L frowns. “That could be potentially problematic.”
“Potentially problemat—L, Matteo thinks you’re in real danger.”
He shrugs, though a tinge of worry has replaced the nonchalance on his face from our previous conversation. “I’ve done my part, sown my seeds. I need to see what the harvest is, if you will. Tell your Hot-Lanta I’ll be careful, but that I’m declining the security detail. It would mess with my own operation.”
Warm water splatters my neck and forehead as he rinses my hair, then steers me back to the chair for the trim and styling. “He’s not my Hot-Lanta; didn’t you hear me earlier?”
“I heard you say that he’s sure he loves you and just wants you to be sure you love him for who he is and not be afraid of who he isn’t. That still sounds like yours to me.”
“And what exactly do you mean by your operation?” Unbidden, the thought that L might be the Golden Arrow resurfaces. Fear prickles the back of my neck, competing with the aggressive combing from Lawrence to create an overall uncomfortable sensation.
L takes his time blow-drying. He’s focused on his work, a master at his craft. And he is too; what is emerging from his handiwork is nothing short of spectacular. Cropped close in at the sides and nape, my hair starts as a deep russet. But the pièce de résistance is the longish top that L is styling into a quasi-messy fauxhawk or pompadour. It’s not just russet—it’s run through with strands of brilliant pink, bright orange, Ariel-red, and maroon.
“It’s absolutely stunning,” I say, nearly breathless as I admire myself in the mirror. I preen like a peacock, turning this way and that until I catch sight of L washing up the bowls behind me. “It also hasn’t excused you from having to tell me what you’ve been up to.”
L stacks the bowls and removes the gloves. I expect more anxiety, but when he turns to face me, he’s got a devious smile on his lips. “It’s really quite ingenious. Instead of looking for this guy myself, I delegated the work.”
“Delegated.” I’m not following.
L nearly claps with glee as he starts to sweep up. “I got the idea from watching Sherlock. Specifically, his homeless network. I crashed at a few old friends’ places, waiting to see who would show up for parties and the like. Asked a few questions, but everyone got suspicious that I was there working for the cops and clammed up. Almost everyone in that neighborhood either has a reason to fear the police or knows someone who does. So I came up with the perfect cover.”
“Something tells me I’m not going to love this.” Somewhere in the back of the salon, my phone starts to ring in my messenger bag. “That’s Ryan; I told him to call me when he was headed home from the gym so he could pick me up.” Both of us being without a vehicle was getting pricey.
“I told them I’m working for Casey. Which”—he twirls me in the chair with a flourish—“since they knew I worked for Senior, it wasn’t a stretch that I work for Junior now. They accepted it without question.”
I check my hair one last time before heading toward my bag, running my fingers over the soft shaved part over my ears. I simply adore it. “Okay, but why would you even tell them you were working for Casey?”
L’s eyes sparkle. “You’re off your game; usually you’re better at this, miss LAPD consultant. Because the one person who has a legitimate reason besides the cops to be trying to track down this Golden Arrow is Casey Junior.”
The light clicks on in my brain. “The reward.”
“Exactly so.” L’s attention has turned to his own reflection in the mirror, and he leans in, examining his lips. Apparently finding them in want of a lip color, he starts digging through a drawer filled with miscellaneous cosmetics, pulling out lipsticks to read their names before tossing them back. He looks up to find me still watching him as I dig through my bag. “What?”
“So that’s it? That’s the grand plan? Tell them you’re trying to find the Golden Arrow for the reward?” It’s good, but it’s not that good.
L leans into the mirror again, having found a shade that he likes, and starts applying. After blotting and blowing himself a kiss, he turns back to me. “The brilliant part is that I played like I was getting a cut if I found the Golden Arrow—the person who was at the party that night. And I may have led my friends to believe that anyone who helped me find this guy for his reward money would get a nice ‘thank you’ gift from my cut.”
“That is smart—” I’ve picked up my phone, and the text isn’t from Ryan. My heart makes a trip down to my toes and back up, lodging directly under my larynx. I can’t finish my thought.
L cackles. “It is smart. The underground knows the underground best, y’know? And a little money always greases the wheels. So, I never asked outright, but I know that several of my friends are looking on my behalf. It’s genius, really—what? What is it? Girl, you’re about two shades from Michael Jackson’s ivory.”
I can’t do anything except hand him my phone as I dig out my jacket.
He whistles between his teeth. “I guess you’ll need a ride to the station.”
“Do you mind?” I read the text one more time before dropping the phone into my bag. It’s Detective Kildaire. This is no love note, no reconciliatory pining. It’s curt and to the point.
Come to the station ASAP. Golden Arrow is in custody, need you for the questioning.
My coat threatens to strangle me as I zip it up—suddenly it’s several sizes too small. It’s not even the thrill or shock that they have the Golden Arrow in custody; it’s that I’m going to have to face Matteo. I have to go in, do my job, and act like this fight isn’t killing me.
L, ever the best friend, snatches his keys off the counter where I left them and tosses me the lip color. “We’re going together for this.”
I’m still stuck in place. L turns, looks over his shoulder, and says the exact thing that helps propel me out of the door.
“Well, if you’re going to have to see Hot-Lanta, at least you look dynamite.”
True. I square my shoulders. I have my bestie, I look dynamite, and who cares for now if I have a broken heart? I have a vigilante hero to meet.
CHAPTER 24
Daniel Kim sits quietly on the other side of the one-way glass into the interrogation room. This one is a mirror image of the one used for the drug dealers, only the person sitting in the chair across from Detective Rideout isn’t a drug dealer. It’s someone I know.
Beside me, L stands, a silent sentinel. He almost seemed relieved when he saw Daniel—maybe he has been fearing the man he’s been looking for in his old neighborhood. Either way, he’s been quiet as an oak since we got here. Given the identity of the suspect, he’s been allowed back with me and has signed several sheets of paper that ensures he won’t speak at large about this. L is basically a second consultant on the case at this point.
I chance a glance at Matteo—I’ve purposefully looked everywhere except at him in the ten minutes we’ve been here.
Our gazes connect, and it’s like a gut punch. I feel the urge to say something. Ask how he is. He looks to be warring with the same set of struggles, his eyes flicking from my hair to my matching fire-engine-red lips, then back to my eyes. Emotion uncoils in my stomach at the sheer longing I glimpse. He turns away first and shuffles some papers, clearing his throat. “We followed your tip and an anonymous tip. We have grounds for the arrest.”
Grounds for the arrest. I study the figure I’ve grown to know well through the glass. So, I’d been right and the Golden Arrow had been under my nose the entire time.
Daniel sits, calmly answering Rideout’s questions. Or he’s attempting calm. I can tell from the way he moves around that he’s agitated but trying to keep his cool.
Truth be told, I’m a little surprised to see Rideout, given the internal investigation. I don’t realize I’ve voiced this out loud until Matteo answers, his voice a little defensive. “He’s on probation essentially. He’s not allowed to conduct any police business by himself until he’s cleared.”
If he’s cleared, but I decide to let the point drop. Instead after a quick glance at Matteo’s stoic face, I turn back to the glass, and clear my own throat. “So, uh, what’s going on now?”
“This is the mundane part of the interview, meant to loosen him up while gaining necessary information for paperwork.” Matteo bumps the knob up on the control panel, and we can hear more of their conversation. “But I have questions for you both about Mr. Kim.”
In the background, Daniel is spelling the name of his dance studio and asking if there is a way to access his online calendar for the dates Rideout has asked about.
Matteo—no, Detective Kildaire—glances through some notes. “We’ve discovered that Daniel has a black belt in hapkido.”
At my confused look, Matteo explains. “It’s a Korean martial art. Grappling in nature, by my research.” I hate the assured set of his jaw. He’s confident. And . . . maybe with good reason. We’ve known the Golden Arrow had impressive physical skill to accomplish what he’s done. Wrangling people, using long cords to tie intricate knots—they’re not skills your average office schmo possesses.
“The physical pieces fit, but he has to know the pop culture stuff too. Do you believe Daniel would have adequate knowledge of the comic books to pull this off? We’re going to question him, but do you think so?”
“He’s adequately . . . nerdy, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“We’re going for facts here, Ms. Martin.” Matteo doesn’t look up from scribbling his notes.
Ms. Martin. Well, that rankles. My ire rises to meet my impressive new hair color. “Well, Detective Kildaire, he’s read the comics, he works for the franchise. Facts enough for you?”
At the use of his title instead of his name, Matteo snaps his notebook shut and draws himself up as if I’ve struck him. Good. Let him see how it feels. “I’m just trying to arm myself for interrogation. He has an alibi, and we’ll need to nail him on these other counts to keep him.”
“I thought you said you have grounds for the arrest.”
“We do,” Detective Kildaire says, turning back to the glass. “Here’s the first item we found when we searched his apartment.”
Lawrence and I pivot as one just in time to see a flash of something gold pass from Officer Montoya to Rideout.
“That’s not what I think it is, is it?” Lawrence asks.
“One cape and one mask,” Detective Kildaire confirms.
“The same one from the party?” Lawrence asks.
“We’re not sure. Recovered from his closet.”
And Daniel certainly does not have a gravelly voice, per Lawrence’s recollection. Detective Kildaire’s thoughts seemed to mirror my own, as in that exact moment he leans across me and asks L if he can identify Daniel as the man he’d seen that night.
The scent of Matteo’s clean and light cologne meets my nose, and I inhale reflexively. The smell brings with it every good feeling and memory of this man, filling my head. Everything from the time I met him, the day we met on my front porch, sitting across from him in the Genius comic library, sitting on my bed looking at sketches, our first kiss in an alleyway during a stakeout . . . it killed me for weeks, not being able to touch him due to the case. And here I am again, inches from this man and unable to touch him. My fingers literally twitch in an effort to reach out and run themselves through his dark, wavy hair.
My imagination has terrible timing, because now I’m remembering how cute Matteo was, watching Star Wars for the first time. How adorably bewildered he was by San Diego Comic-Con and cosplay, but how he never grumbled about dressing up. And how he supports Lawrence onstage every chance he can, not to mention, cheered me on through the terrifying decision to drop to part time with my job and try to costume for part of my living. I’m having a hard time holding on to that caged feeling in this river of thought. If I just let it go, it will float downstream, never to be seen again. Will I be okay with that, though? It will be uncharted territory for me—terrifyingly new, committed territory.
I’ve tuned out Lawrence, though I’m assuming he’s saying something along the lines of, “No, Daniel cannot possibly be the person I saw.” I think I hear Matteo ask him if he recognizes the cape and mask, and L responds in grudging affirmative. The floodgates of my mind have opened, and I’m standing awash in emotions. If standing this close to Matteo without touching him is tough now, could I let him go for a lifetime? Just because this man wanted a future with me?
I study the side of his face, his profile. I try to imagine waking up next to him for the rest of my life, and then I wait for panic to intrude. But . . . it doesn’t come. By slow measures I try a new future on for size. Not all at once, but in degrees. Picturing Matteo and me living in his snug desert house, my colorful items and stacks of sketches intermingled with his straight lines and muted palette. And still the panic doesn’t come. I can’t picture a traditional wedding, so instead I envision something I never thought I would: a sweet elopement in his courtyard. Just him and me, and a few friends. Again, I wait for the panic to seize me as I picture a ring—plain, thankyouverymuch—sliding onto my finger. And what freaks the hell out of me is that this doesn’t freak the hell out of me.
As if sensing my thoughts, Matteo straightens and catches me staring. No, basically peering into the depths of my very own soul. His eyes widen with whatever he sees on my face, and then ever so subtly, a smolder starts in his hazel eyes.
Crap.
Has he seen too much? Have I let all the cats out of all the bags? Can Matteo actually read minds? I’m not ready to share what I’ve just dipped my toe into. I’m not even ready to share with myself what I just pictured, much less the object of my affections. Not until I’ve decided what it means for sure, and this is not the setting in which to navel-gaze. I frantically reel in my emotions. I let them get wildly out of control internally. I am here, supposedly consulting on a case where a friend of mine was just arrested, and I’m picturing getting hitched. Paint me red and call me Irma; I’m ready to fire myself.
I cast around with my eyes for anything other than Matteo. Not his luminous hazel gaze, not his touchable dark hair, not the stubble on his kissable . . . dammit. I force my gaze into the room, feigning intense interest on the case. Which I’m supposed to have. I study the tableau in front of me, shoving the thoughts about Matteo into an inner suitcase in my mind.
The gold cape and mask sit between Rideout and Daniel on the table, and Daniel hasn’t made a move to touch them. In fact, he’s regarding them rather like a poisonous snake someone surprised him with. He looks unnerved but not guilty.
My little thought dalliance with Matteo must have only taken seconds because Rideout is just now questioning Daniel about the cape.
“Our search warrant resulted in several found items directly of interest in this case—”
Daniel doesn’t let him finish. “This isn’t mine. Where . . . where did you say you found this?”
“In your apartment, Mr. Kim,” Rideout says with all the patience in the world. He’s a cat toying with a mouse in his head.
“Yes, but where in my apartment?” Daniel is more insistent.
“I—ah, I’m not sure. It will be in the notes; does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. That’s why I’m asking.” It’s apparent that Daniel is losing his patience.
I can still feel Matteo’s gaze on me, heating my skin. I wish so badly we were alone in this room. Trying to keep myself from succumbing to the mental opening of that suitcase in my mind, I jam it farther under a mental bed and intensify my focus on the table.
“Ask him about his brother. He delivered those items to that property on Curtis Street,” I say, eyes on the interrogation room. “Catch him in the lie.”
Matteo frowns but passes the message to Rideout. Officer Montoya knocks and enters moments later, handing Rideout several printed sheets of paper. After a quick review, Rideout slides them across the table to Daniel.
“You can see here that the cape
and the mask were found in a closet, in a black gym bag.”
The sheets must contain prints of pictures from the scene because Daniel responds in a baffled tone of voice. “That’s my gym bag, yes. And my closet where I keep my dance costumes, but I lent these to a friend for a Halloween costume. There’s no way they ended up back in my bag.”
Rideout sits forward. “It’s in a witness statement that you claim to have lent these to a brother.”
Daniel’s eyes widen, and I know in that moment he realizes I must have squealed on him. “I, er . . .”
“You don’t have a brother, Daniel,” Rideout purrs. He’s in his element now. “So, if you’re protecting someone . . .”
This gets a reaction from Daniel. “I’m not protecting anyone. Please. He is my brother. Ex. Ex brother-in-law. The divorce was nasty; we’re not supposed to still see each other by court order, but my daughter—well, my daughter wanted to trick-or-treat with him on Halloween, and I caved. They were going as the Golden Arrow and Swoosh.”
There’s a long beat of silence.
Well, crap. Now I feel horrible. If that story is true, the entire reason I suspected him is totally explainable. Maybe—just maybe—we’ve got this all wrong and Daniel Kim is innocent as he claims.
“This is not the only item we know to have once been in Mr. Lawrence St. Claire’s possession, which went missing. And not the only item we found in your bag.”
Daniel looks alarmed at this. Downright freaked out. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s in your best interest to work with us and not against us. We can offer you lesser sentences. We can offer you protection. We just want to know how you’ve been doing it and what you’ve found in this that has helped.”
Matteo leans forward, and I get the sense that Rideout is getting ready to play a trump card. What on earth could he have that cinches up the case this neatly?
“Seriously, this is crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Daniel.
Rideout makes a motion through the window, and Officer Montoya appears shortly in the doorway carrying a ziplock bag I recognize as an evidence bag.
The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2) Page 25