engulfing him. His hands cupped the soft swells of her hips.

“It's a good thing you have me.” She landed one more kiss on his lips, then patted his butt. “Back in a flash.”

The tails of his shirt flying out from the faded curve of her blue jeans, she darted out of the kitchen, and with her went his breath. While a bomber was rocking all of Los Angeles, one tiny bomb investigator was rocking his world. He stared at his hands, empty but for the lingering heat of her skin. She'd slipped away from him so fast, so easily. Because she had juice to make. Work to do. Serial bombers to stop. His fingers curled into his palms. And in the staccato tick of a clock or the single beat of a heart, she could be gone.

He flattened his palms on the cold granite of the kitchen counter. There was nothing he could do to stop her. As she reminded him yesterday in her blistering speech, he wasn't Parker Lord. He wasn't the president of the United States. He was a crucial part of her current investigation and her
chauffeur
. When the case was over, she'd move on to the next pile of smoldering wreckage. Away from him.

The front door swung open and seconds later, Evie charged into the kitchen with a small, round electronic appliance. “Voilà!”

And he was also the guy whose compass shook every time she walked into a room. Pushing himself up off the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Where did you get that?”

“Mrs. Simmons two floors below. She told you to keep it. She has two others.”

“You know Mrs. Simmons?”

“I do now. Nice woman.” She nudged him aside and plugged in the juicer. “She invited us to a potluck at her place a week from Saturday.”

But would Evie be around a week from Saturday? Would she have already slipped out of his life? “A potluck with my neighbors?”

“I told her we'd be there.” She grabbed two orange halves. “With cake.”

Jack couldn't help it. He forgot about next week and people who slipped out of his hands and laughed, because now was a good time to laugh.

As she squeezed the oranges, he scrambled eggs and made toast. They ate breakfast, neither reaching for their phones or computers, because when that happened, the magic of fresh-squeezed orange juice would end.

Evie set down her empty glass. “I have work to do.”

“Me too.”

“Ready to play chauffeur?”

“I'm going to check in with Agent MacGregor on his search for Abby.” Last he heard from Agent MacGregor, no one had seen or heard from Abby after she disappeared from The Colony. But she was alive. He refused to let that bit of hope slip from his hands. “Then I need to take the helicopter out to Ojai.” The horse wasn't just part of a collection. It was a living, breathing thing, and according to his new stable manager, the living wasn't easy for the blind racehorse.

“Problems with Sugar Run?”

“Manny texted this morning. Sugar Run isn't adapting well to the new environment.”

“Good. You go take care of your dream.” She leaned over the table and gave him a sweet, orangey kiss.

8:09 a.m.

“How old is he?” Evie asked the woman standing at the bottom of the playground slide. At the top of a jungle gym stood a little boy with stick-straight blond hair and a dirty face. He was banging a stick on the plastic roof of the slide, the metal rail, and the nine plastic tic-tac-toe squares.

The woman smiled. “Two and a half. Not quite a terror, but close.”

Evie took out her shield and showed it to the woman. “Keep your eye on him, okay?”

The woman wrapped her arms around her chest even though the sunshine flooded the little park off Grand this morning. “I heard the police on the news say the Angel Bomber's next victim might be a blond-haired child.”

“We're doing our best to make sure there are no more victims.” Evie smiled at the kid banging away like a drummer in a rock band. “But in the meantime, keep him close.”

Carter Vandemere was scheduled to strike in two days, and if he hadn't done so already, he was probably on the hunt for a brown-haired woman and a blond infant.

It was impossible to think she could talk to every parent with a young blond-haired child, but any she saw as she was cruising downtown had been getting a personal warning from her. She'd already stopped by neighborhood day care centers and school bus stops where mothers with infants waited for their older schoolchildren. She'd been to fast-food restaurants with play gyms and jogging tracks where parents ran with baby joggers.

Save the baby!

8:25 a.m.

Smokey Joe waved off the steamy cinnamon roll. “Thanks, Katy-lady, but I'm not hungry.”

“We need to talk,” Kate said. She'd surprised the snot out of him when she showed up last night. Said she missed his cranky old butt, and he missed her, but he had work to do.

“Need to git back on the phone calls.” Smokey Joe ran his hands along his desk until he found his headset. They had two days before Evie's bomber would strike again, and calls were pouring in to the Angel Bomber hotline. L.A. coppers were taking the calls, which were being taped, and one by one he was going through 'em, listening for anything that might prove useful. Evie said bombers usually kept their distance. They didn't like to get too close, but it was possible the bomber would insert himself in some way into the investigation. Right now Smokey was interested in a pair of calls that sounded like they came from the same man using different names. “We'll talk on my lunch break, okay?”

“Not okay.” Kate sat in the chair next to his, the sigh from the chair cushion just as loud as the one that came from her mouth. This morning she sounded tired and a little peaked. Probably her new job. She was heading up some public relations stuff for a real nice nonprofit group in Reno. He was so damned proud of her, getting back into the world of the living.

Smokey slipped the headset around his neck. “Then talk fast because this crazy fella is about to strike again. A woman and a baby. What kind of screwball kills little babies with bombs?”

She let out another long breath. “I talked to Fran yesterday.”

He fingered the headset cord. “Fran? Who the hell is Fran? Does she know something about the bomber?”

“Fran Watland, your cousin, the one who lives in Key West.”

“Franny? Why, I ain't seen her for fifty years. We used to go blackberry picking together on the Rim. How is the old girl?”

“Great. She said she'd love to see you.”

“Did you give her my address? She can visit me on my mountain as soon as I help Evie get this Angel Bomber business taken care of. So you'll need to excuse me, Katy-lady; Evie needs me.”

He settled the headphones over his ears and pushed Play.

Someone clicked Stop.

“Why the he-ell did you do that?”

Kate took the headphones from his head. “You're not going back to your mountain.”

“What?”

“Over the past six months you've run off every aide your caseworker has arranged to live with you. You have refused my repeated offers to move in with Hayden and me. So Fran said you're welcome to move in with her and her daughter.”

Smokey chuckled.

“I'm not joking, Smokey.”

“Me neither, so you can tell Franny and everyone else I ain't leaving my mountain.”

There was a long pause. Smokey counted the ticks on the clock somewhere near the door. He counted to a hundred before she said, “At this point, what I say doesn't matter.”

“What are you talking about, Katy-lady?”

“After you drove your car off the mountain, your caseworker set off to track down your closest living relative and found Franny. She explained to Franny that you're a danger to yourself and others. Franny agreed.” Kate's voice cracked. “Franny also agreed to serve as your legal guardian if you are unable to make sound choices. If you choose not to go live with your cousin, Franny will seek a court order giving her conservatorship. Don't you see, Smokey? I'm no longer in the picture.”

Wednesday, November 4
3:51 p.m.

E
vie poked her head into her office. Hayden was staring at a computer, and Smokey Joe was staring at the wall.

“Meeting starts in two minutes,” she said. Neither Hayden nor Smokey Joe moved. She banged on the door frame. “Wakey-wakey. Ricci called an all-hands meeting and needs status reports.”

Hayden pulled on his jacket and headed out the door. Smokey didn't so much as move an eyelash.

“Come on, Smokey. Ricci will have donut holes.”

“Not going.” The old man knotted his arms across his chest.

Evie fell in step with Hayden. “Someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

Hayden nodded. “I'll fill you in later.”

On the conference room walls, most of the beautiful women wore smiling faces. The same could not be said for the group gathered around the conference table. They had two days to catch a bomber out to kill two people, including an infant. Every hair on Evie's body stood on end.

Ricci sat at the head of the table. “Just got the fingerprint report from latent. One set of fingerprints in Vandemere's studio matched Lisa Franco's. Blood type found on the futon was also a match.”

Knox's hands fisted. He'd been working the homicide case and just got the evidence he needed. He knew his killer; now they just needed to find him.

“Cho, anything new with stuff found in Vandemere's workshop?” Ricci asked.

“I followed up with the art store in Whittier. No one remembers the purchase or a customer who looks like the man in our sketch. I've also been visiting home improvement and hardware stores that sell the items we found, and again, no hits. And no hits so far on the coffee cup we found.”

“Anything on the hotline, Hayden?”

“More than five hundred calls came in after the sketch aired. So far nothing solid.”

“What about Abby Elliott?” Ricci's questions came at a rapid-fire pace.

“I tracked her to The Colony where she had an unwanted admirer named Dougie,” Jon MacGregor said. “I haven't been able to find a trace of her or her art beyond that. Right now I'm looking into cold cases from fifteen years ago and checking into unidentified bodies of young women.”

“She's alive,” Evie said.

Jon's eagle-eyed stare didn't waver. “I agree.”

Ricci turned to her. “What about the folks who have access to the
Beauty Through the Ages
collection?”

“Still nothing. Adam Wainwright, Brandon Brice, and Claire Turner have no direct ties to the bombings. I'm following up on who could have stolen Wainwright's car and have some guys beating the streets to see if any other prostitutes were picked up by Vandemere. Since the security breaches occurred with Claire Turner, I'm digging into who has access to her Elliott Enterprises security key card.”

“What about Elliott?” Knox asked.

“He's no longer a suspect,” Evie said.

Knox's jaw twitched. “Because he saw your Saturday panties.”

With the evidence linking his homicide victim, Lisa Franco, directly to Vandemere, Knox's intensity had shot up a few degrees. He was ready to blow. One of them needed to keep cool. “No, Knox. Because Elliott spends sixteen hours a day chained to a desk in a glass-and-chrome tower, and he has the phone records and e-mail trails to prove it.”

“Yeah, right.” Knox rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. “Why don't you tell us the real reason? Tell us about your new crime fighting tool. The one between your legs. Dip your wick and—”

Evie flew across the table and slammed her fist into Knox's jaw. The homicide detective's head snapped back. Perfect position for Evie to grab the collar of his shirt. She drew his face to within inches of hers, her breath heating the air between them. “Care to rephrase that?”

Knox's lip curled. Evie twisted the fabric in her fist, tightening the chokehold. Hayden and Cho must have bolted from their chairs. They stood on either side of her like bookends.

“Knock it off!” Ricci said. “All of you.”

Just as fast as the molten fire erupted, Evie put a lid on it. She released Knox's collar and held up both hands, fingers splayed wide. “'S okay.”

“No, it's not okay.” Ricci jammed a hand through his hair, which looked anything but Hollywood slick. “Knox, that kind of talk can get you booted off this investigation. Hell, it could get you a few weeks of serious R-and-R not of your choosing.”

Knox wiped his mouth with his sleeve, the fabric smearing with blood.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ricci continued.

“You wanna know? You really wanna know what's eating me?” Knox jabbed a finger at Evie. “A hotshot bomb specialist blows in and takes over. For a moment let's forget about her and talk about the other girl, the one who really matters, Lisa Franco.” He walked across the room and spit at the trash can. He missed, the wad of blood and saliva hitting the wall. “Yesterday I saw a futon mattress covered in Lisa Franco's blood.” He swiped the spittle from his chin. “For almost a month I've been busting my ass on this case because I owe that girl and her family a fair and thorough investigation, and I don't want it clouded by a cop who's nailing the guy at the middle of all of this.”

“We're on the same team, Knox.” Evie raised her hands in the air and waggled her fingers. “Wearing matching T-shirts and waving the same fucking pom-poms. No one, including Jack Elliott, is clouding my judgment. I got my eyes wide open, and God help Carter Vandemere when he finally gets within my sights.” Her heart crashed against her chest to the beat of the ticking clock.

After a full minute, Knox wiped his mouth with his sleeve again and sat in a chair near the door.

“Okay, everyone.” Ricci banged his palms on the table. “Two days.”

“Two days,” everyone said in unison like a circle of football players breaking from a huddle. Two days.

“You coming, Evie?” Hayden asked from the doorway. “Maybe you can talk Smokey Joe out of his funk.”

“Yeah, I'll be there in a minute.” She waited until the room emptied out of everyone but Ricci.

Ricci stared at his splayed fingers, then at her. “You gonna report Knox for harassment?”

“Nah.” She picked at a new stain on her jacket sleeve.

“You'd have a case.”

That would get them no closer to putting an end to the case that mattered. She shrugged. “We're all stressed.” She studied the dirt under her right index fingernail.

She was living Houston all over again. One of the officers on guard in the Houston disrupt, a man on her team, hadn't trusted her to do her job. When the toddler who was being evacuated bolted from his mother's arms across the courtyard where the IED had been planted, she dived instinctively at the kid, leaving her post. The officer on guard, bigger and stronger and more capable—at least in his own mind—pushed her aside, deciding he'd go for the grab, but his clumsy actions and complete lack of knowledge of the IED set off the explosive, injuring the child, her, and himself. The president had been right. She was responsible in part because it was her crime scene, and for a few seconds, she'd lost control of one of her men.

“You gonna report me for belting him?” Evie asked.

“Nah.” Ricci flashed her a bit of Hollywood bright. “We're all stressed.”

“You probably should,” Evie said. “Knox could squeal like a pig.” And if he did, the president would come down on her.

“Not Knox. He doesn't want it anywhere on paper that anyone got the jump on him, especially a woman.”

Because women were softer, weaker. She stood, cradling a fist in the palm of her hand. Not in her world. “I'm not sorry I decked him.”

Ricci clamped his hand around her shoulder. “Which is why I'm glad you're here. Knox, too. He's one of our best. I specifically asked for him to be assigned to these bombings.” He escorted her to the door. “You two are very much alike.”

“I'm so going to try and forget you said that.”

“I'm serious. You're both good at what you do, and you both know it.”

4:06 p.m.

“Hold it right there, Manny.” Jack popped the post in place. “I think we're good.” He gave the fence a hard shake. Not a budge. “You get the post hole digger, and I'll pick up the extra wood. We need to keep debris or anything else that will spook him at a minimum.”

Sugar Run stood at the far end of the pasture pawing at the ground. This morning Manny had introduced Sugar Run to the pasture, going through careful precautions to get him safe and acclimated, but the fiery horse got skittish, bolted, and broke the fence. Lucky for all of them, the horse wasn't hurt, although he looked sorely agitated.

Jack rested a dress shoe on the bottom rung of the fence. “What do you need?” Jack aimed his words at Sugar Run. “You're mad at the world and taking it out on a wooden fence post. It's not working for you, my friend. You're going to end up a cold, lonely old man.”

Like him. Until now. Until Evie came into his life he hadn't realized how cold, how lonely, he'd been. She was feisty but people flocked to her. And fiery. Oh, yeah, she had plenty of fire. He'd told Evie that he was involved with this case because he felt responsible. Then he admitted he was holding on to hope that finding the bomber would help him find his sister. All true. But the past few days he'd found life beyond the office, in things like cake, and sand between his toes. All thanks to Evie.

“Is that what you need, big guy? A little filly to chase away the dark and cold?” But Sugar Run had been violent with the mares. “Then how about a friend.” He pictured blind Smokey Joe and Evie. Evie was fond of the old man, bringing him muffins, helping him find his way. Maybe that's what Sugar Run needed, someone to help him find his way.

Jack jogged across the pasture. “Hey, Manny. I need the vet's number.”

An hour later, Jack hopped out of the truck and walked to the pasture gate, unlatching the lock and pushing it open. Sugar Run's nostrils flared, and his ears swiveled. Jack flipped the latch on the trailer and swung open the door. The lone inhabitant flicked her tail and sauntered off the trailer and into the pasture.

“Mr. Elliott, are you sure this is going to work?” Manny asked.

Unlike most of his business dealings, Jack was very much out of his element. “No.”

Sugar Run danced from one hoof to another as the visitor pranced through the pasture.

Manny joined him at the fence. “I've heard of buddy horses before, but not this.”

“I couldn't find a buddy horse on such short notice. The vet said this was the next-best thing.”

“But a goat, Mr. Elliott?”

Jack placed one dusty dress shoe on the gate rung. “Our Boy has made a pretty strong statement this past year. He's been aggressive with other horses and acts out against humans. Yet he's still lively and wants to run. I think he's saying he's frightened and not sure how to find his way in his new, sightless world.” Jack watched the goat picking her way across the pasture. “Maybe Miss Alfalfa can help.”