The Blind (4 page)

He pulled in a deep breath, his chest pressing against his pin-striped vest, today a deep blue, almost black. “I hope so.” He exhaled and left her office.

After the echo of his shiny dress shoes died away, she sat at her computer and popped in the thumb drive. Jack had given her a valuable hit list, names of every individual who had access to the
Beauty Through the Ages
collection. As she scrolled through the files she was thankful Jack Elliott was a control freak. The records listed every individual entering the secured gallery along with day, time, and duration of stay. Claire of the Kingdom of Beige clocked in monthly visits, probably to make sure things were “freshened up.” Foundation director Adam Wainwright stopped by about once a week as did Brandon Brice, who was the foundation's current artist in residence.

She reached the final page. That was it. Only three distinct visitors.

She tapped her thumbs on the keyboard. Something wasn't right. Again, she read through the list. No one raised any red flags. No dates or pattern of entry seemed significant. She closed the file and scrolled through the other documents created by the uber-efficient Jack Elliott. And then it hit her. She went back to the
Beauty Through the Ages
access records, and there it was, clear as the brilliant sun shining today. With the exception of last night, Jack Elliott had not stopped by to see his multimillion-dollar art collection. Odd, but on a deeper level, sad. Jack Elliott collected beautiful paintings but didn't take the time to look at them.

Thursday, October 29
9:33 a.m.

E
vie ducked under the splintered wood railing and sidestepped a pile of horse manure, her boots slapping the concrete that separated the barns at Hollywood Turf. A brisk breeze stirred up the scent of fresh hay, sweaty horses, and grease, the latter emanating from the man with slicked-back hair sitting on the bench in front of the last barn. She parked herself at the end of the bench.

“If Skip sent you, tell him I'll have his next payment a week from Tuesday,” he said without looking up from the playbook in his hands. “And if you're looking for a tip, I recommend Waltzing Matilda here to show in the eighth.” He took the highlighter from behind his ear and ran it across a line in the book. “She's forty-five to one 'cause she's really a miler, doesn't like the long halls, but she loves running in sunshine.”

Evie placed a single dusty boot on the bench. “We need to talk.”

His gaze snapped to her, not a single greasy hair moving out of place. “For a filly with great legs, anything.” He ran the side of his highlighter along her booted calf.

She kicked away the pen. “You're slimier than I thought, Freddy Ortiz.”

“My reputation precedes me.” The tabloid photographer placed his fingertips on his chest and bowed. “You must be a fan. Want my autograph?”

“Your stench precedes you.” She flashed her creds. “I want answers.”

He curled the playbook into a column and aimed it at her. “So you're Agent Jimenez. Police scanners are all abuzz about you this morning. I was gonna hunt you down.”

“Beat you to it.” She snatched the playbook. “So talk. How did you end up at the library at the time of the bombing killing Lisa Franco? Someone tip you off?”

“I already did this dance with Captain Ricci, but because I like your hooves,” he jutted his chin toward her red boot, “I'll take to the dance floor again. Nothing on my tip line. I was trolling the streets of downtown looking for lewd and lascivious and lucked out.”

“Some luck.” The side of her mouth curled in a snarl. “Having a woman's brain explode and land on your shoe.”

“Yep, that was my money shot. Pretty artistic, if I do say so myself. But I'm no different than you, Lady Feeb. We're like souls, both earning a living off these sickos.”

Her hand clenched, tightening around the playbook until it was the diameter of the barrel of her Glock. She aimed it at his chest. “But unlike you, I'm attempting to stop them.”

He raised both hands to his chest. “Hey, it's not like I want a psycho bomber on the streets.”

“But until he's stopped, you have no issue exploiting him for personal gain.”

“A got no issue with making a little money.” He held out his hand for the playbook, but she slipped it in her back pocket.

She slid her boot off the bench and ground her heel into the straw scattered across the floor. Criminals used media slugs to further their missions, but so did people on her side of the law, and for now, this slimy mass of humanity was important to her case. “Has the bomber contacted you since the bombing?”

“No.”

Reading people wasn't her strong suit. She took a step toward him.

“I swear on the grave of my sweet
abuela
.” He made a sign of the cross, then ran his fingers along his crumpled brow. “Why would he?”

“Most bombers have a burning desire to share a message. Your photos were picked up worldwide and shared for days. He got unprecedented attention, all thanks to you. He most likely sees you as an ally.”

“Yep, that's me, a guy with friends in low places.” The rolls of flesh on Freddy's upper body shuddered.

“Which is why I'm going to put a trace on your phone. It's possible this guy could reach out to you.”

“Whoa, there. Not my tip line. If folks find out the Feebs are listening in, they won't do no more talking. I gotta protect my sources.” He waggled his finger at her. “You can't touch my tip line.”

“I can.” She slipped the subpoena from her bag.

“You move fast.” A smarmy grin slid across his lips. “I like fast women, but I also know my rights. The only stuff you guys are allowed to act on is anything related to Bomber Boy. Anything more, and I'm calling foul. Learned that in J School.”

She feigned shock. “You went to school?”

Freddy took a bright green pack of gum from his shirt pocket and popped a square into his mouth. Even from three feet away, the too sweet, too tangy odor made her gag. “I studied photojournalism back in the nineties,” Freddy said. “I was gonna chronicle in pictures the big stories. The fall of communism. The clash of cultures in the Mideast.”

“Lose your passport?” Evie asked.

Freddy grinned. “Found a gold mine. The dirt rags pay big, especially for a guy willing to dive into the mud and muck. Despite all the dirt, I'm still a news guy at heart. Everything I do is about the story.” With a wink, he lifted the camera at his neck.

Click
.

Evie blinked away the blinding flash. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Chronicling the story. Something tells me you, Lady Feeb, are going to be in a few chapters.”

Evie reached for his camera, but Ortiz, surprisingly fast for a guy of his girth, spun away. “Hands off, cowgirl. This here's my lifeblood.”

“That photo you just snapped has very much to do with my blood.” She held out her hand. “I'm a federal agent involved in a murder investigation, and you will not sell any photos of me to anyone, anywhere.” She jabbed her outstretched hand at Freddy's chest. “So hand over the camera, or the next race you see will be the one of me hauling you off to jail.”

Ortiz puffed out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “You're no fun. A woman who wears red boots should be fun.”

He handed over the camera. She deleted the shot, then scanned the thumbnails. Tons of photos from the downtown branch of the L.A. Public Library. “You've been shooting at the bomb site.”

“Yep. I stop by every day and snap a few. Two days ago I got some great shots of a Girl Scout troop hanging paper cranes from the trees. I'm planning a photo essay called
After the Boom
.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Should rake in some serious money, maybe even get me a six-figure book deal.”

The guy was a slug, but even slugs had a place in her world. “You haven't noticed anyone hanging around the crime scene, have you? A white male between the ages of thirty and fifty, loner-type, neat appearance, little uptight?”

He rubbed his hands together. “That the profile on the bomber?”

“Just answer the question, Freddy.”

“No, no one like that comes to mind, but I'll keep my eyes open.”

She tucked her business card in the playbook and handed it back to him. “Yeah, I get it. The bomber's your trifecta.”

His slick grin slid away, along with the toasty color of his skin. Waltzing Matilda nickered and shuffled her hooves. The tabloid photographer said nothing, but he didn't need to. Evie smelled his fear. The bomber terrified him. Good. She could work with fear.

10:02 a.m.

“Nice day, huh?”

Carter Vandemere raised his face to the brilliant sun streaming through the glass. “Beautiful,” he said. Today the light was unfiltered by clouds or a veil of the ubiquitous L.A. smog. He flexed his fingers, the knuckles letting out happy pops. Perfect for working.

His right nostril lifted as he reached for his hard-sided lunch box. Not this work. Work that mattered. Work that fed his soul. “I'm going to lunch.”

“Isn't it a bit early for that?” his colleague asked.

“I'm hungry.” For the light.

Outside, downtown L.A. buzzed and beeped and whirred and whistled. So many people coming and going. Businessmen in suits, the homeless wearing bits and pieces of the street, a tiny oriental woman with a large sunhat. A good place to get lost. He hurried down an alley to the fourth building on the right. Abandoned earlier in the year, the building's sunny rooftop was perfect for working.

Once on the roof, he opened his box and took out the tiny canvas, a work of art in itself. He'd taken a chopstick and broken it into four pieces. Then he'd smoothed the ends with fine-grit sandpaper and secured them in a tiny square. Then came canvas preparation. Scraping. Cleaning. Drying. Stretching. Tanning.

He poked through the tubes of oil paint in his box. So many colors, but always the same subject. A sun. His fingers slid over a tube of Cadmium Red Deep. He dabbed the tip of his tiny brush into the swirl of paint and added a burst of color to Maria's beautiful flesh.

Thursday, October 29
11:07 a.m.

E
vie sank to her knees and ran her hands through the scarred earth outside the L.A. Public Library.

Her lungs filled with warm morning air still tinged with smoke and the odor of melted plastic, charred metal, and dust. The smells were always the same. Sounds, too. The pop of the ignition switch, roar of an explosion, screams of innocents. She sat on a bare patch of ground, her fingers digging into the crumbled earth, and felt the ground shake.

Bombs had no nationality, no politics, no religious preference. They were conduits for destruction, and the more times she dug her hands into the jagged scars they left behind, the more she hated the hands that made them.

The trees to her right shivered. Was it the breeze? A feral cat? A bomber revisiting ground zero? And then she smelled him. Fine leather, opulence, and a hint of citrus. She took a deeper breath.

“You really shouldn't sneak up on people who carry guns,” Evie said.

Jack stepped out of the leafy cover of trees. “I needed to see you.”

She swatted the dirt from her palms. “If you keep this up, I'm going to think you have a thing for me.”

“Not a thing, a who.” His lips remained stick straight, his gaze intense. “Brother Gabriel North. He's the leader of a religious group with a sizable church in Topanga Canyon and a mission outreach north of Bunker Hill.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “After I purchased the Titian nude, he sent me an e-mail politely asking me to rid the downtown area of the sinful work, and after his signature, he included a quote from scripture:
If any man's work shall be burned, he shall suffer loss: but he himself shall be saved; yet so as by fire. 1 Corinthians 3:15-17
. I ran across the e-mail when I was reviewing correspondence associated with collection acquisitions. North and his crew later held a public protest outside the foundation gallery.”

She hopped up from the ground and snatched the paper. The date on the e-mail was one week prior to the first bombing.

“My research team's been digging up information on North,” Jack said. Of course they have because Jack was digging out from a shitload of guilt. “I forwarded their reports to you and contacted the Topanga Community police station to find out if they've had any issues with North or at his compound. I'm waiting for a callback from the captain.”

She pressed the heels of her boots into the earth to keep from kicking Jack's butt back to his shiny corporate tower. She appreciated his astute observations, contacts, and piles of money, but he wasn't trained to deal with explosives and the mutants who found great pleasure in using them for criminal activity. Few people were.

“Jack, I'm not the sensitive type, but I get it. Guilt is a big dog with sharp teeth, and it's got you by the ass. But the thing is, you made the deal. You brought me here and got me on board. Now it's time to let me do my job. A clock is ticking.” She picked her way across the scarred earth.

Jack fell in step beside her. “What's your plan of action?”

This guy wouldn't let go, which is probably one of the reasons he raked in the millions. She puffed a lock of hair hanging across her forehead. “Contact North for a little heart-to-heart.”

“He won't talk to you. He has a serious distrust of authority figures and the media, as both groups are keeping watch on him and his almost cult-like organization. Apparently he's quite charismatic with loyal followers from all walks, many quite fanatical and some handing over their life savings or moving onto the compound. According to my sources, he doesn't let many into his inner sanctum.”

Most of these zealous, out-of-the-mainstream groups rarely did. “A subpoena will change all that.”

“Subpoenas take time.” He leveled a hard gaze at her. “Which you don't have.”

Jack must be a brute in the boardroom, but he was right. “You have an alternative plan.” She didn't phrase it as a question. She could see that every inch of him was ready to take off and take charge.

“I'll contact his executive assistant.” Jack's confidence bordered on arrogance.

She had no problems with arrogant men. She worked damned well and often with men who thought they were one step removed from God. “Executive assistant. Like your Claire. That's your secret weapon?”

“Do not doubt the power of the Claires of this world. The guard at the gate, who has been trained to fend off outsiders, especially those seeking Brother North, will patch us through to his assistant without hesitation. When we get the assistant on the line, we'll tell her we're here with a significant donation, cash in hand, earmarked for North's pet mission project near Bunker Hill. Wanting to be the harbinger of such great news, the executive assistant will deliver the message and get us in the door. It's a matter of netting the little fish to use as bait for the big fish.” Spoken like a man who knew a thing or two about rods and reels.

“I'll buy into your smooth moves,” Evie said, not bothering to hide her skepticism, “but do you honestly think North is going to talk to you, the man behind the Abby Foundation and its offensive nudes?”

“No, which is why I won't be using my real name.” He motioned to his car parked on the street.

The guy had an ego, but he also had a history of successful million-dollar deals. If this deal went down, they could shave hours off an investigation where seconds mattered. “Okay, Jack, let's see if the fish are biting.”

1:19 p.m.

Evie's boots kicked up fine, silty dust as she and Jack followed their escort, a short man with arms like hams, along a footpath snaking through the twenty-acre True North Retreat and Renewal Center to Brother Gabriel North's private residence.

“Why the gun?” Evie asked their escort. She'd seen the bulge under his jacket the minute he met them at the front gate of the fenced compound.

“Lots of undesirable critters in the canyons,” the escort said.

These grassy hills and scrub canyons an hour northwest of downtown L.A. were home to mountain lions, coyotes, and rattlesnakes, maybe even a few dangerous critters with two legs. This area, close enough to L.A. to house plenty of rich and famous, had its share of rundown shacks, hippie vans, and hand-written
Keep Out!
signs.

The spiritual center looked more like a summer camp that stopped having fun thirty years ago. The main building, a long block structure with a chipped tile roof, sat on a hill surrounded by scrappy bushes, a few bent sycamores, and an ancient white school bus. There was a fire pit circled by felled logs and a half dozen small outbuildings with sagging roofs.

They reached a small hacienda-style house with a red-tiled roof and a large courtyard. North's executive assistant met them at the door. “Right this way, Mr. Ellis.”

Deal done. Evie tipped an imaginary hat to Jack. Jack managed a half smile.

Brother Gabriel North was a man in need of a shave and a haircut, or maybe he was trying to rock the Jesus look. Despite his ragged appearance, he wore an air of superiority. The pastor held out his hand and asked, “Seeking True North, Brother Ellis?”

Jack shook his hand. “Bearing gifts.” He patted the breast pocket of his jacket where his checkbook extended. “And seeking the truth. I'm hoping you can help my friend here.” He slipped his hand along Evie's back, the touch warm and firm. “This is Special Agent Evie Jimenez of the FBI's Special Criminal Investigative Unit.”

The pastor, blinded by Jack's checkbook, blinked as if noticing her for the first time. He snapped his fingers at their escort. “Brother Jenkins, please show Brother Ellis and his friend out. A good day to you both. God bless.”

Evie gave props to Jack for being a straight shooter. They didn't have time to waste on this one, plus she had a feeling a man like Brother North knew all about bullshit. “I'm FBI,” she said. “Not ATF, and I'm not interested in the weapons you are stockpiling in the outbuilding on the northeast end of the property.”

Brother North and Brother Jenkins shared a panicked glance. Jack shifted, inching his body in front of hers.

Evie none-too-gently nudged Jack aside with her shoulder. “You can talk to me now, Brother North,” she continued. “Or I can come back later and bring one of my good friends who does happen to own one of those snazzy blue ATF jackets.” She paused, taking time to read the Ten Commandments, which were emblazoned on the wall behind North's desk.

The pastor's shoulders stiffened, and he sucked in a sharp breath through flared nostrils.

Bull's-eye. Evie took out her phone.

With pinched lips, Brother North invited them to sit at a group of chairs before an unlit fireplace. “What is it you need, Agent Jimenez?”

“I need you to tell me why you threatened to blow up the
Beauty Through the Ages
art exhibit.”

“That's not art but the devil's work, and we were within our First Amendment rights to stage that protest. It was a peaceable assembly.”

“There was nothing peaceable about the note you sent to Jack Elliott threatening to set fire to his art collection.”

A light fired in the preacher's eyes. “God's words are so much more powerful than man's. The Lord wanted to be heard; I was merely His vessel.”

“Yes, you certainly got our attention.” Evie needed to keep this guy talking. North took issue with the content, had a mission downtown, and didn't shy away from explosives. “So why protest this particular collection?”

“It's pornography, degrading to women, poison to men, and detrimental to families.”

Next to her Jack shifted, the fine fabric of his suit making whispery noises.

“I'd been preaching on the sanctity of the body at the same time one of the newspapers reported that Mr. Elliott had purchased the nude painting for more than one million dollars. All this while just blocks from the exhibit on Skid Row men and women and children were living on the streets and starving. I felt this was a real-world exercise in living out our faith and getting this important message out to others.”

“But you didn't get much media attention, did you?” According to the reports from Jack's people, not a single reporter covered the protest.

“The devil's got hold of the media.” A vein popped out on North's forehead. “Bunch of liberals who talk about truth but are well off the path.”

“This lack of media coverage upset you.” Because guys like North craved attention. They longed to have their messages heard.

“Agent Jimenez, you and I both know that the more witnesses the better,” North went on. “However, our efforts were not in vain. We shared our message with hundreds of people walking by. Some stopped long enough to hear about True North, and others took our literature.”

“So you'd label your protest a success?”

“Anytime a single follower turns to True North, we have success.” He pressed his palms together in front of his chest, his fingertips pointing to the heavens. “Simply put, just like you, Agent Jimenez, I want to save lives.”

“Yet you stockpile guns and explosives.”

“Strictly to protect the flock. I have a clear set of rules to guide me, including that one.” He pointed to the section of words behind his desk:
Thou shall not kill
.

Clearly this guy was giving off mixed messages. “What were you doing around lunchtime on Tuesday, October sixth?”

North ran a hand along his scraggly beard. “We have healing services for the aged on the first Mondays of the month, so I spent all day on Tuesday following up with prayer calls.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“My assistant can give you my phone records.”

Yes, the almighty assistant and right hand of God. “Please have her send them to me.” This guy may have an alibi, but he also had plenty of minions to do his will. She tossed her business card on the coffee table. “I'll be in touch.”

When she reached the office door Jack still sat near the fireplace, his checkbook on his knee. He tore off a check and gave it to North, who flinched when he saw the name on the check but pocketed the money.

The guard escorted them past the gate, and once they reached Jack's car, she asked, “You actually gave a donation to a man who all but called you and your art collection an enemy of the family?”

“Makes good business sense, especially in this deal, because after that exchange I'm sure you're not done with North.” He reached for the door handle but didn't open the door. “How'd you know about the munitions?”

“I didn't.”

Jack laughed, the sound so unexpected and bold, it sent gooseflesh racing across her skin. “You were bluffing?”

“Don't look at me like that.” She popped him on the upper arm, the flesh rock solid. “I'm sure you bluff all the time.”

“Of course, but I'm dealing with money, not life and death.”

She lifted her shoulders. “All the more reason to bluff.”

Jack remained motionless, only his eyes moving as he studied her with slow precision. Thirty seconds. One minute. Again she marveled at his steely control. At last he stepped from the car door. A half smile curved his lips as he tipped an imaginary cap.