Weakest Lynx (28 page)

“Should I talk to them?” His lips pressed together sternly, but his eyes glittered. He was laughing at me!

I narrowed my lids in response. “I wouldn’t, so far it seems to be working.”

“Which Kitchen Grandma are we enjoying today?”

Banalities, good. Maybe he’d give me a little break from the stalker crap. I was still emotionally exhausted—even after my sleep. “Normally, Thursday belongs to Nona Sophia. I switched her with Nana Kate because of the birthday thingy. Tonight, I planned Nana Kate’s pot roast. That is, if the normal kitchen magic happened and all of the groceries from my list appeared during the night.” I plopped down at the table.

“I can pretty much guarantee they did. Sit tight. I’ll get you some food.”

I sipped my tea and ate the sandwich Striker brought me. It tasted good. As soon as I took my first bite, I realized I was starving. I swallowed the last of it, then licked my fingers and wiped them on my napkin.

Striker showed up with a note pad. “Ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be.” The food had fortified me, and the sooner we got through this, the sooner they could piece things together, get the guy, and I’d go home. Finally, safe and sound.   

“Let’s go over your education. My take on your life is that you woke up in the morning and went from adventure to adventure, mentor to mentor, all day until you went to sleep at night, usually with someone’s children under your wing. Is that fair?”

“Pretty darned close.” I swiveled on the cushion so we were face-to-face, and slid my heel underneath me.

“So from the stories you’ve told us, I know about the Kitchen Grandmas, the hair stylist, the florist, the dry cleaners, the lock smith, someone with a bar, a hooker, a Mrs. Drinkwater, your dad the mechanic, your mom the artist, and a cop named Stan. How many others?”

“Lots.”

“Okay, since this started for you at the apartments …”

I shook my head. “It started at the motel. I lived in a motel for five weeks after my apartment building burned down. After three weeks, I got married to Angel, whom I met the night of the fire. The morning of my wedding, I discovered the first note.”

“And after Angel left, you moved to Detective Murphy’s neighborhood.” The point of his pen rested on the paper without taking notes.

“I found my house the day after Angel deployed. It took two weeks for the sale to go through. During which time, I moved from place to place each night, trying to elude Stalker.”

“Were you working?”

“I’m an online student at the community college.”

“Okay. Before you motel hopped, at the first place, do you remember any unusual events happening during your stay? Do you think you might have seen Wilson?”

“I’m sure I didn’t.” I pulled a knee up and hugged it to me. Sharp pain screamed from my cuts, protesting my protective posture, making me grimace.

“How are you sure?” He moved the unused pad aside, set his heel onto the chair spoke, and wrapped his knee with his hands, somewhat mirroring my position. I wondered if he did that on purpose to make me more comfortable. Body language 101. It wouldn’t matter if he did; there was nothing comfortable about this conversation.

“I’ve got an excellent memory for faces. If I had seen him once, I would remember him.”

“He could have been disguised.”

I played with the hem of my shirt. “His face is too marked—the scars and tattoo. I’m not saying he didn’t see me at the motel. I’m saying I didn’t spot him.”

“Let’s go a different direction—you have some law enforcement connections, though they’re not familial, right?”

“Well Dave Murphy, of course. My friend Stan—he taught me how to drive and shoot. I use the police range for practice.”

“They tried to recruit you?”

I shrugged. “It’s not the right environment for me.”

“Anything else?”

“I flew Civil Air Patrol—I started as a cadet around twelve. We did high-adventure stuff together as well as aviation, sort of like scouting.” I found myself chewing on my thumbnail, and I pulled it from my mouth. “I got my pilot’s license and did practice missions quite a bit. More so when Dad was alive. Every couple of months or so now.”

Striker curled his lips in and shook his head. “Nope. Not it.”

“Um, I train with the Search and Rescue team with my dogs. I volunteer for the EMS every two weeks. I knew a lot of those guys through my mom. They transported her to the hospital fairly frequently at the end. I joined the volunteers while she was in hospice …”
Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m going to have to tell him!

“No, this isn’t doing it for me.” He lowered his foot to the ground and leaned forward. “That’s all amazing stuff, but it’s not getting you into the crosshairs of our maniac.”

I took a deep breath—
Here it goes
. “Then maybe it was my connection to Spyder.”

I saw a flash of surprise. “You mean Spyder …”

“McGraw.” I filled in the blank. My body stiffened with apprehension. God, I hoped I chose the right thing to do. Right now, I was only partially convinced I should pony up this information about Spyder. He had been so insistent on my secrecy.

Striker froze for a heartbeat. “Tell me about your connection.”

“Spyder was one of my apartment teachers,” I whispered.

“Spyderman lived nowhere near you.” Striker’s voice was tight.

Confusion mottled my thoughts. This was the hard-edged, dangerous Striker, the combat-ready Striker. His expression jarred me, especially after … well, after the warmth I felt from him. “I bartered his mentorship for my help with the Agnew family in my apartment building.” I explained.

A long moment stretched out between us. Striker was my protector, but his posture made me feel like I was prey. His rigid stance put me on guard.

“How long did that go on?” he asked, tightly.

My voice quivered as I carefully weighed my words. “Spyder’s been a family friend since I was a little girl. My dad worked on his cars. Spyder started to mentor me when I turned thirteen, and he went off-grid a month before my mom died. So, about six years of study, give or take.”

“What kinds of things did you learn from him?” A glimmer of curiosity shone in his eyes.

How do I answer
? Spyder insisted on my training being secretive. How would disclosing this help my case, anyway? “At first he taught me thinking skills: argumentation, logical sequencing. We did mind games to improve my memory and perception. He’s the one who showed me how to do magic, taught me about the stars, and stuff.” That all sounded benign.

“That’s not all. What else?” His voice was accusatory.

More? What more should I give up? “Later, as I grew older, he improved on some of the things my other mentors taught me. Like the driving skills and gun skills I learned from Stan.” I tangled and untangled my fingers. “He taught me other computer skills than what I learned from my dad. He put the dots of my experiences together into a complete picture for me and made me better.”

Striker stared at me like a microbe on a petri dish he was trying to identify. “We know each other.”

“Yes,” I said and stared him directly in the eye. My chin held up. Was I challenging him? Ah, this was a dangerous game to play, Lexi.
Hell in a handbasket
my mind flashed—was this what the psychic knowing warned me about? Should I have kept this hidden away in my closet? Shit. I didn’t know. I just didn’t know.

Wouldn’t it be nice if I had more control over my psychic senses? What if I could just tune in or dial up the information I needed, when I needed it? It hadn’t worked for me when I tried to hone in on Stalker. All I got was the pervasive smell of decay. Helpful?
Not!
It hadn’t worked for Miriam, either. What good was a warning if I couldn’t understand? “Hell in a handbasket.” What did it mean?

“Can you remind me how we met?” Striker asked.

“I’d rather not.” My answer came out terse and professional. See? I can switch modes just like you, Striker Rheas. Shit. Why was I so angry? Probably because I had backed myself into corner. To solve Stalker, I had to reveal myself—seemed like a sucky deal.

My temples throbbed. I wanted to lie down and bury my head under the pillow. An unwelcome, angry tear, which had clung valiantly to my eyelashes, lost its hold and dripped down my cheek. Striker reached out to wipe it away. I jerked back, blocking his move as if he meant to hit me. Striker’s gaze hardened to alpha dog, and it pissed me off. I stared back at him. He seemed to realize what was going on, because he scrubbed a hand over his face. When he looked at me again, his eyes had softened.

“Lexi, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you or to speak to you that way.” He exhaled exasperation. “You’re such a mystery. I don’t understand what I’m dealing with here.”

I didn’t reply.

“We’re on the same team. We’re going to get through this together. I need you to trust me. Do you trust me, Lexi?”

We were on the same team. I was part of the pack. And every pack had an alpha. I shouldn’t hold this against him. “I trust you because Spyder trusts you.”

“Spyder talked about me?” Striker asked.

“Spyder said if I ever found myself in trouble or needed a job, I should get in contact with you.”

“You didn’t call me when you got the letters.”

“No. I took a different route.”

“Spyder thought you should work for me if you needed a job?” His brows knit together.

“Is that incredulity I hear in your tone? Remember I’m the one who found your flash drive, and your missing suspect. And I got Randy’s gun easily enough.” My voice shot out defensively, this side of combative, terse and pitched low.

Striker changed his tactic. “Spyder was working on a project with me when he went off-grid.”

“Yes. I puzzled the case for him.”

Striker cocked his head to the side. I read this as doubt. Why did he keep doubting me? Maybe because I kept hiding things from him, duh.

“We’re talking about the gun runners from Colombia?” I asked.

Striker nodded.

“I remember a web of crazy intrigue. I handed the file back to Spyder the morning he left, solved.”

“Solved?” Striker’s voice rose in surprise. “I never got it.”

“If he left it on his desk, Spyder probably assumed I’d recognize it and get it to the right people, but I was distracted and upset when he went downrange. So I packed his things without paying much attention.” I paused. “It’s been a long time since I worked the case. If you bring me your copy of the file, I’ll try to remember what I came up with.”

We sat quietly together for a minute.

“So that feels right to me,” Striker said. “Wilson targeted you because of Iniquus. He must think your friendship with Spyder, or your involvement with the cases, one or the other fit with his crusade. I’m thinking he didn’t know you were a functioning operative. He probably saw your close relationship with Spyder, and thought you made a good target.”

“The whole thing’s ironic as hell,” I said.

Striker’s focus drilled in to me. “It’s becoming cliché for me to say how surprising you are, Chica.”

I didn’t waver under his scrutiny, just answered earnestly. “It’s a quality I’ve developed. It’s safest for me when no one suspects I’m anything but a newlywed college student. Spyder thought, for me, normalcy and innocence were an excellent cover. He said everyone develops a persona for the world at large. Some of us do it with more deliberation.”

“Everyone?”

“Like you. You have an aura of honesty, mental and physical strength, power, and supreme control over yourself and over the situation. I’m sure it serves you well.”

“You don’t seem to be fazed. Most women get nervous around me. They get all giggly and chatty. I’ve never heard you giggle. Not part of your cover?” He was teasing me, trying to ease the tension still stirring the air. I wasn’t in a teasing mood.

“Look, I want to go home and live my life without Stalker messing with my head—literally and figuratively. I’m not going it alone against a serial killer. I’m physically unable to function, and I haven’t a clue, other than what you’ve told me this morning, how to get to him.”

“We’ll get him.” Striker balled his fists.

“I believe that. You’re good at what you do. You’ve got resources not available to me. And more importantly, Spyderman holds you in the utmost esteem.” My eyes were sharp on him. “Right now, I need to believe you’re stronger than kryptonite.”

“That’s a lot to live up to.”

“Probably.”

“So, we were colleagues? And Spyderman kept that to himself?”

“Yes and yes,” I said.

“Could you tell me one mission?”

“Tanglesmeere Corp. I’m the one who bugged Tandesco for the takedown.”

Striker’s mouth dropped open, and I went smiling into the kitchen to start dinner.

A
knock on my doorjamb turned me away from my clothes-folding chore. Striker leaned against the frame, his arms crossed comfortably in front of him, watching me. We were back to our affable, pre-Spyder-revelation footing, which made me more comfortable.

“India Alexis Sobado, you are a food siren. My men are drawn to the scent of your pots like sailors to a rocky shore,” Striker joked.

“Mmmn, and I’m luring them to their demise on what? Too much saturated fat?” I laughed.

“On the rocks of unrequited love. They all want to marry you, Chica, so you can fill their mouths with wonderful flavors for the rest of their natural lives.”

“Good thing I’m already safely married. No need for a battle to break out over my pot roast. I will tell you, compared to the grandmas, I’m not a very good cook. Your men are simply under a food spell.”

“You aren’t a siren? You’re a kitchen witch?”

“Warts and all.” I loved playing with Striker—maybe that wasn’t such a good thing given my past feelings for him. “Hey, let me ask you about this ‘Chica’ business. Chica means ‘girl.’ Back in my neighborhood, all of the men call me Baby Girl. Do I come off as overly naïve or childish?”

“I’d say you come off as fresh.” Striker tilted his head to one side as if to observe me from a different angle.

“Fresh like baked bread, or more like garden salad?” I walked over to stand in front of him, holding the half-folded shirt against my chest.