The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2)

by Meghan Scott Molin

  I contemplate that sentiment as I step up to the beautiful red door—an addition in the last few months; I like to think it’s some of my design aesthetic rubbing off on him—and knock. It’s not that I don’t think I’m a catch. I think I’m awesome. I’m happy and loving this scrappy chase-your-dream phase I’m in. I’m funny and smart, but I still feel . . . young and unfinished next to Matteo’s polish. It’s not the first time in as many months that I’ve wondered, though I’m definitely drawn to him, if we’re just too different to make it work. Unbidden, a flashback to my conversation with Daniel rises to the top of my brain like cream—or impurities—rising to the surface. Daniel knows who Spider-Gwen is. In a million years, no matter how hard Matteo tries, he’s never going to be a fully immersed nerd like me. Like Daniel. Should I be with someone more like myself? Wait. Am I really wondering if Daniel is a better match for me when I’m standing on my boyfriend’s doorstep? Steps sound near the door, and I shake myself.

  Seeing Matteo’s face light up when he opens the door goes a long way to soothing my ruffled feathers. Any guy—any person—who looks at you like that can’t be that wrong for you, right? I step in and take a deep whiff of whatever it is that Matteo is cooking.

  “Chicken cacciatore,” Matteo answers without me having to ask. “And yes, I bought that ridiculously gross ranch dressing you love for the salad.”

  “Ryan doesn’t let me keep it in the house,” I explain. But my shoulders ease by degrees. It’s all this time away from Matteo that messes with my head. He knows me. When we’re together, it’s wonderful. I don’t know why I get myself all tied into knots about it. I know one of my weaknesses is getting too far into my own head.

  “You’ve been gardening.” I mean it as an observation, but it comes out as an accusation.

  His dark eyebrows lift as he helps me out of my coat. Whereas I would have slung it over the nearest chair, he takes the time to hang it in the tiny coat closet near the door. Then he returns, wraps me in a hug that I gratefully return, and kisses my head.

  “Is that a crime?”

  “No.” I take a breath. I’m still trying to shake my sudden attack of internal Jessica Jones. “No, of course not.”

  Matteo pulls back and looks at me, his brow slightly wrinkled. I give a gusty sigh. “Don’t mind me, I’ve had a . . . weird day.”

  “Trouble at the office? Didn’t you have your first production meeting today?” He leads me into the kitchen where the smells of dinner are even more delicious. “Did none of the blazers work out?” A pot of tomato sauce bubbles on his stove in the neat little kitchen. I sit down at my customary spot at the little island and watch him putter around, stirring things and setting plates at the two-person table.

  “Blazers were fine, the meeting went okay. That’s not what’s bothering me.”

  “Maybe this will cheer you up.” Matteo knocks a spoon against the pot and reaches for something on his counter. It’s a manila folder, and inside I find two photocopies of journal pages.

  “The pages!” I squeal, flipping through the set and wishing it contained new material. But it is the same—scribbled note, weapon doodles. I glance up at Matteo. “Did you find anything?”

  He shakes his head. “No fingerprints, nothing. The copies were made on a home inkjet printer, so basically impossible to track. But what interests me is why they were delivered at all—it’s where we need your and Lawrence’s help.”

  I sigh and close the folder. “I’ll look at it in more detail, but to me it looks like a note about a meeting and a bunch of doodles of weapons for the comic. There’s nothing here about the Queen of Hearts, nothing about pills; I have no idea why the Golden Arrow would have left this for us.”

  Matteo turns back to his sauce, and I scan the drawings, pulling them out of the folder one by one. In the corner, one doodle tugs on my memory. I hold up the paper and point. “This one kind of looks like that throwing-star thing you found with the drug dealers, doesn’t it?”

  Matteo approaches and studies the loose sketch. “Hmm . . . maybe? Yeah, I guess the general idea is the same.”

  We exchange glances. “So, this could be proof that it’s the real Golden Arrow?” I debate about sharing my suspicions about Daniel.

  Matteo nods. “I’ll compare the drawing and the throwing star; good thinking. Anything else on the page?”

  I squint back down at the paper. The rest of the doodles bring nothing to mind, and I turn my attention to the personal note. It’s hard to decipher, but the scribble looks like: meet with D about garbage, poss. fund from Svenie.

  No, wait. I squint my eyes and turn the paper slightly. Not garbage. Gadget, maybe? Given the content of the doodles on this page, I’ll go with gadget. Okay, so he was meeting with someone named D and Svenie? What kind of name was that? The initial D was useless, but there should only be a handful of Svenies in the world, right. I squint again, and the drag of the pen strokes shifts again. Not Svenie.

  Stevie.

  A thrill runs through me.

  Is this Lawrence’s Stevie? The friend he talked about? What are the odds that the Golden Arrow would have dropped off pages containing the very name L and I had just talked about? Or did it have to do with the reason that this Stevie visited L’s shop? Could Stevie be our Golden Arrow, and these pages were meant as a sign for L only?

  But . . . how would Stevie know we’d talked about him? I frown. Is L’s place bugged? Coincidences are piling up like gamma radiation in a warp-drive failure. The idea makes me uncomfortable.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  “Well, it’s just this note says something about a meeting with ‘D and Stevie,’ and a Stevie came to visit L this week. L said he hadn’t talked to him in years . . . I’m wondering if it’s more than coincidence.”

  Matteo straightens. “Maybe. We can ask him about D and Stevie, see if he remembers anything. He’s never mentioned him before? I know you guys tell each other everything.”

  I hesitate before shaking my head. “No, and Ryan couldn’t think of a Stevie either. And we don’t tell each other everything.” Case in point: the party. It reminds me I’m here to tell Matteo something specific.

  I sigh, and Matteo raises his eyebrow at me. He doesn’t make much comment but continues to putter, letting me choose how much to share. I love that about him. He rarely pushes, ever patient. Whether it’s just his nature or the job training, it’s everything I’m not. It makes him a good detective—the ability to wait people out. Eventually people like me just talk to fill the void.

  “I have a few more things to tell you. First off, I think you should look into a guy I work with, Daniel Kim. Or his brother.”

  Matteo’s eyes widen. “The guy from the dance troupe?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. Something he said makes me think he’s interested in the case. Coincidences, like I told you. But maybe follow up on him, and his brother.”

  Matteo nods, and I can tell he’s making a mental note. “Okay, what else is on your mind?”

  This is the one I’m really worried about. I was able to not quite admit to sleuthing on my own with Daniel, but not really any way out of it with this one. “So, Ryan and I went out a few nights ago. After Lawrence’s show.”

  Matteo pauses, his shoulders tensing a little bit. “Okay.”

  I know him well enough to recognize we are bordering on Detective Kildaire; already, I’ve put him on his guard.

  “I didn’t tell you—or Lawrence—I went to the after-party because I didn’t want L to know I’d attended his nemesis’s shindig.”

  “This is the person claiming to have inside knowledge of the Golden Arrow.”

  “Right.” I take a grateful sip of the water he puts down in front of me, trying my best to avoid his penetrating gaze. He doesn’t move away, even when a timer on the counter starts beeping.

  “And the party where that kid overdosed.”

  “Yeah.” My mouth goes dry.

  “And?”

  My g
aze flickers to his and then drops back down to the glass of water. I spin it in my hands. “I should have told you about this earlier, I’m sorry. I felt stupid for going. I ran into Ryan there, and he basically felt the same. It would break L’s heart to know we’d gone to try and see the Golden Arrow.”

  Silence from Matteo.

  “It was a bust anyhow, no Golden Arrow, but I should have told you,” I finish, knowing he’s concerned about the case. I’m still working up to Part Two of the conversation.

  “Is that it?” he asks when I don’t say more. “You went to a party last weekend and didn’t tell me? MG, I’m not your keeper. I thought—never mind. If that’s all that this is, I appreciate you telling me, but you don’t need to be worried that I know every move you make. I suppose since this has to do with the case, you should have told me, but no harm done.”

  The absolution both helps and hurts. “Well, there’s more.”

  “Okay.” He draws out the word and pivots to turn off the timer and the stove, then back to me.

  “Well, at the party, there was this Willy Wonka golden-ticket-type thing. If you found a seal stuck on the bottom of your cup or plate or whatever, you got an exclusive invite to the next party. And Cleopatra said that the Golden Arrow arranged this limited party specifically to meet a few people in the public.” I watch his face as I reach into my messenger bag and produce the seal, putting it on the counter. “I didn’t tell Ryan I found one. I didn’t tell Lawrence.”

  “Or me.”

  “Or you,” I agree. “And today, I got an alert about when and where the next party is. So.” I wait for him to pounce all over me for withholding information pertinent to the case. Why, for all we know, I could be holding one of fifteen tickets to see our searched-for perpetrator in person. I could get an ID. I could crack the case.

  Matteo’s face is unreadable as he studies me. “And that’s it. That’s what you needed to tell me?”

  “Yeah?” I’m still waiting for any shoe to drop.

  “Nothing . . . else.”

  “No?” I’m not sure what he’s fishing for, so I clam up and return his stare, willing him to see my truth.

  “When is the party?”

  “Saturday night, eleven p.m.” I give him the location of the theater and the details I’d garnered from the limited publicity release.

  He lets out a breath; truth be told, he looks immensely relieved despite the tight timeline. “Okay. We can work with this. I would have preferred to know earlier, of course, but we have time to plan.”

  “We do? You’re not mad?” I ask, hesitant.

  “No, of course not. Do you think the Golden Arrow will really be there?”

  “Maybe? I don’t know. Ryan seems to think that this is all a media stunt. But. This is a lot of trouble to go to if there’s nothing behind it.”

  Matteo’s brow still pulls down over his eyes, but now it’s in a more thoughtful, less defensive way. “Kind of what I’m thinking too. I think it’s worth pursuing. I’ll need to check with my captain about what sort of surveillance we’d offer you. Are you okay wearing a camera?”

  I swallow. I hadn’t thought of that aspect. “I . . . guess?”

  “And you can’t go alone; maybe I could, or Rideout . . .”

  “There’s no way they’re going to let us in if you’re with me, you’re becoming as well known in LA as Muñez was in his day. You’re the face of the Golden Arrow investigation.”

  He gives me a look that says, “You’re one to talk.”

  “Yes, I know some people know I’m involved, but I’m not on the TV, talking about the case. What if I take Ryan? He’s useful. And large, if you’re worrying about safety.”

  A strange look passes over Matteo’s face, but his words are even when he speaks. “No formal training; I can’t be sure he wouldn’t be a liability in a nasty situation.”

  I give him a look that clearly states what we’re both thinking—that I would be a liability in a nasty situation. I’m not known for my grace under, around, or near fire.

  “How about Lawrence? He’s had formal training.” Matteo references L’s stint many years ago as Casey Senior’s security guard.

  It’s a solid suggestion. But. That means confessing to Lawrence that I not only went to the first party but also intend to attend the second. “Cleopatra might recognize him. And besides, Lawrence may not want to go.”

  “Can he not invent a disguise? I thought that was the name of the drag game. You’re probably going to have to wear something too, right?”

  “It is another costume party,” I allow. And then give in. “Fine. But I’ll ask both of them and see which one can go.” I hold up my hand to forestall his argument. “I’m not going to force L to go if he doesn’t want to.”

  “Fair enough.” Matteo turns to the stove and dishes the chicken, vegetables, and sauce over pasta. I follow him to the table, sling my messenger bag over the back of one of the chairs, and slide in. He sits down across from me, and we both pick up our forks.

  “So, did you see the kid that overdosed while you were there?”

  I swallow my first mouthful of hot chicken a little too fast. “Yeah, she was pretty out of it when I saw her, though I wasn’t all that surprised that it ended up being the same person. Lawrence is upset about it; queens are a tight community when it comes down to it, even if they’re competitive with each other.”

  “I bet, and I’m sorry for his loss. No matter how many young people I see OD, it never stops being a stupid, pointless, tragic loss of a life. Out of it, how?”

  I shrug as we eat in silence for a little while. One thing is certain about dating a police detective: our dinnertime conversation is rarely banal. “Out of it, like loopy. Drunk. There were these flasks on a table, probably something homemade, and combined with drugs . . . well, it didn’t go well.”

  Matteo’s eyes narrowed. “He seemed drunk?”

  “She, since she was in her drag persona’s costume, but yeah.” I try to remember how the queen was acting. “I guess maybe it seemed like more than alcohol. Well, and we know it was, right?”

  Matteo hesitates and then nods.

  “Actually, I got offered pills while I was there; I’m supposing it was a combination of the pills I saw and whatever was in the flasks.”

  “You saw pills?”

  “Yeah. But they weren’t your normal white, pressed pill. These also looked . . . homemade, for lack of a better term. Gelcap-looking things with granules in them. Maybe someone crushed up the opioids and packaged them together—”

  “Pills. Filled with powder?” Detective Kildaire is in full residence now, his semirelaxed posture gone. He doesn’t even apologize for cutting me off. “You didn’t think to tell me this?”

  “Well . . . no, not really. Matteo, drugs at parties like this aren’t exactly unusual. It wasn’t until the kid OD’d that I even thought about it again, honestly. And the police are talking about opioids, so I figured that’s what he OD’d on. Which, I know, thanks to being the girlfriend of a narcotics detective, isn’t what the Queen of Hearts is dealing, right? It wasn’t a baggie of white powder I was offered. Pills.” I describe what I saw in as much detail as I can recall.

  “Red and yellow?” Matteo mutters, sitting back, his thinking face clearly on.

  “Kill a fellow,” I answer grimly.

  “That’s . . . unusual. It’s valuable information; I’ll do some checking. If you see anything like that again, get a sample if you can.”

  “As in buy the drugs?”

  “Better yet, text me, get a picture, we can arrest the guy and hope for a legally seized sample.”

  We eat in silence for long moments. The cacciatore is delicious; the man can cook. He’s not enjoying his dinner, though; his brain is on high. I let him get lost in his own head. I wonder if his brain ever gets tired of this aspect of his job: just when they think they’ve made big headway against a drug ring, something else pops up. Always trying to be one step ahead, but always
one step behind. It would drive me batty. It’s why my heroes always conquer evil in the end—if you didn’t have that hope to look forward to, how would one go on day after day?

  “So, do you want to know what I planted in the garden?”

  “Huh?” We’ve been eating in silence, and my brain has taken over for who knows how long. The problem with being a writer. Give me silence, and I fill it with stories in my head.

  “You accused me of gardening. Would you like to know what I planted?”

  “Sure?”

  “Irises.”

  I blink. I’m terrible with flowers in the first place, but this seems to mean something to him, so I try on a smile. “That’s . . . great! I’m happy for you.”

  Matteo laughs, seeing straight through my act. “It’s the same flower I brought you the other night. Yellow irises. I have a bit of shade right near the roof overhang, and I dunno.” Matteo turns slightly blotchy, and it’s endearing. “They remind me of you.”

  It’s my turn to cough, my throat strangely tight. “You planted a flower that reminds you of me?”

  “They’re colorful. Bold. I picked yellow because of those shoes you like to wear. I love the idea of being reminded of you each spring.”

  That stops me cold.

  I look at this man like I’ve never seen him before. No one has ever done anything semipermanent regarding our relationship before. And this is a far cry from a ring, or a proposal, but he’s changed his garden for me. To include me. And I was on his doorstep not an hour earlier, wondering if we were a terrible match.

  “Are . . . you okay? I don’t have to keep them?” And he seems so reduced, so hurt by the fact that I might not be pleased, that I immediately shove aside my horrible inner self.

  “I’ve . . . just . . . no one has ever done anything like that for me before.” It’s the honest answer.

  Matteo hasn’t moved, still trying to decide if he’s somehow offended me.