This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Meghan Scott Molin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503904187 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1503904180 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781503904194 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1503904199 (paperback)
Cover design and illustration by Danny Schlitz
First edition
To the incredible Dr. Liechty, and to Noah Wayne . . . the two real superheroes in my life.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
Instead of finalizing his coffee order, the schmo ahead of me in line is reading on his iPad, the headline MYSTERY DRUG BUST AT DOCKS splashed across the screen. While I can’t fault him for being sucked in, if we don’t hurry, we’ll all get stuck on the 110, having to contemplate peeing into our cups. As irked as I am, I can’t help but look over his shoulder. I read about the drug bust this morning in my Twitter feed, but I didn’t see a picture of the crime scene. It’s a doozy. Who doesn’t love when two street dealers are trussed together, back-to-back on the Long Beach docks, left with a note for the police? Actually trussed together. Like in a comic book. I squint my eyes, lurking over the guy’s shoulder probably a little too long, but . . . Is that an outline around the criminals? It can’t be. But . . . if I tilt my head just a little, it does look a little like a rabbit. And if so, this tableau bears a striking resemblance to something I’ve seen before. It is probably a glare in the shop or a trick of the light, but my poor little writer brain has no defense against this sort of nerdy imagining. All I can see is a panel from my favorite comic come to life.
“All that’s missing is a golden arrow,” I mutter, giving the picture one last look as the line shuffles forward. I dutifully shuffle . . . straight into iPad Guy’s heels.
He snaps the iPad closed. “What did you say?”
Oh crap. iPad Guy looks straight at me with the typical “I disapprove of your purple hair” frown on his face and completely ignores the counter girl yelling, “Next!” There’s a lull in the shush and hiss of the coffee-making orchestra that suggests they’re ready to make the next order.
“Nothing. Just that news story reminds me of a graphic novel. Are you ready to order?” I paste a smile on my face. I know better than to upset the Muggles. Even when they are seriously inconveniencing the rest of us in line.
Tap, tap, tap—Order-Taking Girl isn’t pleased. Someone’s getting spit in their foam, and it’s not going to be me.
“No . . . I’m still decid—”
I step around the man and belly right up to the bar. “Tall cinnamon dolce latte, coconut milk, dash of chocolate on top.” I already have my card out before Order-Taking Girl asks, and she knows by now not to give me a receipt. I don’t need more paper filling up my messenger bag. Thank God for online banking.
I’m startled when iPad Guy sidles up next to me while waiting for the barista to finish his drink. I look him up and down, taking in the slightly rumpled dark bedhead, five-o’clock shadow, jeans, and rolled-up sleeves of his nice-ish work shirt, and peg him as an Americano guy. Okay, so he didn’t really sidle. He’s more businesslike than that. But he’s definitely not hanging back in the typical stranger zone. I use my Genius Comic messenger bag as a blocker, putting it firmly between us. At least make it hard for the creepers to cop a feel.
“Hey,” he says, looking at me again. Only his gaze doesn’t linger on my short purple hair. It takes in my whole self, moving from my Converse sneakers to my black skinny jeans, messenger bag, Wonder Woman tee, bright-red blazer, and actually ending at my eyes, in a “I did not just look at your boobs, and here I am looking at your eyes because I value women as people” look.
I narrow my gaze in return. So it’s like that, is it? I detest false altruism. Just stare at my boobs and get it over with, like every guy at every convention I’ve ever attended. I can never just live my life; I have to be boobs first, comic book writer second—if a guy even gets that far. I get weary of being a novelty in my world.
“What were you saying before, about a book, Miss . . .”
I ignore the blatant fishing for my name and huff a breath, glancing at the time on my iPhone. I’m running late for the office, and I need time to let the coffee soak up some of my morning grump. “A graphic novel. A comic book. The scene reminded me of a panel from my favorite one.” Cue the disbelieving stare when man realizes woman has read comic books . . . and there it is. Game, set, match. If he’s surprised I read them, it’d turn his hair platinum to find out that I write them for a living.
“MG! Cinnamon dolce latte!” Saved by the barista. I reach out, snag the cup sans to-go collar—ouch—and keep right on motoring out of the coffee shop. I hear “Herbal tea” called out behind me, and I snort. Not an Americano guy after all. Herbal tea? Hipster much? Or maybe it’s for his sick girlfriend. He seems the type.
Through the glass storefront, I hear a symphony of honking peppered with angry yelling. The traffic outside is already picking up for morning rush hour, and downtown LA is a bitch in May. It’s why I ride my bike whenever possible.
Heading for the door, I weave my way through a dude pitching a screenplay and a stay-at-home mom bitching about no “me time,” even though she’s clearly here without her children. Or they’re off terrorizing the other patrons—a distinct possibility, seeing as LA fuels itself on broken dreams and hypocrisy. The dirty glass door screeches, letting a blast of gritty, gasoline-scented wind in as I push it open with my hip. It never closes behind me. I’m surprised when an arm reaches out to hold it open. I don’t even need to look to know that it’s Herbal Tea Guy. Usually the Muggles aren’t this tenacious. Time to level up my game.
“Hey, I know you seem busy, but—”
The guy doesn’t take a hint.
I turn to face him, my sassiest hip thrown to the side. Rip off the Band-Aid, MG. Sometimes there’s no other way. With one look, I can tell this guy’s interest is severely misplaced. I usually date the type of guy who can dialogue about Batman’s backstory, and I’m definitely not J.Crew enough for Herbal Tea. I have a meeting to get to, coffee to consume, and regret for breaking my usual silence in the waiting line.
“Look.” I s
top him in his tracks with a glacial glance, right over the top of my fire-engine-red wire-rimmed glasses, a look I’ve perfected at comic convention open-bar nights. “I’m sure you’re a nice person, and you’re cute and all”—if you’re into the rumpled, sensitive, tea-drinking type—“and I am sure you have a lucrative hipster job that allows you to drink cof—er, tea, at all hours of the morning, but I’m not interested.”
He steps back, shock and a lot of embarrassment registering in his eyes. He’s not used to being brushed off. Score one for the home team. “Well, that’s prickly,” he says, going blotchy red at the collar of his shirt.
“It’s not prickly. I just don’t put up with bullshit. And there’s a lot of bullshit in this world.” I spin around to continue my trek and don’t look back. I have bigger fish to fry this morning. “Winter is coming,” in the words of Jon Snow.
Stuck, stuck, stuck. À la Gregory House, MD, I throw the ball even harder against the wall of my office. To be more specific, the half-height modular wall that separates my working pod from Simon’s. It’s supposed to foster creative collaboration, but it just allows us to annoy the living daylights out of each other. Kyle and Andy have been talking the story from this morning to death—the one with the tied-up drug dealers. Neither one of them has noticed the rabbit outline or overall resemblance to The Hooded Falcon, and instead of coming up with something brilliant for my project, I’m wondering if I should jump into the conversation with my tinfoil-hat theory. It surprises me that Simon is silent on the topic; usually if someone is wearing tinfoil alongside me, it’s him. But my problem is solved momentarily when Andy gets a call and leaves the room. I sigh.
Thwack, thwack, thwack.
“I think if you throw it harder, you’ll figure it out. Maybe you’ll hit yourself.” Simon doesn’t even raise his head, and I’m surprised he can hear me over the music screaming through his headphones. I stick my tongue out at him. Of course, like a good kid, Simon polishes his pages while I am sitting here with nothing. Well, not nothing. I have my basic outlines, but I’m stuck on the last frame of the page. It refuses to fill itself in, no matter how hard I try to bleed something brilliant onto the page. There’s an idea that’s been cooking in the back of my brain since my run-in with Herbal Tea Guy yesterday, but for the life of me I can’t pull it out. I can only hope it’s genius when it emerges, because I’ll be just under the wire for this week’s green-light meeting. And unlike the last three times, I have got to nail this presentation. My brilliance seems to go unappreciated in meetings. Just last month, my boss, Edward Casey Junior, was unable to overlook the tiny fact that I’d insulted the current story line—a beast of Kyle’s making, not mine—before offering my own ideas. So I may have called the villain—my boss’s favorite to date apparently—a direct copy of our competition’s and may have used the words “trite” and “tired.” What I saw as honest feedback he took personally. Fine. I need to work on my delivery, that’s all. I’ll keep working on my presentation for this month’s green-light meeting, wow them with graphics, and prove I have the best ideas. Because I do . . . when I can figure them out.
I resume my throwing, and even Kyle shoots me the stink eye from across the room. He’s just in a bad mood because he got all banged up playing Pokémon GO on Sunday night. He insists he was trying out parkour—from the new “nerd fitness group” he and Simon had joined—to nab a Jigglypuff, but my guess is he was staring at his phone and walked into a tree.
“Are you finished annoying the rest of us? You’re not the only one with a deadline this week, you know.” He’s absentmindedly rubbing what looks like rope burn on his arm. I narrow my eyes. Kyle is about the nerdiest, most nonathletic guy I know, next to Simon. Papercuts would constitute an emergency in his book. Rope burn? Has he taken up slacklining too? That doesn’t seem likely. Maybe he was injured in some bedroom parkour instead of at the park. Certainly something I’d lie about to coworkers too. I raise my eyebrows at him and throw the ball against the wall, maintaining eye contact. I can’t say I’m always proud of my antics, but being the only woman in this office, I sometimes stoop to their level of boyish tactics.
Thwack, thwack, th—
The ball bounces off the wall funny and flies over my shoulder into the aisle near the printer. I’m halfway under the printer when I hear my name called. Busted for workplace “distraction” again, I bet.
“Oh, eff off, Andy. My draft idea for the green-light agenda isn’t due until three p.m., and I have at least—” I pause mid-kneel, holding my red ball, and stare up at Herbal Tea Guy. What. The. Hell. I climb to my feet awkwardly, complete with hitting my hip on the table holding the printer.
“You have a visitor,” Andy says. He’s trying to smooth his flyaway curly blond hair. It would be surfer hair on a cooler person. “I had to go get him from reception.”
“I can see that,” I shoot back. Simon surfaces from his ad markers, staring at me. I don’t think he’s ever seen me with a guest in the office, ever. That’s because I don’t bring them. On purpose.
Herbal Tea Guy looks different than he did yesterday. He’s wearing slacks and a neat work shirt, though I note that it’s still rolled up at the sleeves. Even his skinny tie is fashionable. His five-o’clock shadow is gone, and I catch myself pondering whether I liked him better with scruff before I yank my mind back to the important question at hand: Why is he here at all?
“I brought you a coffee. Cinnamon dolce latte.” He offers it to me like an olive branch.
My eyebrows shoot up, and my traitorous hand sneaks out to take the cup. Caffeine is my body’s drug of choice, and it seems he’s found my weakness. And remembered my order.
Andy is still staring at us, and I don’t blame him. I still haven’t said anything. He shifts from foot to foot and straightens his woefully rumpled button-down in a self-conscious way. “I, uh . . . I’ll be over there if you need me.” He motions to his desk, the central one in the pod as befits his team art director status. Andy’s never been big on dialogue. That’s my specialty. Usually. Except right now, when I’m gaping like a fish out of water. We watch him go in a growingly awkward silence.
“Must be nice to have a hipster job where you can drink coffee at any hour,” the man says with a wink, looking pointedly at Kyle—watching us shamelessly in return, feet propped on his desk, large travel coffee mug in hand. Touché, Herbal Tea Guy.
And just like that I’m back, shields powering up. “Takes one to know one, I guess.” Or go with childish insults. Whichever.
He smiles, and damn it if I’m not back to thinking about whether the scruff made him more attractive. Smiling definitely does. You know, if you’re into hipster stalkers, which I’m not. The last part is a dictate to my subconscious to quit being ridiculous.
I’m finally about to boot this bozo out when he ups his ante again. “Is there a conference room or something that we can go talk in?” The question is quiet instead of suggestive, and his face is serious. Intriguing, and not at all how I picture hipster seduction taking place. He holds out a business card. This one seems to be a . . . gentleman stalker? I take it automatically and glance down. LAPD. Detective Matteo Kildaire.
Oh crap.
CHAPTER 2
“So, uh, how did you find me?” I sip my latte and try to suppress my moan of satisfaction. It’s the perfect temperature and exactly what I want right now, stressed as I am about my deadline.
“It wasn’t hard.” He sets his coffee cup across from mine, spins one of the chairs, and sits down opposite me. We’re jammed in the small conference room dedicated to our team just off the main workspace. The bad news is that everyone in my office seems to be taking every opportunity to walk past the glass door and glance in. The good news is that I love this room for the view. LA stretches out in front of the large window that makes up the back wall—the textile and fabric shops off Wall Street, my favorite part of the city.
“I thought you were an herbal tea guy.” “Americano” is scrawled across
his white cup, along with something that looks suspiciously like a scrawled phone number. Order-Taking Girl, you go-getter, you.
“I’ve been trying to quit drinking coffee, but work has . . . amped up since yesterday, and I’m off the wagon,” he admits, taking a sip and meeting my curious stare. Studying me. I’m a little undone by his intense hazel gaze and long lashes. “It was easy to find you. Detective, remember? I noticed the Genius Comics name on your bag, called to see if anyone with purple hair worked here . . .”
“Et voilà,” I finish for him. Seeing as I’m the only woman in the office most days, and well . . . the purple hair. Not exactly rocket science. Something tells me that despite the pretty gorgeous set of peepers this Muggle has, he’s here on business. “All right, Sherlock, let’s cut onions. What can I do for you?”
“I need to talk to you about what you said in the shop.”
“You mean my completely ridiculous remark about the crime scene missing a golden arrow?”
“Yes. That.”
Our silence spans two sips. There’s no way. “You found a golden arrow?”
“Yes.”
Internally, I’m scrambling. They found a golden arrow. And my tinfoil suspicion suddenly doesn’t seem so coated in, well, tinfoil. But, then, why would the police be at my work? “So I’m, what, under arrest for guessing?”
An annoyingly infectious smile toys about his lips. It’s a legitimate question, Officer Herbal Tea, thankyouverymuch.
“No, if you were under arrest, I’d need to have just cause, proof, and read you your rights. I’m here purely on personal interest. I want to know how you knew that there would be an arrow at the scene. The LAPD hasn’t released that evidence to the media. No one knows but the crime scene investigators. Tell me how you knew.”
Well, that’s another thing I didn’t see coming. I bite back an acerbic response. Just answer the question, and he can leave and I can get back to my real work. I delve deep to distill all I know and love about my favorite comic. “I mean, it’s kind of a leap of imagination, but the picture I saw in the news looked so much like a panel out of a comic. The Hooded Falcon. Two goons trussed up on docks back-to-back. Classic superhero move. And there’s this . . . I don’t know . . . outline around the thieves that looks like a rabbit, which in the comic sometimes happened so the reader knew the goons belonged to Falcon’s nemesis. So you can see how an imagination in my employ would jump to a fantasy of comic book come to life. In the comic, the scenes are always marked with a literal golden arrow sign, Falcon’s signature.”
The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 1) Page 1