Free The Blind by Shelley Coriell Page B

your love of art.”
    “No. That kind of thing is in your blood.” He shoved the cloth back in his pocket.
    Evie studied the executive director, a smallish man with a soft voice. Not the ex-military type they were looking for, but Wainwright had a sharp edge and fit the age of Hayden’s new profile. “Are you seeing someone?”
    “I beg your pardon.”
    “Dating? Are you dating anyone right now?”
    “You’re hardly my type, Agent Jimenez.”
    The quiet, mousy administrator wasn’t her type. She liked her men strong and confident and served up with a chaser of no commitment. Like Jack. She was drawn to power. Jack Elliott in a single word.
    Adam smoothed the cuffs of his sweater. “My partner and I broke up earlier in the year. Still hurts. I haven’t jumped back in.”
    A man who loved hard and fell hard. And hard falls usually left big bruises called resentment. “Where’d you go to college?”
    “Stanford.”
    “Impressive. You must be a pretty smart guy.”
    “I like to think so.”
    “Do you own a gun?”
    “Heavens no. I abhor violence.” But he clearly loved art.
    “Where were you around lunchtime on Tuesday, October sixth?”
    “Is there a reason for this line of questioning?”
    “Should there be?”
    He took out his phone and jabbed at his calendar, and she got the distinct impression he’d love to be jabbing her ass out the door. “I was in a foundation board meeting. All day.” Snapping his phone shut, he nudged away her hand and opened the door.
    In one of the third-floor studios, she found a man standing before a block of black marble, his hands sliding across the stone in a lover’s caress. A golden-haired dog sat in a dog bed in a circle of sunshine before the wall of windows.
    She knocked on the door. The dog turned to her, but the man did not. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Brice. I’m Evie Jimenez with the FBI.” Brice was the Abby Foundation’s current artist in residence, and he visited the top-floor gallery weekly, clearly a man familiar with the Beauty Through the Ages exhibit.
    His fingers traced a coppery-orange vein streaking the stone.
    “Mr. Brice.” She settled a hand on his arm, and he jumped, as if she’d taken a dagger to his flesh. She held up her hands. “I’m with the FBI, sir, and I need to talk to you.”
    “Now is not a good time.” Once again, Brice closed his eyes and ran his hands along the stone. He swayed, as if music were coming from the stone.
    “Mr. Brice—”
    His eyes flew open. “Didn’t you hear me? Not! Now!”
    Wainwright let out a chuffing sound. “Mr. Elliott says you’ll need to talk with her.”
    The artist’s hands dropped to his sides. “It appears I have no choice.” Because Jack, the man who controlled the foundation, controlled this man’s career.
    Once again Wainwright tapped his shoe. He was another one of Jack’s loyal and dedicated guard dogs.
    “Can you excuse us, Mr. Wainwright?” Evie asked.
    The foundation director tapped a dozen more times before he finally left. Evie reached out and scratched the dog’s head. “She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”
    “What do you want, Agent Jimenez?” Brandon Brice asked.
    She was trying to take a few lessons from Jack. He was the kind of guy who knew how to work with people. Not her. Her teammate Hatch Hatcher, a crisis negotiator and master interviewer, accused her of skidding into these interviews at warp speed with limbs flailing. True. Words were hard. She had an easier time working with bombs. “According to security records, you visit the Beauty Through the Ages collection at least once a week. Why?”
    “I appreciate good art.”
    “Good art is important in your world?”
    “Good art is important in any civilized world. Art separates man from beast. It connects souls. It creates a feeling in both the artist and the viewer. And good art endures. That’s really what makes that particular collection so amazing. Even after centuries, those