The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 1)

by Meghan Scott Molin

  CHAPTER 6

  “So are you British?”

  “What? No. Why would you even ask that?” I’m digging through the filing cabinet in the airless room that serves as our library of past work.

  “You have one of those short dogs, and you have a picture of a telephone booth on your desk.”

  “First off, it’s a TARDIS. Second off, Trogdor isn’t short. Well, he is, but it’s on purpose.”

  “A . . . TARDIS?”

  I ignore him.

  “Your desk and your card say ‘MG.’ You don’t like your first name?”

  “Is this twenty questions? How would you like it if you had a girl’s name as a first name? I got called a boy all the way through elementary school. My first name is Michael-Grace. I don’t have a middle name. Doomed to a life of stumping fill-in forms.” I take a breath, realizing I’m dumping stuff on him that I usually keep to myself.

  “No, I don’t like my name,” I say. “But it got me this job, anyway, because my boss thought I was a guy in the résumé portion. I guess all’s well that ends well.” I stop short of telling him that in my final interview with Edward Casey Junior, president of Genius Comics, he assumed I was a secretary. He actually asked me to get a pitcher of water and glasses for his meeting with Michael Martin, having missed the “Grace” portion of my name on my résumé. I’ve always wondered if the debacle contributed to my landing the job, and I spend every chance I can proving to him that despite my gender, I’m the best writer he has on staff.

  “We’re supposed to be researching your theory, remember?” Not talking about my personal life. I pull out the plastic-covered book and set it on the table. I slap his hands away from touching it, shove a pair of disposable gloves from a box on the table into his hands, and slide a pair on my own before carefully slipping the comic out of the protective wrapping. This is why I don’t date non-nerds. I shudder to think of the skin oils that would find their way onto these beloved possessions—outsiders just don’t get the magic of a pristine issue.

  With a scent of the ink and paper, I’m swept back to the first time I held The Hooded Falcon. Some girls get moony-eyed about first boyfriends. First kisses. Me? The boys called me a boy but wouldn’t hang out with me either. Well, at least until I was fifteen and the “girls” popped out. Then boys just wanted to hang out with my chest. No, for me it is comic books that make me weak in the knees.

  I catch Matteo watching me. “Didn’t you say there’s a new development in the case that made you think of the comic book? Care to share it with the class so I know what I’m looking for?”

  Matteo laces his fingers and leans his elbows on the table, bringing us closer together. “I need your help because I think someone here is in danger.”

  I’m not sure if the tingle running down my spine is because of his words or his intense gaze locked on to my own.

  “Danger?” I try to play it off and force a laugh. “Thanks, Professor Trelawney, for your prediction. Now you sound like the one in the comic book.”

  “I mean it.” His gaze doesn’t change intensity, and another chill spills down my back. “I got the case file back from forensics today, and the note left at the scene? It references Genius Comics.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Is it?” Matteo’s eyes have a light of certainty in them, and it dawns on me how intimidating it would be to be interrogated by him. He comes off as this L.L.Bean catalog cover model, but there’s this depth of conviction in him that is gripping at moments. Muggle waters run deep apparently. I squint at him. Maybe I’ll upgrade him to Squib.

  “You don’t have to be a Genius to chase the White Rabbit,” Matteo says.

  I blink. “What?”

  “That’s what it said. The note left at the crime scene. The ‘G’ in ‘Genius’ is capitalized.”

  I see the Genius connection, sure, but my mind instantly jumps to the White Rabbit bit. The White Rabbit, a.k.a. the Hooded Falcon’s nemesis. Surely this note couldn’t be tying together drug dealers, my favorite comic book, and a White Rabbit–esque villain? Not possible. Okay, it’s possible. But highly improbable. Comic books don’t come to life. I know. I spent half my teenage years hoping for that very thing.

  Detective Kildaire takes my silence as doubt. “See where I’m going? Genius Comics? You already confirmed for me that Genius Comics is the current producer of Hooded Falcon comics. And didn’t you say you thought the chalk outline looked like a rabbit? I looked at it, and I’m not as convinced it’s a rabbit, but maybe our vigilante is a lousy artist. Or White Rabbit could reference the street name for the specific brand of heroin these dealers are selling. Still waiting on lab results on whether or not it’s the same designer drug formula. We’ve had a rise in its popularity recently.”

  My shoulders give an inch. Okay, relax, MG. No need to see boogeymen around every corner. This theory makes a lot more sense than the White Rabbit outline indicating the actual White Rabbit, THF’s nemesis.

  “Unless . . . you have other theories tied to the comic?” His gaze is shrewd. He leans farther forward, bringing his face close to mine across the table. Can he read my thoughts that easily? “These criminals are bad guys. I know you understand that concept. I don’t want some overweight guy in spandex with a hero complex to get killed because he thinks it’d be fun to play superhero. Right now the drug rings are just pointing fingers at each other. And it could be that’s it and that I’m chasing phantoms. But. If this is a real person trying to live out some superhero fantasy connected to this comic, I’m not sure how long that will hold if this masked avenger continues his antics. I’m trying to take the shortcut if this is a real person trying to tell us something using this comic.”

  I’m silent, a war raging inside me. It could be complete coincidence that the note mentions both the words “Genius” and “White Rabbit.” More than likely it’s what Matteo said: it’s the coincidental street name of a drug. My brain can’t even comprehend what would make someone play superhero with real villains. It has to be a coincidence, and the more time Matteo—Detective Kildaire—wastes on this crazy theory, the longer the bad guys are out there. Real people don’t wear spandex and tie up drug dealers, do they? My mind flashes to Kyle and Simon and their injuries. Surely not. I can’t picture either of them deciding to take down a drug ring instead of Jigglypuffs. This has to be coincidence or a joke.

  “I still think it’s a long shot,” I say in all honesty. He’s been quiet, letting me sort through his words while we lean over the comic spread on the table.

  Eventually, Matteo sits back, breaking the connection of our gazes, and I feel the gulf between us. Like I’ve let him down. “Can you at least show me the episode that you recognized?”

  His blunder brings a smirk to my face and a lightness back into the room. “It’s an issue, not an episode, and yes. I think it’s about midway through this one—one of my personal favorites, actually. THF was the first socially conscious hero that Genius published. Rather than fictional villains, he focused on real social crimes. Rape, drug production, addiction, corrupt politicians and cops, stuff like that.”

  I look at Matteo to make sure he’s following me. He’s nodding, so I continue, “This comic has two story lines coming together. It’s a bit about THF running for mayor in his ‘real’ life, but it’s also about his brush with a supervillain. This issue in particular is a real turning point in the Hooded Falcon’s career. It’s where he decides he’d have more power working with the law instead of outside it. You see, he’d caught these guys last issue laundering money and drugs already. They got off on a technicality, so he had to recapture them. He’d done his job, but the cops hadn’t done theirs—what?”

  OHT is staring at me with something like amusement on his face.

  “Aren’t you even paying attention?”

  “You’re so different when you talk about this. Like The Hooded Falcon is real to you.”

  That irks me more than anything else he could have said. I’m s
o sick of ComicsGate and everything this industry throws in my face about being a girl who loves comics. My mother said the very same thing to me at seventeen, two years into my Hooded Falcon obsession: “These aren’t your real friends, Michael-Grace, and comic books won’t earn you a living or bring you a husband. Go to school, make real friends, and meet real boys.” Why does everyone assume I can’t tell reality from fiction when it’s my job to write? And isn’t this his lunatic theory in the first place? Even though my geek heart would love a real-world vigilante superhero, I’m the one arguing on the side of logic.

  I snap the comic closed, forgetting to be gentle with the copy.

  He backpedals, sensing blood in the water. God help him if he tries to salvage this with a patronizing statement. “I know you know it’s not real. I just meant it’s nice to see you passionate about your work.”

  “Because I’m a freak show? A woman who loves comics, so I automatically can’t tell reality from fiction? You’re the one who asked me for help, and you’re sitting here making fun of me. I think we’re done here. You can just leave.” I stand to excuse him from the room and am shocked at his audacity when he reaches across the table and grabs my arm with his gloved hand.

  “I’m sorry, MG. Really. All I’d meant to say is it was really neat to see how passionate you are. Not because I’m surprised to see a girl reading comics. It’s neat to see anyone passionate about this beautiful work. It’s magical to you. I can see that. I don’t get to deal with beautiful art or passionate writers in my job. That’s it. I promise.”

  “Oh.” A hot flash of shame fills my face with what I assume is bright red to match my glasses. After a minute, I clear my throat. I definitely gave him a dressing down he didn’t deserve. It wasn’t his fault that he chose the exact words that had galvanized my desire to prove I could make comics my life.

  With a squeeze on my arm, he turns back to the copy on the table. “Can you show me the panel you thought you recognized?” Business it is. And I appreciate it.

  “Um, sure.” I sit back down and focus again on the copy. It takes me a few moments to find the page because my brain is buzzing from the fervor of my reaction. “Here it is.”

  I slide it across the table to him. He looks dutifully down at the page, a frown creasing his brow. “What am I looking at?”

  “Okay, well, here is the panel I thought I recognized.” I point to the lower left where a long panel shows a group of men tied at the pier. “In the comic, the guys are tied together with jesses—those are the leather thongs used to secure a falcon—and the golden arrow is the stake in the middle they’re tied to.” Not painted on the street. “The aura around them isn’t actually there. It’s something the author used to help the reader identify who the criminals worked for.” I point to the white shining rabbit around the panel.

  We both study the drawing. “I see the similarities, but it’s not enough to convince me that ours was an intentional copycat.” He rumples his hair with his hand.

  I nod. “I can see it just being a drug deal that went bad, and one side tied up the other for the police, no crazy wannabe superhero needed.” Or several vigilantes. My mind slips back to Kyle’s wrist and the rope under Simon’s desk, but I force it out of my mind. My writer’s brain is taking this way too far.

  The corners of Matteo’s mouth are firmly turned down. “Out of curiosity, what happens in the rest of the comic?”

  I thumb through the copy, letting the story come to me in snips and glimpses. “Well, these particular guys are laundering money. That panel shows him catching the thugs with the drugs, and then Falcon and Swoosh follow the ringleaders into a warehouse. This issue also deals with how the Hooded Falcon uncovers evidence that one of the other superheroes may be behind the drug operation and may be his nemesis.”

  “Kind of a Scooby-Doo ending?” Matteo is scribbling in his notebook, and I give a short laugh.

  “Yeah. It’s old Mr. Jenkins with a ghost mask. He’s so helpful the whole episode, you should have seen it coming.”

  He snorts. Another two points: laughing at my jokes.

  “Actually . . .” I flip forward in the comic and show him a panel where the Hooded Falcon and his sidekick are in full fight mode, complete with a dozen “KAPOWs.” “There’s this big battle scene. It turns out the rival drug lord knew all about the Hooded Falcon’s plans to set him up. Since the Falcon’s superhero partner was the only one who knew his plans, he figures out his own partner is leaking information to the gangs, like a double agent. Not only that, but the corrupt superhero plans to arrest both gangs and take over as the resident drug lord. He winds up looking like a hero for putting that many people in jail, and he gets to control a very lucrative, very illegal business. Falcon suspects his partner is not only a double agent but his nemesis, the White Rabbit.”

  “The White Rabbit.”

  I bite my lip. “It’s the name of his nemesis in the comic book.”

  Matteo makes a note. “Coincidental?”

  I shrug. “Or the chemist is a fan of comic books?”

  “Maybe.” Matteo doesn’t seem convinced. He’s still wearing a “thinking” frown. “Is that the end?”

  I flip a few more pages. “Well, Falcon breaks into the double agent’s lair and finds drugs hidden in his safe. Falcon tries to unmask the double agent and threatens to expose his real identity to the police, and they fight. Typical unbelievable crime-fighting stuff.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t seem plausible, does it? Though the tie-in with the street name of the drug and the dueling gangs fit. Maybe that’s what the vigilante wanted us to find with the comics. That it’s not just one ring; it’s two.”

  “But you already knew that?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, but maybe our vigilante didn’t know that. The rest of it with the superhero stuff is pretty out there.” He sits back in the chair, and I replace the comic in the plastic cover and file it into the cabinet.

  I agree. “Pretty far-fetched for reality, and nowhere to go with the story line, really. In fact, this is the next-to-last issue for the original line—Casey Senior died without completing the story arc.”

  It was a dark day in my young life when I found out I’d never get to see the Hooded Falcon beat the White Rabbit or win mayor of Space City. The new issues published after Casey Senior’s death were wildly different and barely acknowledged the old series.

  Yet White Rabbit is now a street drug, and someone’s tying up competing drug dealers. Something wiggles in the pit of my stomach, dangerously close to belief.

  We slip back through the now dark office. Kyle is gone, and I can’t help glancing at Simon’s desk and the pile of stuff beneath it. Perhaps a tiny bit of my own sleuthing is required to make sure Kyle and Simon aren’t being vigilante idiots in spandex. Just on the off chance that Matteo is correct. Which he isn’t.

  “I’m sorry I wasted your time, but thanks for being willing to help,” Matteo says as I climb out at the curb at my condo. I can hear Trogdor yapping from inside. I hope Ryan left me some pizza—it’s our weekly nonhealthy food splurge, and I look forward to it.

  I was anything but willing to help, but he put up with it admirably. “It was kind of fun to see the old Falcon again. I mostly read the new ones for work, and they’re awful. I can’t believe they’re selling so well. Kids these days just don’t appreciate good comics anymore.” I’m rambling, and I sound crotchety. Am I nervous? My stomach does feel a little fluttery.

  “See ya around, Detective Kildaire.” He hasn’t said I can call him Matteo, so I don’t. He’s watching me, and I swallow. “I had fun, actually. Sorry I couldn’t help you more with your case.” I have the ridiculous urge to ask if he wants to meet up for coffee sometime, but I stall so long, the moment passes. Some kind of brave new age woman I am.

  He waves as he drives off in his ridiculous tiny car, and I turn to greet my ridiculous small dog. I’m maybe just a teensy bit sad that I won’t see Matteo again. Or maybe, just maybe, fate has some
fat man running around in tights and a tunic who will throw us back together again.

  CHAPTER 7

  I’m hopping on one foot, trying to jam my ballet flat on, when my phone rings. I hate Monday mornings. “No, no, no,” I mutter, almost falling over. “I do not answer calls.” I glance at the number. It’s one that I don’t recognize, so I push the silence button. Maybe my mother has signed me up for online dating again; that had been behind last year’s rash of unrecognized callers.

  “Bye! Have a good day at work!” I yell to the living room. Trogdor is already up on the couch, snuggled next to Ryan in his typical 8:00 a.m.–2:00 p.m. spot. The little traitor doesn’t even look up. Ryan barely acknowledges me either, but I’m used to it.

  Ryan briefly raises a hand, then shouts, “No, Dave, dammit, we can’t have a hole here. It’s the first thing someone will check! Add that to the list of bugs to fix this week.”

  I slept terribly last night, my mind working overtime on this Hooded Falcon thing that I keep trying to convince myself isn’t a thing, and I slept through my alarm. I should have set two. I should have set three. I haven’t slept through an alarm since college. Not only did I lie awake pondering the case, but Ryan and Lawrence had been out late all weekend with their tournament. I never sleep well with Ryan gone, and I’d basically been a zombie for two days. I hate an empty house—it’s one of the reasons I got a roommate. Trogdor would basically show anyone who broke in where the electronics were kept, as long as they had food. Traitorous fluff-butt. So last night, with Ryan finally home, I guess my body went into hibernation mode. Not helpful.

  I don’t have time for breakfast, and I’m balancing my cup of crap Keurig coffee with my messenger bag as I dash for the door. Thank God I’d obsessed about this meeting enough to plan—a mustard-colored pleated skirt, black and white–striped shirt, and plaid scarf—days before and that pomade and short hair made my personal toilet less than a minute. I’ve spent so many hours in the last week perfecting my drawings, running over my less aggressive approach in my head, and imagining getting the promotion, I can’t believe that something as mundane as sleeping through an alarm could put that all in jeopardy. I’m not just cutting it close; I might not even be there when the meeting starts. Most days it doesn’t matter when I arrive. Today? Today matters, and of freaking course, my plan has been derailed.