Weakest Lynx (37 page)

“Good enough?” I asked.

“Maybe too good. Jack, what do you think? Will she cause a riot?”

“Near thing, Striker. I think it’ll get her where she needs to be.”

A Lincoln Town Car had appeared at my curb with Bonz playing chauffeur. Striker rode with me in the backseat. He’d stay with the car. Jack was moving into position at the rear of the building. That was my emergency exit strategy—get to Jack.

Striker handed me a photo and gave me the target’s name. Soon, we pulled up in front of the art gallery. Bonz came around and opened the door for me. I accepted his hand as I got out, and walked self-assuredly up to the doors. As others held out identification and their invitations for inspection, security checked them off the list. I went around them confidently and finger waved at the guards like I belonged. They nodded me in.

The party shimmered with diamond jewelry—opulent wealth on high display. I understood the high security. I scanned the room, searching out my target. I was hoping he’d already arrived and had time to settle in, maybe even tipped back a few drinks. And, sure enough I spotted him over at the bar. I edged toward him and pretended to be in line for an order.

“Lewis Romalowski?” I asked the short balding man with his tuxedo beautifully tailored over his enormous paunch belly.

“Do I know you, sweetheart?” he asked with a strong Brooklyn accent.

“Hi, Lewis, I’m Pamela, we met last summer.” I extended my hand with my full-on sweet-girl-next-door smile and a bat of my fake lashes—why not slather it on thick?

He grasped my fingers and bent to kiss my hand. “Pleased to meet you again, Pamela. This was at Domenico’s pool party?”

“Probably?—I’m not sure. What I do remember is meeting you and being impressed.” Keeping my smile in place, I stepped closer to him. This seemed to make him happy. He rubbed his little sausage fingers up my bare arm. Ew!

“Well, I’m so glad we did meet. May I buy you a drink?” He chuckled and gestured toward the server. An open bar—such a droll wit. A real ladies’ man.

“Thanks. I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Scotch straight up? You sure?”

“Oh, that’s too strong for me.” I giggled. “I’m a real lightweight around alcohol. Maybe a Cosmo?”

This not-being-able-to-hold-my-booze business got his attention. He leaned toward me. Good thing, too. I had the transmitter palmed—if I could just find an empty pocket …

Romalowski turned and handed me my cocktail. I raised a finger. “I’m so sorry. Would you excuse me for a minute?” As I pretended to head toward a dowager in a silver gown, another woman moved into the space I had vacated. I didn’t think Romalowski was going to miss me. When you had bucks like this guy had, you weren’t lonely long.

I put my glass, untasted, on a passing waiter’s tray and left out the front door, calling Rod on my cell as I crossed to the stairs. I kept away from the windows as I waited for the Town Car to roll around. The back door popped open, and I swiveled myself in.

“We’re recording, Lynx. Excellent job,” Striker said.

“That was a joke, right? A test?” I narrowed my eyes at Striker.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean his tuxedo jacket pockets were all sewn shut. In his front-right pants pocket he had a money clip for tips. In his left, he had a car key and fob. He only had one back pocket, and that had his wallet. The inside breast pocket had his glasses. If I had put the transmitter in any of those places, he could easily find it.”

“So where did it end up?”

“I replaced his right cuff link.” I handed Striker the gold cuff link I had removed from Lewis’ shirt.

“Why right?”

“He’s left handed—maybe he won’t notice it. Hopefully his scotch is doing its thing. So, not a joke?”

“Not by a long shot.” Striker paused while he looked at the cuff link and put it in his jacket pocket. “While you were flirting with criminal elements, Command called. I have information on Wilson.”

I didn’t like the tense muscles under his eyes; this wasn’t good information. I raised a questioning brow.

“Wilson’s stable. In police custody at Suburban. He’s being charged with breaking and entering with intent to harm, and possession.”

I waited for the rest of the charges.

Striker pursed his lips.

“What about six murders and an attempted murder?” My voice squeaked.

“The DA is having trouble putting together a case. The original six link to you by the MO. We have no evidence. None. Though they’ve been working on developing the case since your attack.”

“But what about me? I can testify. And the neighbors saw him, too. We confirmed the police sketch. Surely …”

“Subsequent to seeing him, you sustained a traumatic brain injury. The defense can shred your eyewitness report on the witness stand. Same with the neighbors. They were running in the dark. Could be a look-alike. With no prints, no DNA, no motive connecting you two, the prosecutors need something more, or they can’t make the case.”

“Dave?”

“Has nothing. Not his fault. Wilson may be juiced, but he’s highly trained, very smart, and obviously effective.” Striker waited.

I wasn’t sure what he wanted from me by way of response, so I offered up a curt nod.

“Is there anything more from your ‘knowings’? Anything more we can work with?”

I shook my head and looked down at my lap, where I twisted Angel’s rings. Beyond words. Too deflated for anger. Too depressed to feel regret that Striker didn’t let me just kill him and be done with this mess. I turned and looked, unseeing, out the side window. I was glad Gater and Randy didn’t kill him, though—with their military background and size, they definitely would end up with legal problems. Even with Iniquus’s lawyers and get-out-of-jail-free cards.

I stepped out of the car and walked like a zombie toward my front door. Striker’s boots sounded behind me. Without looking around at him, I waved, signaling him to go home.

I moved up the steps with my keys in hand. It wasn’t over. It was far from over.

T
he next morning I walked into the Iniquus lobby, swishing my full skirts with what I hoped was a bright smile lighting my face. Wilson thrived on fear. He’d realize somewhere in his cells—even broken and crushed and lying in a hospital bed—that he was winning. He’d take a stab at beating his court charges. Then he’d take another stab at me—literally and figuratively. Well, today anyway, I wasn’t going to play his sicko game. And I wasn’t going to freak out over last night’s nightmare about Angel. Instead, I’d play my fluffy-bunny role. Sunny, happy, and calm. I’d focus on my fabulous new job.

Command didn’t require me to wear the Iniquus gray camos like everyone else. So the ultrafeminine, ultrachic, fifties-style dress from Celia in rose and coral got me a lot of attention when I walked through the lobby at Headquarters. Iniquus is modern, streamlined, and monochromatic, and I bloomed like a garden flower.

Striker met me at the door with a smile.

“What’s on the agenda today?” I asked.

“Two things. First, Nancy Drew, your prize from the ‘Grave in the Woods Caper.’”

“Already?”

Striker placed his hand on the small of my back and steered me to the elevator. When we reached the top floor, he pointed toward an office with a sign that read “PUZZLE ROOM.”

“Ta-da.” He pushed the door wide with a grand sweep of his arm. “This is yours.”

“Wow.” Surprised would be a gross understatement. My hand brushed over the stainless steel, rectangular tabletop. One of three big tables standing in the center of the large square room ready for spreading out clues.

“All this for me?” I asked, taking in the white board with various pens, and an enormous corkboard with pushpins. A bin with colored yarns sat against the wall. I guessed these were for constructing more webs, like I had for the Sylanos case. I fiddled with the light switch in the full bath and peeked into the closet across from it in the little hallway at the back of the room …

“Your home away from home.” Striker watched me intently.

I nodded. Huh. This was a huge office, right next to Striker’s. The Team Commander floor—the hot shots. Could I live up to this clear sign of confidence from Command? Suddenly, I felt a deep level of pressure, anxiety, and self-doubt. I eased past Striker. Releasing my breath in a long exhale, I reached out, clicked on the light of the cosmetologist’s magnifier, and peered through the lens at my coral-colored nails. Then bit at a hangnail.

Plopping down in the leather chair, I spun back and forth like a kid, taking everything in. Plenty of room for people to come in and mill around while we went over things. The two dog beds beside my chair and two sets of food and water dishes made me smile. Someone put a lot of thought into this room. Mixed emotions. Pride. Yes. Stress. Yes. Overwhelmed. Double yes.

“This is pretty awesome. I take it you found what you needed in the woods?” I asked.

“In spades. We collected enough evidence to put a bunch of bad people behind bars for a long time. Apparently, our boy thought he had a safety net out there.” Striker sat on the edge of a table, stretching out his muscular legs, crossing them at the ankle, his weight resting casually back on his arms. “We got dirt on anyone and everyone he ever did business with. He had plenty of information to blackmail them into the next century. Kudos.”

“Kudos accepted.” I gestured widely to take in the room. “This didn’t happen overnight, though.”

“Command started putting it together after I brought them the Sylanos file, and mentioned you’d had a hand in the Tandesco coup.”

“That seems confident on their part.” I scowled. “Presumptuous” was probably a better word.

“Command can be persuasive. I left SEAL Team Six to work here.”

“I’ve often wondered why.” Striker’s face went incommunicado. His choice was obviously not up for discussion. So I changed the subject. “What’s the second thing on the table for today?” I eyed Striker. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt he’d left untucked to hide his weapon. He looked relaxed and casual. “You’re undercover?” I asked.

“Yeah—don’t want to call any attention to myself by wearing a uniform. But then you’re dressed like that.” His openhanded gesture swept over me from head to toe. “So being inconspicuous is going to be a stretch.”

“Should I change?”

He smiled, dimples and all. “No, thank you.”

We locked the door and headed back to the elevator bank. “I want to take you by a crime scene and see what you pick up.”

“A test?” I asked.

“Why’s everything a test with you?” Striker glanced out of the corner of his eye at me as we walked.

“Spyder.”

“Ah, well, school’s over. You’re in the big bad world now. Everything’s the real deal.” Striker punched the button for the garage level. As we stepped out of the elevator, Striker fobbed his way into a charcoal-gray Lexus RX 400 and opened the passenger-side door for me.

“This is beautiful. Do you think I could give it a test drive?”

Striker’s stance tightened.

“I’ve been trained by the best: Stan Gillespie and Spyder McGraw. I really don’t think I’ll hurt your baby.” I sent him a pouty face. “Pretty please?”

Amusement shined in Striker’s eyes as he held out the key.

“So where are we headed?” I asked as I slid under the steering wheel.

“Get on the highway heading north. I’ll direct you from there.” We were driving along, each with our own thoughts, when Striker broke into mine. “What’s going through your head?”

“I was remembering my dream last night. It was pretty vivid.”

Strangely, Striker tensed beside me. “Yeah? Tell me,” he said.

I shot him a curious glance before I refocused on the road. “I dreamed about a huge rat. When I caught the rat, I called animal control. I hoped they’d kill it—it was ginormous. But they didn’t. They decided to put a tracking collar on the rat and release it to find out where he would go, instead.”

“And?”

“And nothing, I woke up.”

“Hmm. Okay. Good.”

I turned my gaze toward him. The tight muscles at his jawline had relaxed. “Good?” I frowned then signaled a lane change.

“I thought you were going to tell me about one of your nightmares. Turn here into the park.” He gestured at an entrance on my right.

“You know about my nightmares?”

“Lexi, we’ve slept in the same bed. How could I not know?” His words touched a tender spot in my psyche, like a toothache my tongue prodded. And I couldn’t leave it alone. No matter how painful. Parking under a patch of towering pine trees, I swiveled to face him. “Did I wake you often?”

“At least once a night. On bad nights, two or three times.” His eyes were so soft. Gold flecks. Moss green. “At first I thought you were reliving Wilson,” he said. “Then I realized you were dreaming about Angel. The nightmares were pretty intense. I couldn’t pull you out of them.”

“So what did you do?” I leaned my head back against the glass.

Striker released his seatbelt and said, “I chanted.”

Of all the answers I might have expected, this certainly wasn’t one of them. “Chanted?” I laughed nervously. “Chanted what, exactly?”

Striker paused for longer than was comfortable then he said, “You are
not
alone.”

My hands came up to stopper my mouth. One time, when I fought in a match at the Dojang, my attention went to the door as someone peered through the little window, and my partner roundhouse kicked me just below my ribs. Full force. He knocked every molecule of oxygen from my body. As my diaphragm pushed and pulled, sucking at the atmosphere to start my lungs back in motion, I made a horrible sound. It was that inhuman vibration that crawled out of my throat as I wrenched open the door and tumbled out. Unstable. I was thrown completely off kilter. Striker’s words were viciously painful.

When someone knows your weakness, they hold the power.
A Master Wang truism.

I felt exposed. Defenseless. Just four little words. Somehow Striker had not only seen me—touched me—physically naked. Now he had seen me—touched me—soul naked. I scowled at my rings. Angel—my
husband
—hadn’t. Neither. The dynamic spun my head.