Free The Blind by Shelley Coriell

sticks her nephews used in Cub Scouts. “What do you see?”
    Hayden weighed the chunk of metal on his palm, then swiveled the chair so he faced her growing office art collection, which now included photocopies of the Beauty Through the Ages exhibit, diagrams of the bombs, and a giant map of downtown Los Angeles, the bomb sites and last-known whereabouts of the abducted victims marked with red and yellow dots. “All three bombings occurred within a ten-mile radius, and all featured victims from the same area,” Hayden said. “The bomber works close to home. He doesn’t have the confidence, sophistication, or means to go too far. I’m aging him down. He’s between twenty and thirty-five years old.”
    Then he turned his chair to the copies of the Beauty Through the Ages portraits. Still holding the twisted rebar, he walked to the far corner of her office, never taking his gaze from the beautiful images. He moved to another corner and then to the doorway. As a profiler, Hayden looked at the evidence, crime scenes, and victims from hundreds of different angles. “This guy’s also not making a statement,” he finally said.
    “Come on, Hayden. You know these guys. Bombers are always making a statement, even if it’s, ‘I’m bored’ or ‘I have mother issues.’”
    Hayden shook his head. “He’s not a typical bomber. These bombings are not about the message but the medium. We’re not looking for a bomber making a statement but an artist making art.”
    *  *  *
    9:37 a.m.
    The server at the swank coffee cart on the bottom floor of the Elliott Tower handed Evie the small box and two dollars and forty-one cents in change. “Would you like a cup of coffee to go with that?” he asked.
    “It’s not for me but a little gift for a, uh, friend,” Evie said.
    “In that case”—the server took the pen from his pocket and drew a bow with twisting ribbons on the top—“here’s a little gift wrap.”
    She plopped a two-dollar tip in the jar and hurried to the elevator with the frosted EE s.
    “Excuse me, ma’am, but you’ll need to check in.” The security guard, the same skinny young man she’d met two days ago, waved her over.
    She showed him her visitor’s badge. “I’m here to speak with Mr. Elliott.”
    “Do you have an appointment?”
    She didn’t blink. “Yes.”
    The guard scanned a clipboard. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see your name on the list.” She snatched the pen from his desk and wrote her name on the paper. The security guard seemed stunned at first, and then he smiled. He tipped his chin at the box under her arm. “What’s in the box?”
    “Cake.” Technically it was a peace offering, similar to the check Jack had handed to Brother North, something to keep the lines of communication open. She’d been livid with Jack last night after he’d tried to protect her, but her reality was this guy was integral to this case, and she needed him on her side, especially right now. After learning from Hayden that the bomber was an artist, Evie went straight to the Abby Foundation to talk to Brandon Brice, the artist in residence who visited the collection weekly, but Adam Wainwright, the foundation director, wouldn’t let her through the door. She flipped open the box, and the guard nodded.
    She headed for the elevator.
    “Agent Jimenez,” the guard called out. “You’ll find Mr. Elliott in the north stairwell. He’ll probably be there awhile.”
    Evie heaved open the heavy utility door to the stairs, wondering what kind of businessman hung out in a stairwell. Footsteps pounded above her along with a deep, rich voice echoing through the vertical corridor. “I want a list of every employee with every company that was involved with the transport of any of the Beauty Through the Ages paintings.” She craned her neck. Two flights above her Jack powered up the stairs in black jogging shorts, T-shirt, and a pair of white running shoes. “Send a copy to me along with Agent Jimenez and