Authors: Shelley Coriell
Thursday, October 29
7:16 a.m.
E
vie had been in her share of war rooms, but none with so many naked women on the walls. This morning someone on the Angel Bomber task force had made enlarged prints of each of the paintings in the
Beauty Through the Ages
exhibit and hung them on the walls of one of LAPD's case conference rooms. Images that inspired a three-month killing spree were now inspiring a team set on capturing that killer.
And she was a member of that team.
After a near-sleepless night at a cheap motel north of the Arts District, she finally got a call from Parker.
“The president wasn't happy about you taking the high school disrupt in Maine,” Parker had said, his tone crisp and factual.
“Bullshit,” Evie had argued. “He wasn't happy that I was on TV. I'm the face of a botched bomb disrupt that has the American public doubting
his
administration's ability to control both foreign and domestic terrorist activities. This is all about him covering his ass.”
“And he will continue to do so until next year's election.”
Something akin to a growl clawed up Evie's throat. “Officer Gilley took full responsibility for his actions in Houston, and Internal Affairs cleared me of any wrongdoing or negligence.”
“The president finally read the IA report, and he agreed to lift your suspension.”
Yes!
She'd fisted her free hand and punched the air.
It was about time.
“But you need to keep your nose squeaky clean on this one.” A laugh had rumbled on the other end of the line. “Well, at least as clean as you can keep it.” Parker's voice had softened. “Remember, Evie, your job is to preserve life, all life, including yours.”
And with that Parker had assigned her to the multi-jurisdiction task force investigating the Angel Bombings. Less than fifteen seconds after hearing those beautiful words, she was on the horn with Vince Ricci and told him about the
Beauty Through the Ages
collection. Within minutes, Vince had mobilized his team and called a task force meeting.
She stood in front of a copy of the fourth painting, the portrait of the woman in the red dress and child with a halo of golden curls. She'd held enough of her nephews to know that cheek. Soft and warm, powdery and sweet. “You are not going to die.” She ran her finger along the cheek. “Do you hear me? You will not die.”
“Took you long enough,” a deep voice said from behind her. Vince Ricci gripped her shoulder and gave her a one-armed squeeze. She'd met the LAPD bomb squad captain two years ago at a special FBI training session on weapons of mass destruction for large, urban police forces, and she'd been impressed not so much with the big man's brawn but his brains. He'd proven to be one of the session's more contemplative students with a knack for creative problem solving and well-thought-out tactical ops.
“I called Parker after the second bomb requesting your services,” Ricci said. “Where the hell have you been?”
“In time-out.”
Vince chuckled.
“It wasn't funny.”
Vince's lips thinned. “I'm sorry about Houston, but I'm glad you're here. Everyone's anxious to hear about your pretty pictures.”
“According to Jack Elliott,
beautiful
pictures.” She turned from the beauties and rested her butt on the conference table. The portraits were key, and so was the holder of those keys. “Have you talked with Elliott yet?”
“No, but I have a unit securing the gallery.”
“Good. I want to get a tap put on his phones and get someone digging into his past.”
“You're not thinking Elliott's the bomber, are you?” Ricci ran a hand through the snowy-white waves of his hair. “He's a pretty big deal in this town, a real mover and shaker.”
Honestly, she didn't know what to think about Jack Elliott. He was intense and focused, and he had the first solid tip in an investigation that had been stymied for three months, but he was also a control freak, doling out critical information on his own terms and oddly determined to insert himself into the investigation. “I don't think he's flipping the switch, but his interest in these bombings is far from casual.”
When all of the task force members had gathered, Ricci clapped his hands, then rubbed his palms together. “Okay, Evie, show us what you have.”
Bill Knox, the LAPD homicide detective who'd been working the third bombing that killed Lisa Franco, smirked. “Can't wait to see what she has under wraps,” he said loud enough for even her to hear.
Evie had put up with this crap all of her life. Guys like Knox didn't see the soldier who exploited unexploded ordnance in Somalia or served on a team of international peacekeepers hunting down weapons of mass destruction in Syria. When they met her, guys like Knox couldn't get past the X chromosome. But eventually they came around. Every one.
Evie pulled a stack of reports from her bag and plopped them on the table in front of Knox. “Take one and pass them down.” She went over each bombing, showing with painstaking detail the similarities with the first three paintings.
Quiet hung over the war room until Steve Cho, one of her colleagues from the FBI, let out a soft whistle. “This changes everything.”
“Especially given that for the first time we have an idea what the next victims will look like and a hint as to where the bombing may occur,” Evie added. In the fourth painting, the mother, who was holding a rosary and the child, sat on some kind of wooden bench, possibly in a church.
Ricci closed the report. “Where do you plan to go from here?”
“I'm finding out who has access to the Abby Foundation gallery and tracking down the names of anyone and everyone who knows about the collection. Right now it's all about people.”
“Oh, goody,” Knox said with a lift of his unibrow. “A touchy-feely type.”
Captain Ricci opened his mouth, but Evie stopped him with a quick shake of her head. She'd been in the trenches before; she knew the battle tactics that worked best for the entire team. “Cho, can you remind everyone in the room what type of forensic evidence we have collected on the three bombings.”
“No DNA,” her FBI colleague said. “No errant fingerprints, not even a partial, and no witnesses to any of the bomb and victim drops.”
“What about the IEDs?” Like the old saying, to know the artist, study the art. Likewise, to know the bomber, study the bomb.
Cho reached into his briefcase and dug out a series of diagrams. “Pipe bombs, and not of the Average Joe persuasion. Both ends welded with metal caps. A metal rod inserted into a pipe and bolted into place. Makes for a structurally strong housing that delays the explosion.”
“He took significant pains to optimize explosive force,” Evie said with a shake of her head. “He wanted pain, and he knows enough about the science of explosions to know how to cause it.”
“We're thinking someone with a tech background, possibly ex-military,” Ricci said. “The bombs are carefully and consistently constructed, indicating a meticulous, methodical maker.”
Evie took out her notebook. “What about the initiation device?”
“Remote controlled. Thirty-second delay.”
Evie shuddered. “Nice. He's a watcher. Got an official profile worked up yet?”
Ricci tapped the tips of his fingers. “With so little to go on, we're looking at a standard bomber profile.”
She opened her notebook. “A white male with above average intelligence in his prime. Age thirty to fifty. College educated but underemployed. He's a loner with overwhelming feelings of inadequacy. He came from a broken home and has a strong desire for revenge, either against real or imagined perpetrators of wrongs against him.”
“You're right on target,” Ricci said.
“No one's come forward to take credit?” Evie asked. From a criminal perspective, these bombs had been wickedly successful. Each caused death and considerable destruction and garnered the bomber media attention. This guy had one of the largest cities in the United States trembling in its glittery shoes. Makes for a happy, happy bomber. Someone, somewhere, was gloating.
“We got rumblings from a quasi-militia group, but nothing came of it,” Cho said. “A few crackpots and crackheads piped in, but no go.”
“Have you figured out what statement he's trying to make?” Evie asked. Many serial bombers were terrorists, mercenaries, or organized crime operatives. Some were disillusioned idealists or psychopaths. All were on a mission. They had a statement to make, and they wanted the world to hear it.
“Nothing,” Ricci said.
“Until now,” Evie added as she spun her chair and faced the wall of beautiful, mostly naked, women. “We're looking at a guy re-creating art.” She remembered the powerful pull of the images in Elliott's gallery. “But art also makes a statement.”
“Could be an attack on Elliott Enterprises or corporate America in general, whiffs of Occupy Wall Street movements,” Aaron Jarzab of the ATF said.
“Or perhaps it's an attack on Elliott himself,” Ricci said. “He has his fingers in a lot of pies, and my guess is not everyone at the kitchen table appreciates his brand of business.”
“Could be someone with mother issues.”
“Or a misogynist determined to publicly show his rage at women.”
“Or it could be an ultra-conservative fanatic who considers nudes pornographic.”
Ideas flew through the room like birds scattered by gunshot. Evie jotted down notes. There were so many ways this thing could go, and it could go at any time.
A woman with brown hair shaped like a helmet popped her head through the doorway. “Excuse me, Agent Jimenez, but a Mr. Jack Elliott is here to see you.”
Her pen stilled. She was not surprised he was here but surprised it had taken him two hours to insert himself into the investigation.
Captain Ricci tucked the report under his arm and stood. “You all have your assignments. We'll meet first thing tomorrow morning, sooner if anything pops.” To Evie he said, “Keep me posted on Elliott.”
Captain Ricci had given her a temp office on the second floor of the downtown station, where she'd done her unique style of decorating. Along one wall she'd taped a photo of each of the seven victims. Jack Elliott stood before that wall, unblinking.
“Good morning, Mr. Elliott.”
He gave her a crisp nod. Everything about the man was crisp. The crease in his trousers, the knot in his tie, the sharp angles of his hair. She brushed at the grime on the right sleeve of her jacket, compliments of her alley run-in with Brady. Last night before moving into her motel, she'd picked up a few T-shirts, an extra pair of jeans, underthings, and a box of laundry soap, but she'd been too busy putting together her report to do any laundry. Still was.
“What brings you here this morning, Mr. Elliott?”
Reaching into the pocket on the inside of his jacket, he took out a small piece of paper. “It's a reward for information leading to the arrest of the bomber.”
She unfolded the paper, a business check with the EE logo. “
Dios mÃo!
” In investigations gone cold, a big chunk of change could heat up things. Promises of riches turned brother against brother, husband against wife, minions against mastermind. “A quarter of a million is a shitload of money.”
“And here are some individuals you'll need to talk with.” He handed her a thumb drive. “That includes security and access records to the Abby Foundation and every piece of paperwork I have on the
Beauty Through the Ages
collection.”
Elliott was so generous, handing over gifts like Santa. She pressed her palms into the sides of her jeans. What the hell was up with this guy? She took a seat on the edge of her U-shaped desk. “Let me guess, you wanted to be a cop when you were a kid.”
His brow wrinkled. “I wanted to be a horse jockey.”
She sputtered out a laugh. “You're kidding.” The guy was six-feet-plus with shoulders twice the width of hers. Shoulders used to carrying heavy loads, she couldn't help but think.
“I don't kid,” he said with a straight face.
She shifted her legs, her boots swinging. She could do serious, too. “Did you know many serial killers insert themselves into an investigation?”
“I am not your bomber, Agent Jimenez.” No blink. All cool and control.
“Then who are you?”
He turned back to the victim's photos, but not quick enough to hide the twitch in his jaw.
“I said, who are you, Jack? And why are you here?” She hopped up and waved the check in his face. “And why do you care so damn much?” She stood still, the small piece of paper hovering between them.
Seconds gave way to minutes, and he finally pointed to the photo of the first victim. “I may not be your bomber, but I am a killer. I'm her killer.” He stabbed a finger at the next two photos. “And her killer and her killer.” One by one he pointed to the other individuals who'd been killed because they'd been within the IEDs' deadly reaches. “I may not have abducted those three women, I may not have planted and detonated those three bombs, but I am responsible for those seven deaths and for the terror gripping my city.”
Guilt etched his face, carving pain, sculpting sorrow, chipping away at a block of marble. That stirring in her gut wasn't wrong. In Jack Elliott's mind, he was guilty. Her own gut jackknifed. She knew what it was like to hold another's life in her hands and have it yanked away. Horror pummeled your gut, anger exploded in your chest, sadness swelled in your throat, choking off words. The kicker was, the guilt never went away. It became a part of you and everything you did.
With a sharp nod, Jack clipped toward the door. She dashed after him, settling her hand on the arm of his suit coat. Silky smooth and rock hard but unexpectedly warm. Jack Elliott was human and hurting. “The secret to dealing with guilt is keeping the SOB in a corral until it can serve you and the mission.” She lifted the check and flash drive, holding them squarely in front of his face. “Thank you, Jack. These
will
make a difference.”