“So I discovered. Hence the favor.” Sarcasm fairly drips from the comment.
In the interest of divesting my porch of said officer, I decide to play nice. “Okay, don’t get snarky, Herbal T—er, Detective. How can I help you?”
“I’ve looked online, at the library, everywhere. I want to read the one with the scene you recognized, and Google says the only place I’m going to find one is in a private collection. I just happen to know this person who collects comic books and works at a comic book company . . .”
“A stunningly lovely purple-haired person that must be plied with copious amounts of free coffee in order to help you?”
A smirk starts at the corner of his lips and spreads into a quick smile. “So you know her too?”
I pretend to study my aquamarine manicure. Despite a small quickening of my pulse, smugness is most definitely not cute on his tan skin. Definitely not. Even when he’s just agreed that I am stunningly lovely by omission.
“So can you help me?” His hazel eyes are wide and boyish. I find myself swayed by his gaze. Plus, free coffee.
I reach backward for the door handle. “Fine. I happen to know that Genius Comics has some of them in their library. I’ll give you thirty minutes. Why you want to look through them is beyond me. I mean, it’s not like there’s someone out there in a cape and tights trying to be the Hooded Falcon.”
When he doesn’t join my laughter, I roll my eyes. “Oh Jesus, you think there’s a man in tights and a cape.” I lean inside the door, snag my keys off the hook, and yell to Ryan that I’ll be right back.
The muffled noise from inside and the clank of sword fighting tell me he’s forgotten about the pizza and has returned to playing video games. “In the zone,” as I call it. Singular focus. He won’t even notice I’m gone.
“All right, Detective, your vehicle or mine?” I motion to the old-school Schwinn bicycle locked to the outside of the porch, complete with bell and tassels.
He laughs, a good deep laugh with a wide smile that his face wears well. “You are quite the force to be reckoned with, aren’t you? Are you sure you aren’t donning a cape at night?”
“Let’s not talk about my nighttime habits during official police business,” I tease, shoving the keys into the pocket of my red skinny jeans. I’m amused to see a blush creep up his neck. Interesting again, OHT. Maybe there’s some red-blooded man behind that altruism after all.
“To the police car,” I say, giddy despite my dedication to remaining aloof. And I wiggle my hips just a little extra as I jog down the stairs, just because I can. I smile a self-satisfied smile when he joins me and I see the neck blush still in evidence. That joy falters as I see what vehicle we’re walking toward.
“I thought you said this was police business?”
“I only drive a marked car for patrol. My car is a police car.” There’s a silent thankyouverymuch.
He opens the passenger door of a white Toyota Prius and helps me inside. First herbal tea, now this. If it were possible for this guy to be getting less and less my type, he’s doing it in a hurry. Worse than a Muggle, he’s a vanilla Muggle. An herbal-tea-drinking, Prius-driving, vanilla Muggle policeman with gorgeous eyes. I guess we all have our redeeming qualities.
“So what prompted the need for the comics?” I ask mostly to avoid sitting in silence. This car is really quiet.
“I got a piece of evidence back from forensics today, and something tells me that it’s more than coincidence. Trust me.”
“Cop’s intuition?”
“Something like that.”
I’d argue with him, but something inside me is enjoying this adventure, and I’m loath to cut it short, even if he’s dead wrong. Soon enough we’re hurtling with the speed of a turtle down the 110 toward downtown LA and Genius Comics.
We’re back to silence. “A Prius, huh?” I look around the neat interior. Like brand-new off-the-lot clean.
“I don’t actually think someone is running around in a cape,” he says, his eyes still on the road. “And yes. A Prius. It gets good gas mileage.”
“So does my bike,” I say, looking out the window. Palm trees whisk by, hazy in the strong summer sun.
“I’d love to bike to work, but I live too far out of the city. It’s not the distance but the traffic.”
“Oh, I drive when I need to. And yeah, that’s smart—I’ve seen a lot of wrecks where the bicyclist didn’t end up on the upside.”
“I thought you only had a bike?”
I shrug. “I wanted to see the inside of a cop car. I didn’t say I didn’t have a car. You drew your own conclusions.”
Rather than get angry, he laughs again. It’s infectious, and I find myself smiling back at him.
“So your boyfriend doesn’t mind you leaving with a strange person?”
“Ryan’s my roommate.” I glance at him to gauge his intention. “My corgi, Trogdor, is the love of my life.”
“You’re really something,” he says.
It doesn’t sound like an insult, so I accept it as a compliment.
Usually people say that to mean that I’m too much—too colorful, too passionate, too smart, too dramatic, too sarcastic. It’s what people say when they don’t know how to categorize me, as if I should just fit into the social box of a woman who wants a picket fence and two kids, just like my mom.
I know from my failed attempts at dating that even when people say they are okay with my dyed hair and career choice, they usually aren’t. After my last disastrous breakup, I decided I was going to stop letting other people’s expectations bring me down. I was going to be full-tilt me, come hell or high water. I’d colored my hair a bright pink, the most shocking color I could imagine for my mother, to signify my dedication to being nontraditional and never looked back. Instead of being intimidated, Matteo seems genuinely . . . charmed by my quirks. It’s been years since I’ve felt charming instead of like a spectacle. Charming is a nice change. Another two points for the detective.
I pause for a moment, surprised by my own next question. Officer Herbal Tea has intrigued me, which catches me off guard. I’m so used to fending off the overzealous comic-book-nerd attendees at con parties or actively avoiding the stuffy guys my mother tries to shove on me, it’s been years since I’ve even wanted to fish about a guy’s dating life. “How about you? Does your girlfriend know that you pick up strange women and drive them around in your car?”
His face remains passive. “I don’t usually follow up leads in this way, and”—he shoots a quick glance at me—“I don’t have a girlfriend to care that this one is a little . . . different. The case, that is. I live alone, I mean. I like the quiet.” Again the red blotches appear under his collar, giving away that maybe this line of questioning isn’t strictly business. I’m not willing to admit I enjoy getting a rise out of poor Officer Herbal Tea. And even if I do admit it, he’s going to look at these comics, decide he’s completely in left field, and go back to normal vanilla life. And I’ll go back to focusing on the green-light meeting that could mean my promotion instead of cute neck blushes. The trade-off doesn’t sound as good as it should.
I motion that he should take the next exit, even though he’s clearly been to my office before. I’m a terrible side-seat driver. “Living alone for the peace and quiet. Sounds charming. I bet you have stellar houseplants.”
“I do. And I bet my plants have better breath than your dog.”
I pause. “Was that an actual joke?” I’m smiling again. I can’t help it. Witty banter is my Kryptonite.
CHAPTER 5
I point to a lot on the far side of the building. “Park over there. It’s near the off-hour entrance.”
“Quite a few cars here for a Saturday,” he says, turning off the car and unbuckling his seat belt.
“Creative work waits for no woman,” I answer, slipping out of the car, then walk up to the side door. A quick flick of my ID badge and we’re in like Flynn.
“Let’s avoid mentioning the case, if t
hat’s okay?”
“Secrecy works for me,” I agree.
The Genius building rises above us in the glass-and-steel style of every headquarters building in comics. Nondescript but impressive. Not quite Stark Tower, but we use seven floors of the total eleven, and that’s saying something in a town where rent for a closet can be as much as a bedroom in other parts of the country. I know that fact personally. After quitting my first “real” job out of college—in a law office, just like my dad had wanted—to work at Genius and being cut off by my parents, I lived in a friend’s closet for three months. If only my time in a cupboard had made me a wizard. I’m still bitter about that. I want a magic wand.
I hold the door to the back office open for him. I’m also an equal opportunity door holder, and I’m pleased to see that he lets me hold it for him without comment. “So anything in particular we’re looking for? You never did elucidate.”
Matteo’s eyes dart around as he steps through the door. A few people walk through the almost-empty break area, probably working on last-minute deadlines. Something I’m familiar with. “Let’s wait until I’m sure we’re alone.”
It’s a cagey answer, but I understand why minutes later when I follow him off the elevator. I’ve been praying for zero peanut gallery, but no dice. I can see Kyle’s feet propped on his desk as soon as we arrive on the fifth floor. During business hours we have our own floor receptionist to make it look fancy, though I like to think of our cubicles with the small bank of windows in the work area as the low-rent district. Smoke and mirrors up front, Walmart in the back. It’s hard to believe that as Office Space as our corner of the universe looks, we produce some of the most colorful and dynamic media in the world.
“Shouldn’t you be playing on your phone at home?” I glance pointedly to the phone in his hand where the Sim City app blinks—the guy is addicted. Kyle is wearing the male version of the office uniform: graphic tee, jeans that don’t fit quite right, and some sort of grungy tennis shoes. I like to hold myself to a higher standard and at least always cover my tees with colorful blazers. Andy and Kyle perpetually look rumpled. Despite Kyle being my coworker and Andy being my supervisor for five years, it’s like they roll out of bed surprised daily that they have to get to work—the fact that he looks the same on a Saturday proves my point. Kyle is the ultimate Peter Parker sans Spidey.
“Yo, MG. And . . .” Kyle swings his feet to the ground, his chronically broken chair tilting with a crunch of cracked plastic, then glances behind me. His eyes widen. Seeing the same guest twice is unprecedented in the years we’ve worked together. And I know exactly where Kyle’s brain has gone when his gaze darts between us and a slow smile spreads across his face. Time to nip this in the bud. I don’t have time to play the star-crossed lover or the lovely maiden or look like anything less than one of the guys in this office when I am up for a promotion. I work too damn hard to have it undermined by a man who drives a Prius. At least until after the “important announcement” scheduled for next week’s executive green-light meeting, which I suspect is when my boss will tell us whom he’s chosen for the newly created art director position.
“This is just—” But to my horror, Officer Herbal Tea crosses the room and holds out a hand to Kyle, leaving me standing like a sidekick with my mouth open.
“Matteo,” he says, shaking Kyle’s hand.
“Here, let me introduce you,” I grit through my teeth. I can’t believe this guy is running right over me. Doesn’t he trust me not to blow his cover, as agreed? “This is Kyle, my coworker.”
“Hey, man,” Kyle says, doing the stupid guy thing where he puffs up his chest to act more manly around another dude. I hate when guys do that, especially since I know for a fact Kyle’s favorite movie is The Princess Bride. And sometimes while he’s working, he watches it on repeat on his iPhone for background noise.
“What did you do to your arm?” Matteo asks in a way that reduces them to thirteen-year-olds comparing fight scars in my eyes.
“Oh, um. An old lady. Hit me.” Kyle forces a laugh.
I snort. “An old lady hit you? I thought you said you’d been doing parkour.”
Kyle’s face flushes briefly. “Oh yeah. I mean, I was. There’s this old lady who does parkour with us.”
“Whatever,” I mutter. I don’t have time for Kyle’s weird stories. For a guy who writes and draws for a living, he certainly is a dollar short in the imagination department today. Time to cut bait and run while the going is good.
I struggle not to say “Officer Herbal Tea” out loud. Matteo’s real name feels odd on my lips, like saying it makes him an actual person where he wasn’t before. “Matteo is just—”
But Matteo has other plans and interrupts me again. “Hey, looks like the hydraulic lift on your chair is broken. Be careful. I’m guessing a free fall wouldn’t be a good thing in your profession.” He motions to the pens and paper scattered on the desk. Kyle is doing some final inking on a panel; I bet he’s all prepared for our smaller team meeting this week and our bigger presentation next week, rumpled Goody Two-shoes. He’s probably got three options, all fully fleshed and ready to go to the execs if Andy gives the go-ahead in our internal green light. It’s the reminder that I need to get this little visit over with and go back home to work on my own stuff.
“Yeah, I’ve already done that once this week! It was epic.” Kyle laughs and proudly points to an almost-finished panel ruined by a stray marker stroke across the entire page. Boys. Thankfully they stop short of chest-bumping.
I sigh, throwing my keys onto my desk to break up the man party and return the focus to why we’re here. My bad luck holds out, and they slide between Simon’s wall and mine. Just great. I bend to retrieve them, knocking the stack of papers on my desk onto the floor in the process. My research for the article on the thirtieth anniversary of The Hooded Falcon scatters like a game of 52-card pickup, further complicated by the pile of crap Simon has under his desk. I must have left the pages for the article on the edge of my desk without remembering, unless Simon has been snooping. He doesn’t seem the type, but I had let it slip that I had a major idea. Maybe he got curious.
I frown at the rope, black hoodies, and clutter piled on the floor. Simon and Kyle must have been up to some sort of nerd mountain climbing for Pokémon GO, because who keeps this stuff under their desk? I sort through a small stack of dented cardboard, several wrapping-paper tubes, and duct tape. Murderers. That’s who keeps duct tape and hoodies under their desk. Or nerdy ninjas who say they’re learning parkour but are into team Pokémon bondage. My discovery of a pack of Magic cards, along with a pattern for homemade chain mail underneath the sweatshirts, seals the deal for me. Ninja Nerd City. I emerge from under my desk with a further understanding of just how far down the nerdom path my coworkers are. I remind myself to tease them mercilessly on Monday.
“I could look at it for you, maybe fix it.” Matteo squats, peering at Kyle’s chair with what I assume is a fake aura of professional capability.
“Cool.” Kyle jumps off the chair, and they start all sorts of pointing and prodding. I do not have time for some pissing contest where they pretend to understand how a hydraulic whatever-it-is works. I am about to inform them of this when Kyle crows with satisfaction. There is no way Matteo actually fixed something that fast. Kyle’s been fiddling with that chair for the better part of two months.
“Right on! I didn’t think of rotating the supports that way! Thanks, man.” This time when Kyle is back on his feet and shakes Matteo’s hand, he’s euphoric.
“No problem,” Matteo says, pulling out an honest-to-God handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his fingers.
Kyle turns and gives me a grin and double thumbs-up. “Seems like a keeper, MG.”
Everything’s so effed up that I sputter something incomprehensible while Mr. Herbal Tea, Fix-It Man himself, walks back to my side and peers down at me with the most infuriatingly benign look on his face.
“Sorry about the delay. Didn’t y
ou want to look at something in the library?” Matteo asks. And dammit if there isn’t a smile lurking in his eyes. This man is thoroughly enjoying watching me sputter. This man has my head spinning so fast, I’m losing track of what I’m reacting to. In fact, he’s steering me toward the back of the office before I even realize that Kyle thinks OHT is my special someone.
I turn to defend my reputation, but OHT slides his arm around my shoulder and leans his lips near my ear. This maneuver is far more effective in stilling my protest than I’d like. My mind drops Kyle like a hot potato, and OHT’s proximity takes precedence. I’m trying to remember just when it was someone had last caused goose bumps to rise on my neck in such speedy fashion.
“I don’t want your coworkers to know I’m a cop, remember?” Matteo says in my ear. From Kyle’s perspective, I’m sure it looks like sweet nothings.
I give him a look that clearly says, “No duh, I’m not a dunce.”
With an adoring smile, he opens the door to the back hallway, ushers me through, and drops his arm from around my shoulder. The charade is up, and he steps a normal distance away from me, though I’m still calculating how long it’s been since someone has whispered in my ear. Six months? A year? Probably since I dated Ryan’s gaming pal for three months, before realizing he’d been vlogging all his dates with a “real hot comic chick” and uploading them on YouTube to gain followers. Complete with analysis of my physique, which superheroine had a rack like mine, and comparison pictures. Needless to say, it didn’t work out.
I catch a glimpse of Kyle. He’s grinning at me through the window in the door. It’s going to take months of normalcy to regain my carefully cultivated resident-badass, no-personal-details-in-the-office, no-bullshit persona. I want to prove I’m ready for the promotion to art director. No one respects a boss who has office dalliances on a Saturday.
I welcome the space between Matteo and me. It allows me to regain my wits. “Let’s go, Detective. The library is right through here.”
The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 1) Page 4