by Fiona Quinn
“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.
Twenty-Two
Wrapped 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?”
I gave a noisy yawn and pushed to sitting. “I thought Blaze would be lonely all by himself, so I decided to keep him company.” Yeah, really I had come running down the stairs just after midnight, freaked out from a nightmare I couldn’t remember once my eyes popped opened.
“I see,” Striker said.
“So? Did you catch the bad guy?” I gripped Striker’s forearm with anticipation. Trepidation. I hoped I was right. Why though? Because I wanted this case off their shelf, so they could go full force after Stalker? Or did I want to impress Striker as much as he had always impressed me? Hell in a handbasket, my inner self sent the warning, and I sat contritely. Chastened. I pulled my brows together in a scowl. I hadn’t done anything, said anything, thought anything wrong. Why should I feel guilty?
“We found our man in bed with a bottle of scotch, a fat cigar, and the Washington Post. He’s being fingerprinted as we speak.” Striker pushed to standing and reached for my hand to help me up.
“Where’s everyone else?” I glanced toward the garage door.
“They went home to catch some shut-eye before we meet later. Which’s what I’m going to do, too. I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Jack’s coming in to relieve Blaze.”
I followed along behind him as he walked to the stairs, hoping he’d share some details from the capture. I still wanted to know what the guy had done wrong. Striker stopped with his foot resting on the first tread, and turned to me, lowering his voice so only I could hear.
“You’re a curious woman, Lexi Sobado. I believe you have a lot of secrets. And I think those secrets might be the key to how you ended up in the middle of this mess.” He stared down at me. “I want you to consider your situation, and if you’re willing to work openly with us or not. That means full disclosure. You’ll share everything that might help us get this guy.” His clipped tone held none of his earlier warmth—commander mode. “I don’t see us being much help to you if you decide to keep things to yourself, and we’re left chasing down the wrong intelligence.” He crossed his arms authoritatively over his broad chest as he scrutinized me.
I curled my lips in to hold back the words wanting to spring forth. The move felt defiant to me. I didn’t like Striker’s tone or stance. I wouldn’t let him intimidate me.
“Lexi, I can’t force you to trust us. I’m just hoping you will.” He paused. “I don’t think you want to work through this on your own. What do you think?”
I didn’t know what to think beyond desperately wanting to talk to Spyder. “I think you owe me a prize.” I worked up an innocent fluffy-bunny smile.
Striker wrapped an arm around my neck, gave me a kiss on the top of my forehead, and walked me over to the garage. He cracked the door, reached inside, and pulled out a guitar case.
“Oh!” I did a little happy dance. “How did you know?” I asked as I scooped it into my hands.
“I have some sources.” Striker chuckled, obviously pleased with my reaction.
“Thank you so much.” I offered up a genuine smile.
“I’m gonna hit the rack. I’ll be down for lunch. What grandma is Tuesday?” he asked, heading for the stairs.
“Biji—she’s from Punjab, India.”
I went to the kitchen. “Is it you, me, and Jack for breakfast, this morning?” I asked Blaze.
“Gater has to run by Headquarters and pick up a file before he heads back to the field. He’ll be here to eat at seven.” Blaze shifted the papers around in front of him.
I put a pot of water on to boil while I peeled some potatoes and chopped up onion, ginger, and green chili, making the filling for the aloo paratha.
At seven on the dot, the phone rang, announcing the arrival of a team member. Though two cars motored up the drive, Jack and Gater came in together. “Goodness gracious, ma’am. I could smell that all the way outside—sure do smell good.”
“I made a traditional breakfast bread from India.”
“I was pretty sure it weren’t grits.” He pulled out a seat for me. Blaze had already cleared his stuff away and put the food on the table with butter and vegetables pickled with mustard seeds. I spooned plain yogurt into our bowls.
“Okay, guys. I made what I usually eat on Tuesdays for breakfast. It’s going to be different from what you’re used to, so I won’t be offended if it’s not to your liking.” I demonstrated how to dollop some butter into the center for dipping, and how to take the smallest amount of the intensely flavored pickled vegetables and fold them into the bread.
“Have you got any more puzzles to work on today?” I asked as we ate. I crossed my fingers under the table; I liked the diversion of a good puzzle.
“Not right now,” Jack said.
I took a sip of tea to cover my disappointed frown. “Usually, I cook Indian foods all day on Tuesdays. If you don’t think you’ll like that, I could make up some sandwiches.”
“Not necessary, ma’am. Breakfast tasted delicious.” Jack wiped the butter from his lips with his napkin and stood up.
“Yes, ma’am, unusual, but I liked it. What do you do for dinner on Indian day?” Gater went to the kitchen to clean up.
“I thought I’d make Tandoori c
hicken. I already have the chicken defrosting, but Randy says we can’t use an outdoor grill.”
“No, ma’am.” Blaze set his coffee mug down. “You might attract attention. Could you put it under the broiler? I love Tandoori chicken.”
“I can try. I have no idea how that’ll turn out. Are you planning to be back for dinner?”
“Yes, ma’am, we’ll all be here.” Blaze stood up to help the other men in the kitchen.
That was the highlight of my day. Jack put his nose into his work files until Striker woke up. I fixed lunch. We ate it. I strummed my guitar. I made samosas and Darjeeling tea for three o’clock teatime. I spent some time staring out the window, some time flipping through the TV channels, and some time figuring out how to handle what Striker had said to me about my secrets. But I had to do that in small snippets. When I felt anxiety entwining with my thoughts, I pushed those ideas aside, and reached for the safety of anything that would numb my emotions. Day three in my safe house, and I still aimed for an adrenaline-free day.
Dinner turned out “okay.” Biji would never have served it. Biji had a Tandoor oven; her chicken was always falling-off-the-bone tender—every bite rich with spice. The lentil soup and vegetables tasted good, though. Randy had brought tangerines, and that made a sweet ending to the meal. While we were eating, Deep asked how I learned to cook. I told them about the Kitchen Grandmas.
“Which day belongs to your Italian grandmother?” Deep asked.
“Thursday. Why?”
“Tomorrow’s my birthday, and I always miss my Nona’s manicotti when my birthday comes around.”
“Normally, Wednesday is Nana Kate, and you’d get all-American fare, but I don’t think it’s breaking a rule to switch the two. Anything else you’d like me to make other than the manicotti?”
Deep grinned. “Surprise me.”
Jack swallowed his food, then said, “Sounds like a lot of work to learn five different cultures. How did you get through your homework?”
I laughed. “Everything I did was homework. I was unschooled.”
