Weakest Lynx (7 page)

“So you Lysoled everything down?”

I offered up a wry smile. “Hadn’t thought of that.” Holding my hand up to the sunlight, my diamond sprinkled rainbows across the floor. “I called Boomer and hired him to come over and secretly install cameras with motion sensors. Maybe I can catch Stalker’s image.”

“Make sure Boomer angles two of the lenses to take in the road. We want a license plate. If this is someone you don’t recognize, then having a face won’t help much. We need a name and address, so I can go after him. So that’s all? Swamp gas and cooties?”

“I’ve got Aretha Franklin singing
Think
on endless loop.”

“Could be worse. Could be Metallica’s
Bad Seed
.” He stood up. “You got any coffee going?”

“Help yourself. I made a pot this morning when I came back from my visit with Pete.”

Dave moved toward my kitchen. I reached out and scratched under Beetle’s chin. Someone I didn’t know. I feverishly hoped it wasn’t someone I knew; someone who was close to me in any way. In the end, whoever this turned out to be, I didn’t really think Dave or the police could control this guy to the extent I wanted them to. I read the case law; the courts would probably slap a restraining order in place and let him go. Unless he hurt me. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut to block those thoughts.

Once I had a tag on him, I
would
go to Iniquus. Their covert work fell under a different set of rules; they made sure things got handled
thoroughly
. I drummed thoughtful fingers on my knees. I’d have to wait. I wouldn’t go to them with my tail tucked between my legs. Cowed. They wouldn’t respect me. I’d reflect badly on Spyder, and I’d never intentionally do that.

Grinding my teeth together, tension radiated across my jaw. Iniquus and Spyder. My only contact with criminal craziness came from playing Nancy Drew for them. Otherwise, I had lived a pretty sheltered life. I should sit down and make a list of cases I had worked for them and the players—see if anyone jumped out at me. Figuratively speaking.

Dave was banging around my kitchen, opening the fridge. I read over this morning’s poem again. It sounded like Stalker thought he could outsmart me. “And let your dull failure at my unveiling …” Normally I’d say, “Give it a go. I’m up to the challenge.” I really wanted to say, “Go to hell. I’m not playing.” So he planned to toy with me for a while. Should that make this better somehow? Hmm. Not so much when he said “tortured.” I didn’t like the word “tortured.” For sure I didn’t want my house to be a “tortured spot.”

Dave came in, sipping from a magenta-pink mug that said, “I know Kung Fu—and like two other Chinese words.” A birthday gift from my sparring partner.

“Hey, I found a pile of repair estimates lying on your kitchen table.” Dave handed me a ceramic smiley-face mug.

“Thanks.” I reached out gratefully then burned my lips on the too-hot coffee with too little milk. “You mean you were snooping through the pile?”

“Occupational hazard. Snooping’s a way of life. So what’s on your priority list?” he asked, hiking up his pants and taking up his habitual spot on the couch.

“The roof’s about to cave, and the inspector said I can’t put it off.” I set my mug aside. “I want to have the whole house fixed and beautiful when Angel gets home, but that’s looking like a pipe dream. I’m going to look for a part-time job to help pay for the contractors.” I frowned. “Adding this to my school schedule won’t leave me much time for DIY stuff. “

“What are you looking for?” Dave asked.

“I don’t know … A barista at Starbucks? Get a gig singing? I
was
going to look through the help-wanted section today, but I threw my newspaper in Mrs. Nelson’s outdoor bin.”

“Because?”

“It was septic with stalker germs.”

Dave quirked an eyebrow, and I offered a sheepish grin in reply.

“Starbucks doesn’t pay squat. Maybe you should put your skills to use,” he said.

“I don’t have any certifications. I can’t do a stint as a PI, or a locksmith, or anything.”

“Martial arts instruction?”

“No belt ranking.” I absentmindedly popped the elastic hair band on my wrist. “I didn’t train in a Kwoon.”

“Iniquus would hire you in a heartbeat if they knew you were already in the field doing investigations with Spyder McGraw.”

“What is it with you and Iniquus? You want me to tell them about these.” I gestured toward my wall. “Honestly? I think that’s a really bad idea. I don’t want their help with the poems, and I don’t want to work for them.”

“Give Iniquus some more thought, Lexi. Seems like a one-stop shop to solve your problems.”

I scowled by way of reply.

“I have another idea, but you’re going to prefer the Iniquus option better.” Dave slouched down with his mug resting on his knee. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his gaze was a little bleary. I couldn’t blame him; he’d just come off a double shift.

“Okay, I’m listening.”

Dave smirked. “Manny across the street.”

“Hoarder House Manny?” My brow wrinkled.

“Yeah. He’s new to the neighborhood too. Moved in right after Christmas.”

“You’re kidding. How in the hell did he just move in and already there’s crap spewing over his porch and onto the lawn like that? You’d think that kind of mess would take decades to make.”

Beetle plopped against Dave’s leg. Dave reached down to scratch her ears for her, which earned him a face full of wet kisses. Dave screwed his lips to the left so he could answer me without French kissing my dog. “He inherited it from his grandparents already filled.”

“How can he even get in to his place, let alone live there?”

“He doesn’t have much choice.” Beetle lay down, and Dave swiped a flannel sleeve across his face. “His wife kicked him out and moved another guy in.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah and he’s paying child support and spousal so he hasn’t got a lot left over to set himself up anywhere else. Manny thought he could get his house cleaned up at least enough so the city doesn’t condemn the place, and so the social workers will let his kids come over and visit.”

“How many kids?”

“Two. Boys.”

“If it were me, I’d probably just torch the mess and use the insurance money to start over.” I edged over to the wall, leaned back, and stretched out my legs.

Dave drained his mug. He must have an asbestos tongue.

“Manny tried, but no one will insure him. Fire hazard,” he said.

“I was kidding. Jeez. Can you imagine? Nothing like a little smoke damage to take down our real estate prices another notch.” I tilted my head. “Where is this conversation leading, Dave? And if you say it’s leading toward me cleaning up his catastrophe, the answer is flat-out no.”

“Speaking of real estate prices, do you realize why you got this house for so cheap?” he asked.

“Because it’s falling apart at the seams?”

“Only partly. The other part is—houses don’t sell in this neighborhood because of the hoarder house.”

I tried another sip from my mug. The coffee tasted bitter so I set it aside. “You bought here.”

“I make a cop’s salary. The choice was here or public housing. Anyway, Manny and me was talking, and I told him you grew up bartering stuff.”

“Dave!”

“And I know how expensive it is to put in new systems and all.”

“Dave!”

“He says he can get everything you need easy. Top of the line. Installed. All the warranties and guarantees.”

“How?” My brows knit together. “Is he a contractor?”

“No.” Dave paused before he said, “He plays poker.”

My eyes widened, and my voice went up a full octave. “You’re out of your mind. I’m
not
doing it.” I pointed emphatically in the direction of hoarder house. “I am
not
cleaning up a junk mountain in exchange for some guy playing poker for me.”

“Think about it, Lexi. You’d get your house fixed up nice like ‘Metropolitan Home.’ You could keep your own schedule, so it wouldn’t interfere with your classes. And you’d raise the resale value on your house.” Dave was ticking off the pros on his fingers.

“Not to mention yours,” I added.

Dave winked. “And you’d be out of this house during the day.”

“Yeah, Dave. Across the street. I think Stalker could find me. Why doesn’t Manny clean up his own mess?”

“Come on, if someone wanted to attack you, he’d probably knock ten feet of garbage over on himself. And Manny says he’s tried to clean up since he inherited the place last fall, but it was ingrained since birth—nothing gets thrown out at his grandparents’.” Dave tapped a finger to his head. “He has a mental block. Can’t do it.”

“He needs therapy …” I took a deep breath in and let it go in one big exhale. “I probably need therapy, too, because I seem to be considering this.”

I stood up, walked over to my front window, and looked across the street and down one house at the early twentieth-century standalone. The yellow paint was dim with accumulated pollution and mold, and it seemed to vomit junk out of every orifice. It should definitely star in a
Hoarders
TV special
.
No. Too big of a project. Okay, it would make a great setting for a horror flick,
Nightmare on Silver Lake.
I wouldn’t be too surprised if I found a body or two lost under all the trash. Or some evil creature from the bowels of the Earth.

I turned to watch Dave closely, looking for his body language tells. I always knew when he was bluffing. “He’s really that good? Poker for heating systems?” It sounded stupid when I said it aloud.

“He’s got a reputation.” Dave had twisted around, watching me, too. “No one on the force will play with him. No one can afford to lose that bad.”

“Well the whole thing just makes no damned sense.” I gathered our mugs and walked them to the kitchen, calling over my shoulder, “If he’s so good, he should play for a professional to come take care of his problem.”

Dave waited for me to come back before he answered. “Can’t. If he profits from his wins, he has to declare the gains as income. It ups his support payments, and he can barely feed himself on what he has left over now.”

“You feel sorry for him.”

“I feel sorry for everyone who has to look at his disaster.
And
I think everyone would win if you took this project on.”

I snorted. “Saying ‘this project’ sounds very respectable and nothing like digging through ancient mouse shit. Look, I’ll think about it.” I glanced over at the poems on my wall. “Actually, dealing with someone else’s crappola seems much more appealing than dealing with my own.”

“Speaking of your crappola, did you finish reviewing the Walmart tape I e-mailed you?”

“Yup. Male figure, just over six feet tall, dressed in oversized jeans, baseball cap, and hoodie, placed the envelope on my truck. He walked into the frame and right back out. A five-second blip.”

“Forensics wasn’t able to do much with enhancement.” He changed from Uncle Dave to Detective Murphy in a nanosecond—his eyes sharp and intelligent, his jaw muscles tensed. “No facial features, not even race. At least we can tell the stalker is a man.”

“Not a lot to go on.” I pulled my hair into a ponytail so I could think. “I spent a considerable amount of time reviewing the cars near Angel’s truck. Watched each one park. It’s crazy that Walmart happened four days ago and now Stalker is comfortable enough to walk up to my frigging door. Shithead.”

I glanced toward my front door to make sure I had thrown the bolt. Checking, checking, rechecking. I was developing OCD. The little green light from my new alarm system and the dogs’ state of sleepy calm helped me keep my blood pressure down. And Dave was here with his Glock in his shoulder holster. My Ruger was strapped to my ankle under my yoga pants.

“Did you pick up anything from reviewing cars?” Dave asked.

“Mothers opened car doors for their kids. An older couple with their canes. A teenager dressed in skintight pants—none of those people had the right clothes or build. I only saw one car drive onto the lot, at the same time I did, which didn’t park or let someone out—a blue Honda Civic. I’d bet good money that’s his.”

“Show me,” Dave said, and I went to get my laptop.

A
t six in the morning, the rattle and bang of a construction truck jerked me out of bed. I ran to my window, ordering Beetle and Bella to calm down. Two men in work uniforms unloaded another debris container onto Manny’s side yard. Ah, the never-ending parade of debris containers. Heaving a sigh, I slogged my way into the bathroom for a shower. As I stood under the stream of hot water, I realized how crazy I was to clean myself up before going over to Hoarder Hell—but just the thought of the place made me feel like lice and bed bugs crawled over my scalp and bored into my skin.

Today, for the first time, I had to go in. Two weeks. I’d spent two whole weeks getting the trash out of his yard and power washing. The neighborhood looked a thousand percent better, though. My house became instantly more valuable with that eyesore gone.

I pulled on sweats, laced up my tennis shoes, and stood at the mirror to braid my hair back. Now for the inside. I’d be safer. Less exposed. So far my security cameras seemed to be working, Stalker hadn’t shown up at my house in two weeks—didn’t even leave a letter on my car up until last night. The shithead. I strapped on my belly holster and checked to make sure a bullet was chambered in my Ruger.

Dave said if Stalker tried to attack me in all that mess, he’d probably get crushed by an avalanche of boxes. I didn’t doubt it. Maybe I should be little worried
I
would end up buried in the crap. Note to self—carry phone at all times; I’d stick it my bra with my knife.

I jogged down the stairs to see who had banged on my front door. Squinting through the peephole, I found Manny leaning against the jam, chewing the end of a pen like a cigar. “Roofers coming this morning.” He grinned.

I glanced past him over to his house. “Are you going to supervise my projects as well as you’re supervising your place?” I gestured to the men climbing back in their truck.

“Absolutely. You getting started inside?” Manny asked.

“Yup. I do this my way, right?” I turned away from him—I needed coffee.