Weakest Lynx (23 page)

Striker balanced his elbows on the table and laced his fingers. His eyes narrowed slightly; I wondered what he was thinking. He was very closed off. Not a lot of “tells” to give me a hint.

“How about a name and address for the boyfriend?” he asked.

“His name is Jason Clemmons. His lake house address is 3564 North Shore Drive.” I rubbed my palms down my pants. Gah! I hoped I was right about this.

Striker whipped out his cell phone. “It’s Striker. I need you to check an address for me. I need the owners of 3564 North Shore Drive. And a quick search on a Jason Clemmons.” He caught my eye. “Any middle name?”

I shrugged.

After Striker hung up, I gave him a playful smile. “If I’m right, do I get another prize?”

The cell phone rang before he could answer me; Striker held up a finger for me to wait while he listened to the other end, and then tapped it back off.

“A Catherine and Jason Clemmons own that address, Lexi. If this guy is in the house, you will definitely get a prize. How’d you come up with this information?”

“Randy told me it would be okay if I peeked at the photo album—I got it from the pictures.”

Striker reached over to the buffet, where the album jutted out from the brown box, and flipped through the photos. I shuffled back to the living room and picked up the remote to turn on Comedy Central—something ridiculous and light.

I found if I put up the TV volume a little higher than comfortable, it helped to drown out my inner dialogue. The men must have thought I had a hearing deficit because ever since I started using this technique, they gesticulated a lot, miming stuff out for me. Maybe they thought it had something to do with my head injury. Didn’t matter. Truth be told, it was pretty funny.

After a few minutes, Striker came and sat beside me, album in hand. “Can I get you to go through this with me?” His voice rose over
The Daily Show
.

“Sure.” I remoted the TV off, and curled up beside him, pulling half of the album into my lap. Sitting this close, I could smell Striker’s cologne, spicy and warm on his skin; the steel of his thigh muscles felt solid beside me. Somehow this seemed more intimate than sleeping with him had. I needed to make sure I wasn’t sending him the wrong signals. I twisted my wedding rings back and forth on my finger and jostled around until we weren’t touching anymore.

“Lexi, I don’t understand how you got the names, the relationship, or the address from these photos.” He settled into the cushion and crossed an ankle over his knee to support the opened album.

Holy crap, what had I done? Now I was going to have to walk Striker through my thought process. Would he think I was just observant? Chalk up the information I gave him to a bored, analytic mind? I cleared my throat. “Uh, maybe that’s because you’re looking at the pictures from front to back. I started with the photos from back to front. See?” I flipped the album forward and pointed at the last picture. “This is where I began to understand.”

Striker leaned closer to the photograph of two men standing in front of a nighttime campfire, near arms around each other’s shoulders, outer arms outstretched with beers in their hands, both grinning broadly at the camera. The angle of the photo made me think the camera was propped on something low. A rock? I was pretty sure the men had set the photo timer and were alone. But I decided to keep those kinds of details to myself. Since I was diving in, I should be careful it was a surface dive—too many ways to get hurt if I went in too deep.

Striker put his finger on Jason’s image. “… and you think these guys are boyfriends?”

“Not at first,” I said. “But then I asked Randy.”

“Asked him what?” Striker glanced back to where Randy leaned against the kitchen counter.

“I said ‘Randy, let’s say you and your buddy were standing side-by-side drinking beers. Out of the blue, a high-priced porn star fell down on all fours in front of you, moaning and grinding.’” I stopped to grin up at Striker; I was teasing him by repeating last night’s ribald joke back to him. He pursed his lips and shook his head at me. Okay, maybe I wasn’t funny. I knew he regretted saying that to me. What had made him lower his guard last night? The question still bothered me.

I gave Striker a half smile then finished my story. “I said, ‘Let’s pretend this was erotic to you, and you got an erection. Would you drape your arm around your buddy’s shoulders and enjoy the moment?’”

The men in the kitchen snorted. Striker seemed to be biting down hard for control.

“And?” he finally managed.

“And, he …” I started.

“I said, ‘I’d rather burn in hell, ma’am,’” Randy cut in, to some hooting laughter.

Striker stared down at the picture, and this time I handed Striker the magnifying glass and traced my finger over the man’s hard-on.

Striker bent over the picture, studying it closely, then nodded. “Okay, go on.”

“I decided I should figure out who these two men are, or if they had other photo connections besides this one.” I motioned toward the photo. “If you flip through the pages, you’ll notice these two men never show up in the same photo at any other time. Only here in the last picture. But there are other photos connecting them.”

Striker’s brows came together. Studious. Serious. His eyes shone keen and intelligent. He tapped at his lower lip, a body language “tell” that he was excited about what he was hearing.

I itched to know what this guy did to have an agency hire Iniquus to do the capture. He looked like he belonged in an L.L.Bean catalogue—just a sportsman who loved the outdoors in some pictures, a corporate executive schmoozing and living the good life in others. His face was open and friendly, his body stance confident. Maybe some kind of Ponzi scheme? Or insider trading? Shit, for all I knew he trafficked child porn.

“Go on.” Striker’s voice refocused me.

“I came by their names through this series of photos from the cruise. Look at these two women. This woman in the green dress’s nametag says Catherine Clemmons. Look at her rings. Do you see the pattern?” I handed back the magnifying glass.

Striker pulled the album further into his lap and stared down at the eight-by-ten picture from the cruise ship’s cocktail hour. He wasn’t focused on Catherine, though. His gaze was glued to the other woman. She was a tall, curvaceous Latina with a curtain of black silky hair, hanging nearly to her waist. Her little white dress accented her tan and her white teeth as she laughed, a martini gracefully held in her left hand. On her dress, the name tag read, “Lynda.”

Striker knew this woman. Holy shit! I’d bet anything this was the Lynda who had gone missing. Striker wore that same braced posture he affected every time she came up in conversation—the one screaming that he was personally invested. His wife? His girlfriend? Striker was law enforcement; did Stalker target someone from Iniquus as well as the agencies they served?

When I knew Striker back in my Alex days, he wasn’t in a meaningful relationship. That could have changed; it was a long time ago. Could someone have become significant enough for the killer to set his sights on her? That just didn’t seem right to me. Besides, there was a man, standing just out of the camera frame, whose hand rested intimately on her lower back—the guy was too short to be Striker—and Striker didn’t seem jealous of him.

The more I tried to sense a tie between Stalker and Lynda the more I realized that was completely wrong. This must be a different case—nothing to do with Stalker. When I reached my conclusion, relief washed over me. Thinking that what had happened to me might have happened to two other women—and they could be hurt and bleeding with no support, or worse—had been weighing heavily on me. I let those images go. Thank God. But if this was Lynda, who was Cammy?

Striker moved the book back to rest between our two laps. “Okay, go on,” he said.

I decided not to push for information. Yet. “Now, turn the page to this one. Do you recognize him?” I was having trouble repositioning myself where I could be comfortable and see the album but not touch Striker. Striker shot me a funny kind of questioning expression then shifted to an angle, solving the problem “He’s the guy on the left of the beer photo,” I
said
.
“You can make out this man’s tag and the Jaso—I assume ‘Jason.’ Here in this other photo, we see him again. This time he’s holding hands with a woman, whose face and body aren’t in the picture. Now, here’s the ring, and she’s standing close to him; the green of her dress is just showing at the edge. Look at the pattern on the ring on his left hand—it’s the same.”

“That’s how you got the boyfriend’s name Jason Clemmons.”

“I assume this isn’t the guy you want, because it’s not his photo album. The other couple is the main subject in the other photos. I came up with Peterson’s name the same way, by putting some photo puzzle pieces together, see?” I flipped through the photos pointing out the clues I used.

Striker smiled. “Amazing. Very clever. I’m impressed.”

I shifted around uncomfortably. Too clever? Couldn’t any girl—bored out of her mind—sit down and figure this out?
Brush it off, Lexi. Make this seem like child’s play
. “Yeah, well, Nancy Drew was an early heroine of mine, and I’ve always loved picture puzzles.”

“How did you come up with the address?” he asked.

I turned the pages back to the picture of the two men. “In this picture there’s a rock with a cleat on it. That told me they were near water large enough, and deep enough, for boating. Now, let your eye go up. Do you see the tree with a bird house?” I flipped back a few pages. “Okay, in this picture of Peterson standing next to the tree, follow the branch with the dead deer hanging from it; here’s the bird house,” I pointed and said, “Now, look at the top left—the little flag with the dogwood and magnolia flowers.”

Striker brushed against my shoulder as he leaned over the photo with the magnifying glass. “Yup.”

I turned the pages almost to the beginning. “Look at this picture of the golden retriever. See the same flag on the upper right hand corner? Can you read what’s visible on the bottom left?” My finger trailed down to the left hand corner where a driveway sign stood sentinel. With the magnifying glass, Striker said, “Shore Good to See You! The Clemmons 3465 North Shore Drive.”

“I thought to myself, if I were hiding, I’d want to go to a place that felt safe, a place that had little traffic, you know, mostly secluded, like this house is. I wouldn’t want to stay with any friends or relatives. That would make it too easy to track me down. If this guy is having a secret affair with Jason Clemmons, then hunkering down at his lake house might be the way to go. Anyway that’s my theory.”

“It’s quite a theory.” Striker’s cell rang. “Striker.” He listened, locking me in place with his gaze. After disconnecting he said, “It appears the Clemmons are out of the country for a while. Mr. Clemmons works for a German company, and according to the housekeeper, they’ll be in Europe while he oversees a project. That would free up their vacation house.”  

The men listened from the kitchen table. Gater and Axel had come in while I walked Striker through the pictures and were eating in silence.

Striker joined them. “It’s a reasonable theory. I think this house deserves a visit, gentlemen …”

I went upstairs, while they discussed plans, and lay down on my bed. My head was whirling, and I didn’t want to make a big deal of it.

Striker knocked on my open door. “We’re heading out. Blaze is your watchdog.” As I focused on him, I felt my face turn pink.

“Are you okay?” He strode over to me, concern darkening his eyes.

“Sure, fine. I … I … it’s okay. Nothing to be done about it.” I waved my hand in the air as if to erase what almost bubbled out of my mouth.

Striker eased his hip onto the corner of my bed. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t want to have another adrenaline spike while you’re gone. All of your men are really nice, but, um …” I couldn’t go on. I felt stupid and childish. I blew a stray piece of hair out of my eyes. “The whole adrenaline thing’s damned embarrassing. I’ll deal.”

Striker’s brow creased. “What’s embarrassing exactly?” He sounded genuinely confused. I had to shift my gaze over his shoulder so I wasn’t looking directly at him. “Well, you know, the whole, uh …” I stalled.

“The whole what?” Striker encouraged.

I swallowed and forced the words past unwilling lips. “Having all the guys seeing me half-naked and needing them to …” My lips sealed tightly, and I focused down at my rings that I was convulsively twitching back and forth.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Striker stifling a smile. When he took my hand, his hard calluses rubbed across my palm. He waited for me to focus on his eyes, then he began earnestly, “None of my men find an attack on a woman, or the victim of said attack to be sexually exciting. Your wounds, or helping you while you’re in pain, would not raise their testosterone in a sexual way.”

Oh, dear God. I clamped my jaw shut and lowered my lashes. Shit. This was beyond humiliating.

Striker soothed over my wrist with his fingers. “But judging from their reaction to seeing you last night, I think we might have an issue with their testosterone leading them in the direction of vengeance. Since I don’t want their hormones to get in the way of duty and protocol, I’ve given them orders to handle your situation, in my absence, with limited contact.”

“Limited?” My eyes flashed up to meet his.

“They’re to pull your shirt away from your skin, take a cold water bottle and carefully squirt the water over your torso. When the sweating has stopped, they’re to wrap you in a thick blanket, lead you to a bed or sofa, and offer you tissues and a hot cup of tea. They can sit with you, and talk to you, until you fall asleep, or you’ve been otherwise stabilized.” He cocked his head to the side. “I’m the only one authorized to feel you up.” He winked.

“Ha, ha, ha.” I narrowed my eyes, giving him a push off the bed with my foot. From his playful tone, I knew he wanted me to smile, so I did. “Thank you,” I said softly, and he left.

W
rapped in a comforter, I ended up sleeping on the couch. I awoke to frost-painted windows, looking like silver feather curtains. Blaze sat at the table, filling out paperwork, with a coffee mug steaming in front of him. Striker came in, acknowledged him with a nod, and strode over to me. “Why are you down here?” He squatted beside me. “Is everything okay?”