Free The Blind by Shelley Coriell Page A

Captain Ricci.”
    At least Elliott was being consistent. The guy never stopped working. And for better or worse, he was working on her case. She slung her bag over her denim jacket and pounded up the stairs.
    When she caught up to Jack on the fourth floor, he was still talking. “Clear my schedule for the rest of the week. Tell Brady to call Matsumoto’s bluff and walk. When Mats comes back begging for the six-point-five-percent interest rate, have Brady tell him it’s now six point seven-five. As for the Seattle project, send it to the city’s zoning commission. That should put everything on hold for a while.”
    She waggled her fingers at him and matched her pace to his. He frowned but didn’t slow. Even without the suit, he looked like a million bucks, with interest. A monogrammed towel hung around his neck, and not a single bead of sweat marred his brow.
    “Do you always do business in stairwells?” Evie asked when he finished the call.
    “It’s an efficient use of my time.” And Jack liked efficiency.
    So did she. “I need to talk with your artist in residence, but your pit bull at the gate is baring his teeth. Your Abby Foundation director wouldn’t let me in the door.”
    “Adam’s very protective of the program and the artists. I’ll give him a call. You can expect his full cooperation.”
    Jack talked. People jumped. She stood there shaking her head. Incredible.
    “Is there anything else, Agent Jimenez?”
    She was about to take off when she remembered the box. “Here.”
    “What is it?” Jack asked.
    “German chocolate cake.” She whipped open the lid, and a wonderful puff of chocolate, toasted nuts, and coconut filled the stairwell.
    He frowned. “You brought me a cake?”
    “To celebrate the biggest deal of your career, the one with Germany.”
    His fingers dug into the ends of the towel at his neck. His frown deepened.
    “It’s a cake, Jack, a freakin’ cake.”
    His eyebrows narrowed and lips scrunched, like her second-oldest nephew when he was trying to work long-division problems. “A clock is ticking, a serial bomber is on the loose, and you brought me cake?”
    “That’s the ideal time to eat cake. We need beauty when there’s so much ugly, right?”
    For the longest time Jack stared at her with his long-division face. At last he took the box. “Thank you, Evie.” His voice tapered off, as if searching for words but not sure where to find them. He cleared his throat. “This is thoughtful.”
    “No, Jack, this is necessary . According to my nephews, no celebration is complete without cake.” And something told her Jack Elliott was the type of man who needed more cake.
    *  *  *
    10:34 a.m.
    “Let’s make this quick.” Adam Wainwright, the executive director of the Abby Foundation, slipped from behind his desk and headed for the stairs. He smelled like one of those cucumber and melon candles her sister-in-law liked to burn after her four boys went to bed. He wore an argyle cardigan, slim hipster jeans, and the scowl of a junkyard dog.
    As they walked up the stairs, Evie noticed a smudge of red on the fleshy side of Wainwright’s right hand. Her teammate Hayden was sure they were looking for an artist. “Do you paint, Mr. Wainwright?”
    “Excuse me?”
    She pointed to his hand. “Are you a painter?”
    He twisted his wrist and studied the red mark, his mouth arcing in a grimace. “This is from a few hours of accounting work this morning, which is clearly not my strong suit.”
    “You’re an artist?”
    “Was.” They reached the third floor. He was about to reach for the door handle, when she wedged herself between him and the door.
    “What happened?” Evie asked.
    “I thought you wanted to speak to our current artist in residence.”
    “Right now I want to speak to you.”
    Wainwright tapped his shiny brown shoe.
    She tapped her pointy red boot.
    He took a cloth handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the red from his hand. “The muse died.”
    “But not