The Blind (16 page)

“Who are you today?” Freddy asked as he stood over Durant's shoulder and watched him apply a thin layer of bright blue to the woman's dress. Having gone to art school somewhere in New York, then having studied in Paris, Durant was a damn good painter.

“Chagall. Early years. Easy to replicate because he didn't use many colors.” With a frown, Durant lifted the brush and made feathery brushstrokes. “But getting the right texture has been a bitch.”

Durant was an even better businessman. When he got tired of
frijoles
for dinner every night, he started re-creating works by masters. Not surprisingly, there were a number of folks in this town willing to pay big bucks for fake masters. These were
legit
fakes. People knew they were buying fakes. Freddy wagged his head. Only in L.A.

With another frown, Durant tossed his brush into a glass of clear liquid and wiped his hands on a towel at his waist. “Got a buyer for me?” Durant asked.

“Not today. I'm looking for a particular artist, and since you know some folks on the darker side, I wanted to get your take.”

Freddy showed him printed screen shots of Carter Vandemere's art, which Evie had so graciously provided. His Lady Feeb was getting antsy, rattled enough to ask Freddy to check with his downtown contacts.

Durant studied the printouts. “You don't strike me as the dark and twisty type.”

“It's for a lady friend of mine.”

“Must be an interesting lady.”

“She is.” Freddy had never met a cop like Evie. She'd given him a fistful of bills and every last penny in her pocket to bet on a horse so he could duck Skip's fist. He shook his head. She tried to come across all hard-ass, but Agent Jimenez was a softie.

Durant handed Freddy the papers. “I haven't seen this stuff in any of the storefront galleries, a bit too edgy for most art buyers, but once in a while we get stuff like this at the pop-ups.”

Downtown L.A. had dozens of established art galleries, and artists who hadn't yet found a place in those galleries would often get retailers or businesses to set up short-term or pop-up galleries displaying their work. Some even set up their art in parking lots and on sidewalks.

“Got any names or locations for me?” Freddy asked.

Durant stroked the tip of his goatee. “What's in it for me?”

Freddy pictured that Angel Bomber award, compliments of Jack Elliott. “A quarter mil.”

“Let me do some asking around.”

Good, 'cause Durant knew who to ask. The smile on his lips fell away. “Be discreet, Durant. This guy could be dangerous.”

Durant turned back to the fake Chagall. “Discreet is my middle name.”

On the way back to his car, Freddy's phone buzzed. Someone on the tip line. Good. He could use a big, juicy Hollywood scandal right now. “Freddy Ortiz, photographer of the starz.”

“Hello there, Freddy, I'd like to invite you to my next show.”

“What's playing?” Freddy reached for his door handle. Man, he hoped this was an invite to a comedy show. He could use a few laughs.

“Something wonderfully explosive.” The voice was fast and breathy. “It's debuting this Friday.”

Monday, November 2
3:43 p.m.

I
need to see Jack.” Evie stood before Claire, who was tucking fat reports into three-ring binders with the EE logo.

“You mean Mr. Elliott?”

“No, I mean Jack. Is he in?” She'd tried his penthouse, but he hadn't answered. Nor did she spot one of his cars in his private parking space at the Elliott Tower. Carter Vandemere had just phoned Freddy Ortiz, and while they weren't able to get a trace, they got an important known: The next bomb would go off this Friday. Evie wanted to know if Vandemere had reached out to Jack. She gripped one of the empty binders. Or heaven forbid he'd found Jack.

Claire snapped closed a binder. “No.”

“Do you know when he'll be in?”

“He's out for the day.”

“I tried calling, but he didn't answer.” Which was so un-Jack-like. This investigation had been the focus of his life the past few days. “Do you know where I can reach him?”

“No.”

“Bullshit.” Evie let go of the binder and rolled one shoulder, then another. A tightness had settled in, bunching her muscles. “You know everything about him, including which hand he uses when he pees.”

Claire dropped a report, and papers went flying. “Agent Jimenez!”

Evie squatted to pick up the papers. “Okay, that may be a stretch, but don't you dare pretend you don't know if he wears boxers or briefs because I'm sure you've either routed his laundry or bought him a pack or two of
chonies
. So where is he?”

Claire said nothing as she dropped to the floor to pick up the papers, but Evie saw the smile. She also spotted a wide, rippled length of flesh that crept up Claire's forearm as she reached for papers under a chair. Evie had seen enough victims of bombs to know that was a scar from a third-degree burn, and she wondered about this woman who seemed to want to blend in with the world. Whatever her past, she was loyal to Jack Elliott, and as his executive assistant knew his schedule.

“So where is he?” Evie asked again as she finished picking up the papers.

Claire attempted to straighten the papers, but they remained catawampus. She tapped and tapped and tapped. “I genuinely don't know. He checked in around two and said he was taking the day off.”

Evie took a deep breath, relief loosening the knots in her shoulders. So he hadn't just up and disappeared, but something still wasn't right. “Taking the day off? Are you talking about our Jack?”

Evie started to put the papers in order, but Claire waved her off. “Yes,
our
Jack, and I can get it from here. I believe you have more important things to do than collate, and as soon as Jack calls in for messages, I'll tell him you stopped by.”

Evie set the papers on top of Claire's desk. “Boxers or briefs?”

Claire laughed out loud. “Agent Jimenez! That is hardly an appropriate topic of conversation.”

“Sometimes appropriate is overrated.” Evie spun on her boots. She still needed to find Jack and give him the good news that they finally had a sketch of Vandemere's face as a teen, which was being age-progressed at this very moment.

Just as she was about to get back on the elevator, a streak of ginger flashed down the hallway. She poked her way through a maze of offices and found Brady Malloy on the phone.

“I'll have marketing send you Jack's and Heinrich's mug shots along with a high-res logo for each company. If you need anything else before the story goes to print, give me a call.”

Evie balled her fists on the edge of Brady's desk. “Where's your guy? I have news about Abby.”

“I'll have him give you a call when he checks in.” Brady pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and checked his watch. “Which should be in about an hour.”

“Did you hear me, Brady? I have info on his sister.”

“Loud and clear. I don't want to disturb him today.”

“You know where he is?”

Brady settled back in his chair. “Jack is taking some time off this afternoon. No work. No bomb investigation. Even no Abby. He needs a break.”

Another loyal pit bull. “Who is he to you?” Evie asked.

Brady ran his fingers along the cuff of his jacket sleeve. “Jack Elliott's my savior. Literally. He scraped my ass up off the streets.”

“New York,” Evie said.

Brady's eyebrows folded into two checkmarks. “Jack told you about New York?”

“A little. He said it was a dark, ugly time.”

Brady nodded. “For both of us.”

Evie ground her boot into the plush carpet. “It's about to get dark again. I need to talk to Jack, and not just about Abby. The bomber has set the date for his next
show
.”

6:09 p.m.

Evie rolled down the car window and stared at the keypad. Flexing her index finger she punched in four letters:
ABBY
.

The gigantic iron gates with the scrolling initials EE swung open. She'd known Jack Elliott less than a week, but she knew a good deal about him. At times. Other times, like now as she drove her Beetle down the dusty ranch road, she could honestly say Jack had thrown her for a loop. Mr. Uptown and Uptight owned a forty-acre spread in Ojai, a small artist and agriculture community northwest of Los Angeles. From what she could see in the glow of her headlights, the ranch was well-maintained, and not to her surprise, in the business of making money. To her right stretched row after row of citrus trees and neat stacks of plastic crates. Jack was making money off his second home, a ranch with a large mission-style house made of adobe the color of the sun.

An older woman with wide hips and a wide smile waved at her as Evie walked through the courtyard.

“What do you think?” The woman handed her an orange.

The fruit was heavy and dimpled and smelled of summer and sun. Evie tore off a section and took a bite. Juice dribbled down her chin. “Perfect.”

The older woman laughed. “Good. You're getting them for dinner.”

“I am?”

“You're here to see Mr. Elliott?” Even here he was
mister
.

“Yes.” About a ticking bomb.

“He's around the back at the barn,” the woman said. “Be careful. There's been quite a ruckus back there today.”

6:11 p.m.

Jack slipped the bolt in the paddock gate. A burst of wind sliced down from the mountain and cooled the sweat along his forehead.

“You wanna get him inside now, Mr. Elliott?” Manny asked.

Jack slipped off his gloves and tucked them in the back waistband of his jeans. “Let's give him a little more time.”

“Okay, he's doing fine here in the paddock. We'll give him a chance to stretch his legs a bit,” his new stable manager said. “I'm going to head on over to the Dawsons' place and see if the vet's done. I want her to come out and take a look at that hind leg. The abrasion doesn't look too bad, but I'm sure you want to take care of your investment.”

As Manny took off in the truck and trailer, Jack rested his arms on the top rung of the railing, a tear in his jacket gaping open and catching wind. An investment? He almost laughed. The chestnut Thoroughbred nosed cautiously around the paddock, lit this time of evening by a pair of security lights attached to the barn. Business had been the furthest thing from his mind when he bought this horse this afternoon. He'd been thinking about one thing, the bomb in his desk.

An Ojai neighbor of his had been boarding the horse for the owner who'd been trying to sell him off for the past year. Jack had heard about the horse and occasionally got a look at him, a wild thing with fire in his eyes.

“He's beautiful.” The voice, low and throaty, was barely audible on the wind.

Jack hadn't heard Evie approach, but he wasn't surprised she was here. Nothing she did surprised him.

“What's his name?” Half of Evie's hair had escaped its knot and whipped about her face.

“Sugar Run.”

Evie stood on the bottom rung of the fence so they were the same height. “Sounds familiar.”

“Thoroughbred out of Kentucky. Three years ago he won the Derby and the Preakness. Didn't make the last leg of the Triple Crown because of an injury.”

She climbed to the second rung. “And you've added him to your collection?”

Jack laughed. “He is my collection. You're witnessing the first day of my first acquisition. So now you can't accuse me of having a barn with no horse.”

Evie slung one dusty boot over the top rung and then the other, settling her butt on the railing. More faded blue jeans. She had obviously never received the memo about standard FBI dress. Or more likely, she got the memo and chucked it in the garbage.

Evie nudged his shoulder with hers. “What's wrong with him?”

“He's blind.”

“You bought a blind racehorse?”

“I bought a beautiful horse that can still run like the wind.”

She fell silent for a moment as Sugar Run continued to edge his way along the far rail. “Do you plan to hire him out for stud fees?”

“Not sure. After taking him off the racing circuit when his sight started to go, his previous owners tried that route, but he's been too aggressive.”

“What do you plan to do with him?”

“Watch him run.”

Evie rested her shoulder against his. Beneath her denim jacket he felt the taut muscle. There wasn't much soft about Evie, except those rolling waves of hair.

“This has something to do with the bomb in your office,” Evie said.

He laced his fingers. “Brady saw his past flash before his eyes, but me, I saw my future.”

“Didn't like what you saw?” She kicked her legs, her boot heels softly tapping the metal railing.

“I saw a few things that needed changing.”

“Change starts with a new horse?”

“Change starts with an old dream.” He aimed his laced fingers at the Thoroughbred. “When we were kids, Abby loved the sun and I loved fast horses. I loved watching them run, seeing their power and grace. I always wanted a racehorse, but I've been too busy.”

“Until the bomb in your desk drawer.”

“Until the bomb in my desk drawer.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “But you're not here to see my new racehorse, are you?”

Evie's legs stilled. “We got a lead about a young artist who was obsessed with your sister when she got to L.A. We have a sketch that's being age-progressed.”

Jack's face broke open in a full-fledged smile. It was a huge break. “I knew you Apostles wouldn't let me down.”

Evie nodded but didn't smile.

“And…”

“Freddy got word from Vandemere. He's set a date for the next bombing. This Friday.”

Another gust of wind sliced through the paddock, picking up dirt and dry grass. “It's a known,” Jack said. “And that's good.”

“That's how I see it. One more dot gets us that much closer.” Sugar Run's nostrils flared, and he sidestepped, his rump banging into the railing. Jack unlaced his fingers. “We should get him inside.”

Evie whipped her collar over her ears and ducked another peppery gust. “How's he do on the lead line?”

“Fine once you get him moving.”

Evie took the leather line hanging over the top rung. “Do you mind?”

Sugar Run danced nervously, kicking up dust.

“Do you dare?” Jack asked. Although that was a stupid question. Evie always dared.

With a grin, Evie hopped into the paddock. “Approach with caution.” She made soft nickering noises and kept her steps steady and even. “Hey, sweet baby.” Sugar Run's ears turned. “It's okay. We're going to get you inside.” She ran her palm along his neck. The horse stutter-stepped. “Clear debris.” She quietly snapped the lead line to the halter ring, all the while keeping up a soft, steady chatter. She aimed her chin at Jack. He slid the bolt and opened the gate, barely making a sound.

Pulling on the line, Evie led the horse toward the barn. Jack matched their steps. The horse was clearly keying in on sound and wind. Another gust of wind blew down from the mountain. Sugar Run charged forward, but Evie checked him with the line. When they reached the barn, Jack unlatched the lock and swung open the door. The air was warmer and still. A bird in the hayloft screeched.

Sugar Run's nostrils flared. His gaze grew wild. He veered to the side, and Evie went with him, her shoulder crashing into a stack of hay. Her boot heels slipped on the newly washed floor, and she landed on her butt.

Jack reached for the line and steadied the horse as Evie picked herself off the ground. “It's okay, old boy,” she said. “It's a good place. A safe place.”

“Set hot charge.” She opened the stall and put the feed in place. Sugar Run slipped into the stall. Jack shut the gate.

“Detonate.” Evie slid the bolt into place.

“Impressive. A bomb specialist who can also defuse horses. Does Parker pay extra for that?”

“He should.”

Jack picked a piece of hay from her hair and a leaf from her collar.

“I'm a mess,” she said, swatting at the mud on her sleeve and jeans.

“Seems to be a rather common state with you.”

She slipped her hand to his chest and plucked off a long piece of straw. “At least I'm not the only one today.”

With Sugar Run happily munching in his stall, Jack led Evie to the back of the barn and the hose and spigot. She slipped off her jacket and ran a stream of water along her arms. Droplets scattered on her tank and beaded on her hair, reminding him of a hundred tiny diamonds catching fire from the light overhead. He reached out and caught one of the drops. At that moment she turned, and his palm brushed her cheek. The touch was unexpected but not unwanted. The heat of her skin chased away the chilly wind. Her eyes grew smoky.