Weakest Lynx by Fiona Quinn Page A

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