Weakest Lynx by Fiona Quinn Page B

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