Officer Herbal Tea looks up from his notes. “And this is a new comic? One your company is working on?”
I sigh. There’s no way to package this conversation for a comic newb. Reboots are often beyond the comprehension of non-geek folk. “It’s tricky. The original Falcon—based on Robin of Loxley—was written in the eighties and was less popular than his better-known Justice League–era compatriots: Batman, Wonder Woman, the like. Brilliantly illustrated—well, the originals anyway. They’ve been rebooted by a new artist since then. The new ones suck. I work on those,” I add.
He’s scribbling, and I note his furrowed brow, maybe at my candor about the current issues. Maybe I should learn to sugarcoat my words. But I’m just being honest.
“So, in the comics, the golden arrow is a what? A drawing? A pin? Only on bad guys? Does this Falcon character ever attack police, or is he simply out for crime fighting?”
Another tricky question, but I’m impressed by the level of his inquiry. If I were a Muggle policeman, I’d have listened to about three seconds of this before tuning me out. “Falcon and his sidekick, Swoosh, are vigilante heroes, fighting on the side of social justice. They often use the symbol of a golden arrow to mark their busts. Usually in the form of a golden arrow anchor running through the ropes holding the criminals, or the arrow—shot from his trusty bow—pinning the criminal to a wall. Was it on the criminals?”
“No.” He glances up at me, then presses his lips together.
“It’s a two-way street, this information thing. You’re the one here asking for help.”
“Drawn on the pier. Gold sharpie, maybe. And it wasn’t even finished. My guess is they ran out of ink, or the wood chewed up the pen.”
“And the outline thing, was that just in the picture? Like a flash or a glare or something from the camera? Did it look like a rabbit?”
The officer’s lips narrow into a line, and I can’t tell if it is amusement at my knowledge (or lack of) of photography or annoyance with being the questionee. “We noted a chalk outline, but I don’t think anyone saw it as the shape of anything. Just a chalk outline. People just do morbid stuff sometimes.” He sounds dismissive, but a thoughtful look flashes over his features, and he scribbles something in his notebook. I bet he is planning to reexamine the outline, which will probably be completely pointless.
Though there were similarities in the panel, to be sure, I figure that without the rabbit outline, I am back in tinfoil-hatsville. I’d been hoping for something more concrete when we started this conversation—a harpoon in the shape of an arrow tying the goons together or something. Not a measly scribble that could have been there for years before someone got the gumption to tie up a couple of passed out drug dealers or whatever. I’m not the only one with an active imagination, it seems, and as much as I love sharing my theories, it is time to come back down to earth. “So you think because someone drew part of an arrow on the pier in sharpie—”
“Gold sharpie.” His full lips are now toying with a frown.
I ignore him and continue, “—that this really has to do with The Hooded Falcon? It’s a stretch.” And that’s putting it mildly.
“I’m just following a lead and trying to weigh everything equally. You were the one who said the scene reminded you of this comic, and you knew the arrow was there,” he responds, his lips pressed into a line again. I stare at them just a moment too long.
As much as my little heart desperately loves The Hooded Falcon, this line of thinking is useless. Real criminals don’t mimic comics. This scenario is something that happens only in comic books, not everyday life. It’s a good story, though. My brain is off and racing away with the new possibility. Brilliance strikes, and it punches straight through my writer’s block. It could happen in the project I’m working on. A copycat comic book crime scene. It’s perfect. And just like that, I’m feeling rather kindly toward this interruption. I could kiss Officer Herbal Tea.
I need to get back to my desk, stat. “LA is full of street artists. I suggest you go ask them who drew it. Now, I have a deadline and need to go. Is this all you wanted?” I don’t realize I’m standing until I’m halfway to the door and catch the look of annoyance on his face. He’s probably not used to other people calling the shots or walking out on him.
“Not really.” He looks down at his notes then back at me with earnest eyes. “Rival drug dealers were cuffed with zip ties and then tied back-to-back with some packing materials from one of the crates on the dock. Our guys undercover say that there’s a possible drug war brewing. Each side suspects the other and has threatened to kill the person who turned them in. Things could get ugly in a hurry, and it’s my job to follow every lead—no matter how far-fetched—to keep that from happening.”
I kick my hip against the door to the conference room. “I get that this is important to you, but to me it just looks like someone saw the criminals tied up and reads too many comic books. Thought they were being funny. Or it was already drawn there and it’s a coincidence. There’s no way that this is related to a thirty-year-old comic book.”
“You said it was a current comic.”
“Our latest issue had space aliens in it. The panel we’re talking about is from the originals.”
The last remark hits home, and he nods slowly, wheels turning the logic of it over in his mind.
I hold the door to the conference room open. With one more look at me, he tucks his notebook in his pocket, grabs his cup, and exits the room.
“Can I call you with any additional—”
“Email only. I don’t do phone calls,” I cut him off, holding up the business card I snagged off the conference room counter.
His eyebrows raise.
“Interrupts my creative flow,” I state cryptically, ushering him out the door to reception.
Like a pack of hyenas, the guys in the office watch him leave. One makes a wolf whistle. I can’t see who, or I’d already be using the rubber-band gun at my desk. “Shut up,” I say to the room at large. “I left something at the coffee shop yesterday. He was returning it.” I don’t address the fact that I’m not holding anything except my coffee and slink to my seat.
But then I smile. Officer Herbal Tea didn’t just bring me coffee; he brought me something even better. An idea.
CHAPTER 3
The smell of chemicals stings my nose as the chair swivels to face the mirror, and Lawrence’s gorgeous dark face comes into view. I take a deep breath and let it back out, willing all the tension, all the stress and baggage I tend to carry around, out of my body. I have T minus three days to the green-light meeting that will make or break my promotion. I can’t seem to stop seeing superheroes in every shadow. I’m obsessed with the news, hoping to catch a glimpse of a certain cop in the follow-up drug-bust stories.
“If loving the smell of hair dye in the morning is wrong, I don’t want to be right,” I say.
Lawrence makes a cluck of approval and runs his fingers through my short locks, finger-combing a part for the foils. “Don’t I know it, girl.” He stretches the word out extra long in a way that’s habit, even when he’s not in costume. “How’s work?”
I open one eye against the scalp massage. “Pass. Next topic, please.”
“That good?”
“It’s not bad. I at least made my deadline for sketches for our internal review. But work just gets me all . . .” I wiggle my head back and forth, unable to articulate how extra draining my job has been lately. “I’m hoping to get that promotion, and I think Casey Junior is going to announce it next week . . . but I’ve really got to nail my presentation at the exec meeting so the whole board can see that I’m the better choice. And, of course, Andy gets to approve my ideas for the executive green light—that historical reboot thing I told you about last week—and he doesn’t like it. He said I could present it as is if I wanted but that he’d offer suggestions to change it if I was interested.” I throw my hands up. “He doesn’t even get what I’m saying half the time. I hate that
he’s my team leader and that we’re both up for the same job.” Lawrence was the first to get an earful when I found out months ago that both Andy and I had applied for the newly created art director position within Genius. I’d been giddy at the prospect of finally getting to be Andy’s boss—the team directors would periodically have to answer to the art director. I’d be an executive at Genius, and finally people would have to take me seriously. I’d thought it was perfect . . . until I found out that Andy’s seemingly lost sense of ambition had reared its ugly head and that he’d applied for the position too. Since then I’ve been paranoid that Andy is out to sabotage my ideas, just so he can appear the better candidate.
“Being fierce all the time takes its toll on you, honey.”
“Preach, sister.”
Lawrence steps away to mix the dye at the mirrored station in front of the chair.
I sigh, already missing his hands. “Seriously, L, you need to teach Trog how to give me scalp massages, and I’ll never need another date as long as he lives.”
Lawrence raises a penciled eyebrow. They’re not as dramatic as when he is in full drag, but they’re more than you’d expect a six-foot guy with a boxer’s build to have. “Should the next topic be dating?”
My mind goes directly to Detective Kildaire’s hazel eyes. “Hard pass.”
A rumble of thunder outside shakes the windows to the tiny shop. I’m glad I called Ryan to see if he could pick me and the bike up in my car. Nothing’s worse than getting your hair done and instantly having it ruined by acid rain. I’d been trying to get in to see L for a few weeks, but L’s business has been going through the roof in the year since he was on Drag Race. RuPaul herself offered to help Lawrence franchise, but he still likes his quiet, slightly run-down shop, taking one customer at a time. He says it’s him and that sometimes queens like to feel at home instead of like they’re performing.
“How about religion?” Lawrence asks.
I raise my eyebrow right back at him.
He slathers the gel in my hair, wraps it with foil, and chuckles. “Politics? Or if you prefer the arts, I can practice my opening number on you.” He bounces from foot to foot, aggressively humming something that reeks of Broadway. “You need to start making my new costume, you know. I’m thinking gold lamé anything. I don’t care if those other bitches think it’s outdated.”
I laugh. I can never stay grumpy around Lawrence. He may be my singular most favorite human being on this planet. “I have some ideas I’m working on. Are you sure you’re okay bartering colors for costumes? I feel like I’m getting the better end of this deal.”
“Girl, my tips went up fifty percent wearing your stuff. Plus, when you’re a world-famous designer, I’ll sell mine for millions.”
I nod and close my eyes, thinking about this possible promotion and how it smooths the way for me to do more costume creation for both movies and video games. For years I’ve been doodling my own takes on all the Genius characters. Flashy new revamps of their costumes. Sketches for cosplay adaptions. At first I thought it was my way of fleshing out my writing. But lately . . . well, I’ve been dreaming of doing it for work too, without the writing. Despite my distaste for following “traditional” stereotypes, I can’t help loving costuming. The colors, the fabrics, even the sewing itself. It slowly turned from an augmentation of my “real career” to something I privately think of as my true calling. It’s why I secretly applied to a fashion design competition specifically targeted at nerds, part of San Diego Comic-Con. I’m curious if I’m any good measured against “real” costume designers. But if I get this promotion, I’ll get to have my cake and eat it too . . . I won’t have to prove anyone right by quitting my job as the only female comic book writer at Genius to go design clothes. I’ll be able to mold and shape my job into something I want. Plus, I’d be Andy’s boss, and I’d finally win the long-standing stalemate of the difference of our ideas.
My eyes pop back open a minute later. “Actually! Speaking of politics, did you see that Edward Casey is planning a huge charity auction for the thirtieth anniversary of The Hooded Falcon? It’s all over the Twittersphere today. It’s going to take place at San Diego Comic-Con!” As much as I dislike the man, he does a lot for the fans of Genius, and this charity auction promises to hold some of the most monumental THF memorabilia that exists. I nearly rub my hands together in greed and issue maniacal villain laughter. At least one item will be mine.
“Mmmm.” Lawrence makes a noncommittal noise and spins my chair to the side. It’s not like Lawrence to clam up, and I turn my head, trying to see his face. I get one huge hand over each ear to hold me still for my trouble.
“You brought up politics,” I grumble.
“I didn’t know about the anniversary.”
“Um, hello, I’ve been talking about it for months. In fact, I’ve told you three times about the gala you’re attending with me. My boss says dates are required. I RSVP’d. I need you. Come on, come be my date, celebrate a comic that used to be awesome, and make my boss happy.”
Lawrence pulls a face.
The only work events I can ever drag Lawrence to are ones involving The Hooded Falcon or ones with copious amounts of free food. This one would have both; it should be a slam dunk.
“So you don’t want to be my date, or you don’t want to make my boss happy?”
Complete silence from Lawrence.
“Come on, L. I know I make him sound awful, but he’s not that bad. I know; I’ll introduce you. Maybe he’ll give us some insider knowledge about what’s being auctioned.”
The sour look on his face when I suggest introducing him goes beyond the typical bored-sympathetic look he wears when I rant about the patriarchy at work. I’ve told Lawrence stories about how I’ve been asked at every meeting for a year to take notes like a secretary or get coffee for the team. I know he doesn’t love that Casey Junior can’t seem to remember I like to be called MG and insists on calling me Michael. And he’s always clammed up, but for years now I’ve just assumed he doesn’t want to interrupt. That he is being a BFF by listening to me vent without judgment. This is the first time I’ve had the idea that maybe he’s been clamming up about something and not just being supportive. But Lawrence is largely an “accept everyone as they are” kind of guy. He was once sabotaged onstage by another queen and proceeded to not only finish his act but use the ruined costume to his advantage—sincerely thanking the other queen afterward for helping raise his game. There’s not a hateful bone in his body, so the slightly bitter look on his face takes me by surprise.
Lawrence is still silent, so I reach out and spin myself around. “I’ve already assumed you’d be my date. You or Ryan always come with me to stuff; it’s too late to back out now.” I study his face, which hasn’t lost its look of pure distaste. “So it’s my boss? You actively dislike my boss? I always thought you were just being supportively antisocial so I didn’t feel awkward. L, you don’t dislike anyone. Well, except that no-good Cleopatra Foxy.”
“There’s only room for one Queen of Egypt, and that’s Latifah Nile,” he says, followed by a characteristic hair flick, sans wig. “Now. If you’ll face front so I don’t wreck this mess.” He turns me forward and pulls another foil. He’s silent a long moment, like he’s chewing on his words, then hesitantly offers an explanation. It’s like a dam is breaking and these words have been stored up, waiting to come out. “I’ll come, but don’t introduce us. We’ve already met. He’s always been a bit of an ass, so no, I don’t like him. And he’s not wild about me.” L’s mouth snaps shut, and he’s got an “Oh shit, the cat is out of the bag” expression that makes me widen my eyes.
It takes a moment for Lawrence’s words to register in my brain. Everything in my heart screeches to a halt. The way he said “we’ve already met” went beyond “we ran into each other at the artichoke dip at the Christmas party.” There was a depth and a complexity there that spoke of true knowing. Which is beyond my comprehension since I’ve known L for years wi
thout him divulging that he knew my boss outside of my work.
“You know my boss? Like for how long?” I attempt a look over my shoulder.
“It’s nothing.” L forces my head forward and attacks my hair with a comb like the Hulk at an all-you-can-smash buffet. “I don’t like or dislike him. I’m just saying I preferred his daddy. Now leave it and let me do my work.”
I reach back over my own shoulders and grip Lawrence’s broad arms, stopping them from their movement at the nape of my neck. I am most certainly not letting this go. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, you know this how? Like preferred preferred his daddy?” I spin back around, ignoring the yank on my hair, and quirk my eyebrows up suggestively. My mind is reeling. Do Lawrence and Casey have a lovers’ past? Is that why he couldn’t care less about other comic books? It would certainly explain him clamming up about my work woes.
“You are going to look the wrong kind of fierce if I don’t get these foils in. You’re a damn Tasmanian devil today.” He finishes the processing in silence, then goes to the sink to rinse his brushes, letting me stew in my thoughts and chemicals. It is an unspoken pact between us that I don’t pry into Lawrence’s past. L accepts people as they are and expects the same from his friends. Some queens fiercely guard their real-world identities—understandable when some are high-powered lawyers or doctors afraid of losing credibility or business just because they enjoy performing drag. Lawrence isn’t quite that tight-lipped, but he has always been cagey about his past. Of course, I’ve fished a few times. I asked him about where he grew up, went to school, all the normal small-talk questions at the gamer convention where I met Ryan—dragging Lawrence along against his will—at the Genius table and Lawrence was performing at an after-party. And a few times after our Game of Thrones drinking games (one drink for death, two drinks for boobies). But he always passed it off with good humor, saying he’d been “born with sequins and a tiara.” It got to the point where I didn’t even ask; I just accepted Lawrence as is . . . except this isn’t something I can just set aside. This is my comic, my personal hero, and apparently one of my best friends is involved. Rule or no rule, I have to push.
The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 1) Page 2