“You look tired.” I can’t help but reach out and pull Matteo into a quick hug, despite the fact that we’re in the lobby of the station. He’s got a seven-o’clock scruff on his jaw, and in an entirely un-Matteo-ish fashion, his shirt is rumpled and there’s no evidence of a tie. Truth be told, it looks like he’s slept in these clothes.
“Have you gone home?” I ask.
My suspicions are confirmed when Matteo shakes his head. “No, we’ve been on a wild-goose chase, and I needed to be here.”
“Wild-goose chase?” I picture him hanging out the passenger side of Rideout’s patrol car with a pistol in an old-fashioned car chase and shoot-out. In my imagination he’s wearing those vintage suspenders, and his favorite fedora is perched jauntily on his head despite the wind. It would make a fantastic panel in a comic book. “But wait. You said you’re working on the Golden Arrow case? Why didn’t you tell me? I could have come along!”
“I couldn’t tell you until now, because it was an internal investigation.” We pause by the coffee pot, and he refills his mug. “We’ll wait until we get to the interview room to talk.”
Internal investigation. That didn’t sound good. In fact, that sounded an awful lot like what had gone on at the beginning of the summer. My stomach drops.
“Do you need anything? I can have some dinner brought in.” Matteo holds the door open to the same interview room I’ve been in several times.
“No, that’s okay; I’ll eat when I get home. Have you eaten? Anything besides coffee-bean slurry, I mean?” Though it’s obvious I’m here in an official capacity, I can’t help but worry about the circles under Matteo’s eyes and the drawn look he has on his face. Whatever this is, it’s in the category of “not good.”
“I think so?” He waves his hand dismissively. “At some point today. I’m okay; I’ll head home after this for some rest. I have some leftovers in the fridge.”
“Okay, well, let me know if I can help you out in any way.” Something almost maternal rises inside of me, and I fight off the urge to pull Matteo in for another hug.
“Well, I’m in desperate need of your brain on this case.” He sighs and sits down in the chair across from the couch as if his bones weigh eight million pounds.
I plop on the edge of the couch, hands clasped between my knees. “Okay, shoot, Sherlock. I’m all yours.” I’m flattered that he needs me in particular in this development, and I’m also desperately curious about what has transpired. “Did you talk with Whalon?”
Matteo nods. “Yes, but that’s only half of what this is about.”
I frown. “Did he . . . help?”
Matteo sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “He remembers DeWayne, though not really well. He says DeWayne had approached him with a business venture—I guess DeWayne wanted to manufacture gadgets based on Hooded Falcon stuff and sell replicas. They were set to pitch it formally to Casey with Whalon’s family as the capital when . . .”
“When Casey was murdered,” I finish. “Was that all he said?”
Matteo shrugs. “Overall, he was pretty blasé. He agreed that he and Lawrence saw each other a few times when they were younger, but that his family wouldn’t respect that sort of dalliance, so he ended it. DeWayne’s business proposition didn’t move forward when the estate was turned over to Junior, who was interested in retaining all rights. We know now that Casey Junior wasn’t particularly fond of his father’s—what did he call them?—charity cases. Whalon remembers DeWayne wanted to pursue other business ideas with his capital, but Lawrence didn’t like the ideas much and counseled Whalon to decline. Things fizzled with Lawrence, Casey Senior’s death was under investigation, and Whalon just decided that cutting ties with the whole company would save him a lot of trouble. He was pretty young at the time and doesn’t remember many particulars since the venture never got off the ground. He hasn’t spoken to L since. He saw him on The Tonight Show and just got curious about how he’d turned out. Went in to get a haircut. That’s it.”
“Ouch.” Double ouch that L’s attachment was so apparent, and I guess Whalon’s feelings weren’t equal. Maybe it was complete innocent chance that Whalon was at his show too. True to L’s insistence, Whalon doesn’t seem to be a part of this at all.
Matteo sits in silence for a bit, and I shift on the couch. “Was there something else, then? Since Whalon seems like a dead end?”
“We caught Ryan’s assailant.”
I clap. “That’s great news!”
Matteo nods, but it’s not enthusiastic. “I am excited, but it’s more questions and not a lot of answers. The guy insists that he was jumped and not the other way around. He admits there were several people present and that he was under the . . . influence . . . of his wares, but his statement isn’t something we can hold him for, for long.”
“So, he’s getting released without being charged. At least he’s in the system?” I read the droop of Matteo’s shoulders. “That’s not all of it.”
“No,” Matteo says, grinding the heel of a hand into his right eye. “His name came up on a list of attendees at the party last weekend.”
My gaze flies to his. Interesting doesn’t seem to cover it.
Matteo nods at my look. “Yeah, more coincidences. More connections. And I can’t figure out what the common denominator is.” He smacks the desk, and I jump. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Matteo even a little riled up.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just tired. This is a great win, another piece in the puzzle. It’s a clue I’m on the right trail, it’s proof that we’re making headway, and yet.”
“And yet,” I agree. “Do you think he and Ryan were attacked by the same person?”
“If it’s the same person who attacked Ryan, that’s a possibility. But again, I’m left wondering if this is a dealer with connections to our trial whom I can’t find. And that’s not even the greatest of my concerns right now. It goes without saying that what I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room. Not L, not Ryan, not your mother. No one.”
The sinking feeling returns. “Okay. I agree.” This must be bad.
Matteo nods. “We had evidence stolen.”
I blink. “Evidence . . . from this case?”
“Yes, and we didn’t discover it until last night. We have no idea when it was stolen, only that it wasn’t there when we went to look for it.”
Okay, that was bad. Definitely bad. “What evidence went missing?” To my knowledge, we only have a few things. The knife Sosa used to cut the canvas at SDCC, the painting, and . . . “Oh no, not the journal?”
“No, not the journal. The sample of drugs from the bust in the warehouse last summer.”
“Oh.” My pulse slows back down a little. A small sample of drugs, while obviously important, doesn’t seem as irreplaceable to me as the thirty-year-old journal. “Isn’t that better than having the journal stolen?”
But Matteo doesn’t look less stressed. He looks . . . harried. Shaken. “Yes and no. Evidence going missing is a big deal, no matter what it is. And drug evidence is one of the most stolen pieces of evidence in our country because of its nature—it’s why it was an internal investigation first.”
“Okay . . .” I’m still not grasping what he’s getting at. It sucks that the drugs are missing, but it doesn’t seem like he should be this upset about it.
“It means that someone on our force went into our evidence room and removed our samples specifically. It means we’re more than likely still dealing with someone working for Muñez.”
Ah. There’s the crux of it. The sinking feeling completes its run, my heart now somewhere in the neighborhood of my ankles. “More dirty cops.”
He nods and sets his forehead in his hands on the desk. I’ve rarely seen him this undone. “At this point, I don’t know what to think. Not after Officer James—he was a close colleague. And then after this . . .”
“Well, how do you know it’s not coincidence?” I ask, looking for anything to make this go away. I do
n’t want to ramp up the paranoia quite yet. There may very well be an explanation. “You said yourself that drugs get sold off; it sucks, but it doesn’t mean it has to do with this case specifically.”
Matteo gives a humorless laugh. “The internal investigation revealed that the drugs were present and accounted for as recently as last week. As far as anyone can tell, they went missing the day after our meeting with you and Lawrence after the party. When we talked, in private, about testing the samples. It’s not something in a published report somewhere. Only my team knew about it. In the twenty-four hours it took for Rideout to organize the testing with the lab . . . the original sample went missing.”
I have no response other than to stare at Matteo in dawning horror. Because if he’s thinking what I’m thinking . . . well, there’s only one other cop who knew that we were going to test the drugs. And that other cop is Matteo’s partner.
“Does Rideout know about the internal investigation?” I ask hesitantly. I don’t want to lead my witness, but I have to suss out what he’s feeling.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He insists it’s coincidence.”
“And the police force is just going to take his word for it?” I’m aghast. “It wasn’t me” seems like a pretty shoddy excuse when you’re one of two people who had knowledge of the sample.
“I haven’t told you everything yet. It gets even more complicated.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Okay, out with the whole shebang.”
“The internal investigation revealed that there was likely inside help but that there was an external perpetrator.”
“Okay, so whomever was working with someone. And it’s a recent development.” And by someone, I knew we both meant Muñez. Who else would have been interested in the sample of the very drugs that incriminated Sosa? Especially since they’ve been in evidence for months? But even I found it hard to imagine Rideout—staunch, play-by-the-rules, old-man-Joe Rideout agreeing to work with Muñez or Sosa. Their bust had made his career. “So how do they know there was an ‘external perpetrator’?”
“Because when Rideout went to pick up the sample for the lab, he found this in its place.” Out of his pocket, he produces a small computer tablet. It’s like one I’ve seen before—a tablet belonging to the police department, usually used for victims to review photos of suspects. Stuff like that. The last time I held one of these in my hand was the first time I actually saw the Golden Arrow on surveillance tape—the night my life took its biggest and most unexpected turn ever. The night we realized we were chasing a real vigilante. And so, when I lean forward, I expect to see surveillance footage. Maybe of Muñez, maybe of the crime in real-time.
Instead, it’s an image of a shelf, filled with plastic bins—each labeled with a long string of numbers. An off-camera gloved hand holds a single bin tipped outward. On top of the bin is a sheet of paper with a simple message scrawled on it. I can’t read it from the angle of the picture, but the little hairs raise on the back of my neck.
Without a word, Matteo flicks his finger across the screen, bringing the next image up—a close-up view of the note. Our eyes meet over the tablet the instant I read the words.
Follow the White Rabbit.
Unless I’ve missed my mark, the Golden Arrow has struck again.
CHAPTER 20
“The Golden Arrow.” I state the obvious, on the off chance Matteo’s thinking something different. He’s not.
“I assume so. The writing looks the same as the note we received earlier in the summer; I gave it to the lab for handwriting comparison. But this is where you come in. Help me see how this ties in to our case.”
Answers are beyond me; I’m stuck so far in questions, you might as well call me the Riddler. “So, either the Golden Arrow is a cop”—my first thought is Rideout, which is highly unlikely given the level of comic knowledge needed to have investigated Agent Sosa—“or a cop is working with the Golden Arrow?”
Matteo shrugs, the defeat weighing on his shoulders. “It makes sense, as much as I dislike it. How else does this person keep getting in front of our investigation? They have inside knowledge of this case.”
I bite my lip at my next thought. “And given the cops already involved in this case, and the nature of the evidence taken . . . this cop probably works for Muñez.”
“Or his replacement,” Matteo agrees.
Our eyes connect, and we just stare at each other in mutual distaste for that idea.
“That would mean the Golden Arrow is working . . . for Muñez?”
“Or his replacement,” Matteo agrees, again.
This is bad. Bad, bad, bad. But if I look at everything that has transpired in the past few weeks: the interview with the drug dealers about a new game in town, the parties where the Golden Arrow is keeping questionable company, and even the very fact that Lawrence laid eyes on the person claiming to be the Golden Arrow and didn’t think he was a good guy. Maybe even a guy connected to Muñez, given he potentially tried to kill Casey Senior the night of the party thirty years ago.
Everything fits. Except . . . my gut.
“Matteo, this can’t be right. The Golden Arrow is a good guy. I know it. I feel it. Out of curiosity, did you ever look into my coworker? Daniel Kim? Or his brother?”
“Squeaky-clean background check,” Matteo sighs. “Not even a parking ticket. Divorced, one child, part owner of a dance studio. Shows up for jury duty.”
“And his brother?”
“Only child, I think.”
Well, that rankles. “I’m pretty sure he’s mentioned a brother,” I argue. “Why would he lie about it?”
Matteo eyes me. “Our records aren’t complete; I can check again. He’s never been booked, so I don’t have a lot. Why?”
I guess it is time to come clean. The case has just hit a major snag, and Matteo needs all the information he can get.
“Well, I just . . . one time I followed him and he sorta delivered a cape and a mask to someone on Curtis Street. I asked him about it, and he said his brother lived there.”
Matteo’s eyes goggle. “When was this?”
“Er, a few weeks ago when I told you to look into him?”
Matteo pinches the bridge of his nose. “So, you went out sleuthing on your own when I expressly told you not to—you know what? It doesn’t matter. I’ll throw someone onto this, check him out thoroughly. Which I could have done weeks ago had you told me what you’d seen—”
“I thought you’d get mad—”
“I am mad, but I’ll get over it and I have bigger fish to fry. Thank you for telling me. We need every lead we can get right now.” Matteo searches my eyes, and I see him warring with the anger and betrayal, and the need to just push forward. “I need you to look through the comics for any clue, any similarity to what’s going on. I know you know these backward and forward, but I need to be sure we’ve jumped track. This note indicates yet again that our vigilante knows something we don’t. What I’m worried about now is their motive.”
He doesn’t say it, but I’m thinking the same thing. Because if I follow the theory of the dirty cop working with the Golden Arrow through . . . what if, now that Muñez is behind bars, this vigilante has turned to clearing the field of people who put him there? The people familiar enough with this case to catch him. Those people are . . . us. Ryan’s been attacked, L has been almost attacked.
Though a chill runs down my spine, I’m not quite ready to commit to that narrative. Not when my writer’s gut is telling me that we’re not dealing with a rogue vigilante. The Golden Arrow is not a double agent. He loves the Falcon. The Falcon would break a few laws, sure. But he’d do so in pursuit of the greater justice. We’re dealing with someone who has an interest in solving crime, battling the bad guys, not joining them. “The other possibility is that the Golden Arrow knows something we don’t, and he stole the sample all of his own volition.”
“In the twenty-four hours when we’d decided to test it?” N
o judgment from Matteo with this statement, but I can tell he’s dubious.
“Yeah, I know. But maybe? Crazier things have happened.”
“He stole something from a police department without being caught?”
“That seems less likely, but still possible.”
“And nothing rings a bell from the comic books that he could be following?” Matteo looks ever-so-slightly hopeful with this question but deflates again when I hesitantly shake my head.
“Look, I’ll do some searching in the comic. Maybe there’s something in the journal that would have pointed the Golden Arrow to the sample.” It sounds unlikely even to my own ears. “Maybe something will show up if I’m reading the issues with this in mind. And I’ll take a look through Casey’s journal too—well, the part of it we have.”
“Okay,” Matteo agrees, though he clearly doesn’t expect anything new to come of it. “Now, one last order of business. We need to talk about Lawrence.”
Instantly, I’m on alert. My knees jerk together and I sit up straight. Crap. The shoes. My suspicion that perhaps Lawrence is the Golden Arrow. How on earth could Matteo have arrived at this same conclusion?
“Lawrence?” I manage, trying to play it cool but sounding strangled instead. Do not mention the shoes, do not mention the shoes. Wait and see what he has first before you rat out your best friend. I feel immensely guilty for not immediately spouting my suspicion, but there it is. My loyalty to L outweighs my loyalty to this case.
“I’m concerned about him. Do you know where he is?”
I swallow, thankful that for once I’m not lying about this to Matteo. “No. He even let me borrow his car, so I have no idea at all.” I shove down the slightly guilty feeling that statement causes. I mean, we’ve always borrowed each other’s stuff, so I’m almost certain L would condone my use of the Dodge. I refocus on Matteo. No need to look guiltier than I already feel.
The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2) Page 20