The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2)

by Meghan Scott Molin

  I gawk, even as the group starts filing past me. I’m still trying to figure out just how everything came together. Where have these people come from? As the room empties, my eyes alight on someone I recognize. It’s the guy who flipped right into Latifah’s arms. His lithe and muscled form is dressed in a simple white tank top and black soccer pants, black dance shoes still on. I hadn’t realized onstage that he’s barely taller than I am. Several dancers clap him on the shoulder as they leave, but he’s intent on his phone, texting with a ferocity I usually reserve for fights with Ryan about who would win in a showdown: Black Widow or Poison Ivy.

  “Daniel, isn’t it?”

  I don’t realize I’ve spoken out loud until his head snaps up at the sound of his name. His eyes meet mine, and I have some sort of flashback to being thirteen and prank-calling someone. Only this time I can’t hang up the phone.

  “I—er—” Stammering was exactly how one should follow this up. Here I am, standing in the doorway, ostensibly ogling him changing. And creepily knowing his name.

  “Can I help you?” Daniel makes it seem perfectly normal that a crazy lady is talking to him from a dressing-room doorway.

  “I’m friends with Lawrence—Latifah—and I just wanted to say that tonight was . . . wow. I mean, it was so good. You were excellent.”

  I want to melt right through the floor. He probably thinks I’m hitting on him, especially given how red my face probably is right now. How would he know I’m just socially inept?

  “Thanks.” He offers me a smile.

  I smile back.

  “Well, nice to meet you,” he says with a small chuckle and turns back to his phone. Only this time, with his back a little more firmly toward me. With a few last clicks, he stows the phone in his pocket. He scoops up his own duffel and tosses in the gold cape, which jogs just why I am standing here.

  I nearly hit my forehead with my own hand. What a creeper I was being. “MG,” I say before he pushes past me. I make myself stick out my hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself before.”

  Recognition sparks in his eyes at the mention of my name. “Ah, MG. Yes, Latifah did mention you during rehearsals. You make the costumes, right?” He slings the bag over one bare shoulder, brushes a lock of his dark hair out of his almond-shaped eyes, and reaches out to shake my hand.

  Oh, thank Thor, at least L had mentioned me. I glance down at his hand, so tan against my own translucently pale one, surprised by the strength of his handshake. Most men give me a pretty wimpy version, but this one is perfect. There aren’t any zings or tingles, but his hand feels . . . comfortable. Known. Like we’ve been friends forever.

  “It’s nice to meet you, MG.”

  “You too—hey, is that an Alliance tattoo?” I flip his hand upright and immediately bring it to my face to scrutinize. There in the web of his thumb is indeed a small black Rebel Alliance tattoo. I raise my gaze to meet his bemused one. “That’s so cool. I’ve never had the guts to get a tattoo.” I stop myself from adding, They use needles, but can’t stop the shudder that runs through my body at the thought of that kind of torture.

  Daniel laughs outright, allowing my scrutiny of his hand. It’s like he reads my mind. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “How did you pick what you were going to get?” I want to suss out if he is really a fan or if he just thought the symbol was “cool” after the movie came out. Vital difference in possible friend factor.

  “After a rough time in my life, I just needed to be reminded daily that ‘the simplest gesture of kindness . . .’”

  “Can fill a galaxy with hope,” I finish for him, my eyes widening. His do the same. Not a lot of people are steeped enough in Jedi lore to know the core philosophies behind the movement. True nerd status achieved.

  It’s around the time I hear a familiar voice behind me that I realize that Daniel and I are still holding hands.

  “Sorry, I’m late, MG. I do hope I’m not interrupting something?”

  Matteo.

  I drop Daniel’s hand like a hot potato and spin to face my boyfriend. Afraid I’m going to find him glaring at Daniel, I’m relieved instead to see him appraising us with genuine curiosity. No sign of jealousy; I relax my shoulders. My own reaction probably puts me in the “guilty” category more than what he actually walked in on.

  “Matteo!” I force a normal smile on my face. “Glad you finally got off work. I’m just meeting Daniel.” I motion, though it’s obvious, given the two of us are the only ones in the room. “He did backup dancing for Latifah tonight, and it was amazing. I’m sad you missed it.”

  A shadow passes over Matteo’s face, but he covers it well as he reaches for Daniel’s hand. “Sorry to miss it, man. Any friend of L’s is a friend of mine. I’m not fully off work yet, I still have to go back to the station tonight—”

  “Oh, good—everyone’s met,” another voice purrs from the doorway beyond Matteo’s shoulder. Lelani gives Matteo a small smile before stepping around him and approaching Daniel and me. In fact, upon further inspection, Daniel has garnered quite the hallway audience. Ryan and Latifah both stand behind Matteo, lurking for who knew how long.

  “Wonderful performance, though I’m not surprised,” Lelani says, leaning in and giving Daniel a kiss on the cheeks, pretentious European-style. “I knew you two would get on.”

  I furrow my brows, thinking she means Daniel and me until I realize she means Latifah. So, this is how Lelani has been helping L all week. She knows Daniel and introduced them.

  “It was a blast, we’ve talked about teaming up again,” Daniel answers. “It’s great work for my adult classes.”

  “Well, we’ll look forward to seeing you in and out of the office then,” Lelani agrees with a smile.

  Cue the vinyl-record screech—what now? In and out of the office?

  Noting my confused look, Lelani smiles her Cheshire cat smile.

  “We’d just barely introduced ourselves,” Daniel explains. “No time to talk business as of yet.”

  My eyes dart between them. I feel like I’ve been set up for a bad joke, but who has the punch line? “I, uh . . . that’s cool.” Sounding pretty intelligent here, MG.

  “Of course, we’ll have plenty of time to talk this over at the office. Tonight isn’t about work; it’s about celebrating a job well done.” Lelani covers my response smoothly, all her executive superpowers firing with precision. It’s stuff like that that reminds me she’s the VP for a reason. As much as I can never quite get a read on her, I do have a lot to learn from her. She’s the Obi-Wan to my Luke, the Luke to my . . . well, if she is Luke, let’s hope that I’m Rey and not Kylo. That mentorship didn’t end up in an edifying manner. I squint at her, totally able to picture her standing over me with a lightsaber, ready to strike.

  Lelani quirks an eyebrow at me, and it’s not the first time I’ve wondered if she can read minds. But I’m saved from having to explain whatever expression I’m wearing by my favorite fashion superhero.

  “Heck yes, job well done,” L agrees, pushing into the room and offering Daniel a handshake and a shoulder clap. “That was perfection.”

  They start to rehash the opening dance number, so I allow Matteo to pull me into the little hallway, his face drawn into what I think of as his “stewing” face.

  “What’s wrong? You’re not upset about”—I push aside my guilty conscience and resist mentioning Daniel—“missing tonight, are you? There’ll be other shows. I promise.”

  “No, that’s not it.” He puts his hand on my back and pulls me close in the hallway. To anyone else, it looks like a lover’s tête-à-tête, but I feel the steel beneath his easy move. This isn’t Matteo. This is Detective Kildaire. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  I pull back slightly, trying to gauge his expression, stomach dropping to my toes. Talk, as in, We need to talk, or just talk-talk?

  My not quite fully formed freak-out must have shown all over my face because Matteo’s arms soften a little, and he pulls me in for a
real hug and a kiss on the cheek. “It’s about the case. Nothing else.”

  My eyes flick to his. The case? The Golden Arrow. It’s the only “case” I could have any part of, the investigation I helped him solve this summer at San Diego Comic-Con.

  Ryan must sense something is amiss, because he eyes us warily. I give a small wave, trying to indicate that everything is fine, and lead Matteo out to the now mostly deserted café area. We pick a table that’s already been bussed and sit down.

  “Detective Kildaire” still looks back from across the table, assessing me. This isn’t a date—it’s an interview.

  “So, the case?” I prompt, raising an eyebrow. “Has there been a breakthrough?” I’m picturing a fantastic chase scene, filled with a vigilante hopping rooftop to rooftop and eluding police helicopters.

  “Nothing major, but . . . the first real movement we’ve had in weeks,” he confirms, leaning his elbows against the table. His hands land near mine, but as this is apparently a “business meeting,” I don’t take them. “I’ve got to get back to the office, but I wanted to come check with you while you were still up. Earlier tonight, patrol picked up two dealers.”

  I wait for the punch line about as patiently as Bruce Banner. Hulk smash, Detective Kildaire. It’s been quiet—too quiet, as they say in crime novels—since we arrested the double agent responsible for a thirty-year-old local murder of my boss’s father, and more notably, the original artist of The Hooded Falcon. We snagged an ex–police chief and his DEA-agent daughter red-handed in the local drug trade and exposed their long-term cover-up of the murder. I’ve been itching for news of our local vigilante hero—the anonymous citizen who used The Hooded Falcon comics to help lead me and thus the police to the killer. “And?” This seems tame fare, but I’m hopeful for something juicier on the page flip.

  “Well, I should say patrol got a tip about two drug dealers.”

  I take the bait, despite my growing impatience. “Okay . . . a tip from whom?”

  “From the Golden Arrow,” he answers quietly, eyes on my face.

  I gasp. “Really?”

  Matteo holds up a hand. “Or an imposter. We’ve had a rash of them following the media circus at San Diego Comic-Con.”

  “An . . . imposter,” I parrot back. I know the Golden Arrow has emerged as a cultural icon, and even that some people are dressing like him for cons . . . but it’s the first time it dawns on me that Matteo might be dealing with real copycats. Hasn’t anyone ever watched Kick-Ass? Vigilante justice rarely works out for normies.

  “If it is, it’s a very, very good one.” The seriousness in his eyes speaks volumes. “My gut says not an imposter at all. Patrol brought them in for us to interview because of the . . . uniqueness of their circumstances when they found them.”

  Goose bumps chase themselves along my arms, and I dart my eyes around before leaning forward, just like in a cheesy movie scene. They found something at a crime scene. Something Golden Arrow–related. “He’s back?”

  And immediately I want to know why. Part of me believed he’d just never be heard from again, that he did his civic duty. The bad guys were caught. The trial was scheduled. I’ve made as much peace as I can with never knowing who the Golden Arrow is. But if the Golden Arrow is back . . .

  “We’re in the middle of investigating, so hopefully I’ll know more soon. All I know right now is that routine patrol of a common dealing corner found two dealers tied to a lamppost with rope. And this.” He reaches into his pocket and produces his phone. Flipping to the camera roll, he scrolls back a few images and slides it across the table to me. “This is what was holding the rope knot secure.”

  It’s a picture clearly taken in evidence, given the presence of a plastic bag, tagged and numbered. Inside the bag is a literal golden arrow. Well, more accurately, several small arrows with golden shafts and tiny golden fletching, connected by a ring to make some sort of throwing star.

  I squint at the phone. “Okay. That is . . . elaborate. But not canon. The Golden Arrow never used real arrows before, right?”

  “True.” Matteo sits back in his chair. “But in his statement one of the guys calls the assailant a ninja.”

  I snort.

  Matteo waves off my laughter. “Competent. Not just an average ‘Nerd in Spandex,’ if you will. Everyone else we’ve seen has been utterly incompetent. This is new. It reminds me of the busts from the summer.”

  Nerds in Spandex. I love that visual and make a mental note to start referencing NISs in my next comic. But back to the matter at hand. “And was the person wearing a cape? Insignia? Something that makes you think it’s really the GA? Something more than just a ring with arrows in it; anyone could have bought this.” Truth be told, I’m a little afraid to get my hopes all the way up lest I have to go back to the sad world where the GA rode off into the sunset, never to be seen again.

  Matteo sighs at my cynicism. “I know there should be more solid tells, but I don’t know . . . There’s just something about this one that rings true. I wanted to show this to you in case you had any insight, and to ask you to be present when we interview these two.”

  A tingle starts in my stomach, spreading upward. Matteo’s got a good gut, so if he’s sure enough to interview the dealers, it’s enough for my brain to start moving to the pieces about the Golden Arrow that remain unknowns. The writer in me desperately wants a resolution to the mystery as to what it contains—it’s a completely and utterly selfish desire. “You want me to come into the station?”

  Matteo notes the change in my expression. He’s learning to recognize when my writer’s love for story takes over my brain. “Yes, but it’s too late tonight. We’ve scheduled it for Monday afternoon.” He pauses to check his phone and then tucks it back into his pocket. “I have to get back to the office, I’m sorry. You’ll have to sign back on as a consultant to the LAPD. I have clearance from the captain and will go print the paperwork tonight to bring to you.”

  For a moment my mind races to all the things I’m already committed to. But would I miss the chance to be a part of the case if the real Golden Arrow has at last emerged again? No way, no how. “I’m in.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The crush of bodies inside the Zebra’s small lounge feels, if possible, worse than the crowd at the drag show. It’s not exactly the venue I would have chosen for an after-party, but then again, I hate parties, so I am far from an expert. I bob and weave, searching for either a familiar face or an open seat. Not likely, factoring in the sheer number of people here. We’ve got to be coming up against fire code.

  At the far end of the packed foyer, I show my ID to a She-Hulk tank of a front-desk bouncer and fork over the outrageous cover of twenty dollars to get farther into the cramped nightclub. There’s a wall of people just inside, and as I try to skirt the mob, I end up knocking into a table. It’s covered all in black—a great choice for a black room where the lights are out. A basket filled with little glass flasks bounces around on the tabletop, and I just manage to keep it from sliding off onto the floor, the ultimate party foul narrowly averted. That’s me, always filled with grace and etiquette. I right the card in the back of the basket, a handwritten little thing that says something like DRINK ME in black-light-responsive ink, and shiver. Go ahead and drink some college kid’s version of bug juice that probably contains a date-rape drug? Nothankyou. Whether Cleopatra means it as a welcome gift or an attempt at entertaining, unattended drinks are creepy.

  The room is dark, but the strobes and the laser lights that flash through the space light it up to almost midday levels every other second. I’m going to have a headache in no time flat, but it’ll be worth it if the Golden Arrow does indeed make an appearance. The very air feels charged with electric waiting; everyone else is here for the same thing. I eye the crowd, wondering if any of Matteo’s team is here to keep an eye out, given the rash of imposter Arrows they’ve had. No one seems to lend Cleopatra’s claims much credence, and yet. The “and yet” is a big one. I conte
mplate texting Matteo to let him know I’m here and to ask him if I should poke around now that I’m officially a consultant again, but figure his answer will be no, and I really don’t want to leave. Ask forgiveness rather than permission, right? And if I do see the Golden Arrow, I promise myself to call the police directly. Up until that point, I’m here in a purely social manner—nothing that requires official-police anything.

  I skirt the dance floor—the area in the center where people have about point five extra inches in which to attempt to dance. Several people already look three sheets to the wind. They wouldn’t know if the Golden Arrow walked up to them and asked them for a waltz. It’s such a mixed crowd it reminds me of a con. I see several queens still in their superhero getup from the show, glittering like miniature disco balls among all the lasers and strobes. And in the crowd, some Muggles are sporting costumes too. Zorro masks, and a few capes. A few tees with arrows printed on them. There’s even a tall man wearing a top hat, wading through the crowd toward the back near the bar.

  I’m knocked sideways as a young man stumbles into me, obviously inebriated, off-balance, and reeking of some sort of sickly sweet alcohol. I right both of us through some small miracle.

  “Sorry about that,” he slurs.

  “It’s fine,” I say, avoiding the urge to wipe my hand off while he’s still watching. I swear his clothing is sticky from . . . whatever . . . too.

  “You’re pretty. Care to buy any? Limited supply; only have these left.” He speaks as if I’ve won some sort of prize, leans in, and shows me a baggie he has clutched in his hand. I see the flash of some sort of pill before he palms the bag and sticks it back in his sweatshirt pocket. They aren’t the typical “white” pill that sometimes comes around a party. Gelcaps.

  Call me the girlfriend of a narcotics detective, but I’d bet the Lasso of Truth that I’ve just seen something illegal laced with other illicit things mixed together in a homemade capsule. The refreshments on offer at this party suck, and I again briefly contemplate alerting Matteo.