That shuts me up. Really? It was that easy?
Casey pushes through the crowd to the door, and I elbow through behind him. He turns over his shoulder to speak to me. “I know how much you girls like having your own comic books. So go ahead with the limited-run graphic novel spin-off. If sales are good enough, we’ll consider more projects like it in the future. I wouldn’t want to be accused of being sexist. Girl power, right? That’s what Lelani’s here for.”
It’s gone so wrong so fast that I don’t even respond to his patronizing smile but instead follow his gaze and catch sight of our new VP through the dwindling crowd. Casey’s words sink in. She’ll be at team meetings. Andy fawns over a slim woman, expertly dressed in a tailored white suit that somehow doesn’t look out of place against her flawless mocha skin, dark almond eyes, and cascade of black hair. A woman. Casey has hired a woman executive, finally. Maybe, just maybe—if one disregards his girl power comment—things are changing around here. I hope this is more than a show to placate the affirmative action people, though I wouldn’t put it past my boss. Maybe my influence has finally been felt. Michael-Grace Martin, gender equality superhero!
Casey is almost out the door, pushing past the remaining pack of executives. “Oh, and Michael? My next meeting is with an investor. Can you please take these water glasses with you to the kitchen when you go back upstairs? And have the secretary bring new ones in. Thanks.”
Or not.
CHAPTER 8
“Did you have a good meeting?” Matteo asks when I walk into main reception. I’m expecting a smug smile, but instead he looks anxious.
“No, I didn’t.” And it still stings. I cross my arms, and the receptionist looks up to glance between OHT and me. More fodder for the peanut gallery.
“Let’s go outside.” I don’t look to see if he follows me but stalk through the door and into the humid afternoon. It’s not raining anymore, but it feels like it could start again at any moment. Just like my mood.
I whirl to confront him. “Do you want to explain yourself?” We’re standing between his Prius and my brown Aspire. From the building, it could look like we’re trying to decide where to go to lunch. I’m trying to decide where to punch him first. It could be that I’m keyed up from my horrible morning stuck in an office with three people who refused to make eye contact with me. Or it could be that someone embarrassed me right in front of my bosses and threw off my mojo.
“I realize that this morning was awkward.”
“Awkward? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Other than my job, you mean?” He’s confused now, a furrow between his dark eyebrows.
Everything is jammed inside of me, rattling around like Pac-Man in a block jail: the continual internal abrasion of Casey’s dismissal and how I have to try twice as hard as Andy to be taken seriously. Andy’s ability to sell my ideas better than I did. And while he is a douchenozzle for stealing my ideas, I’m just a teensy bit afraid that he’s getting the promotion because he’s better at being director than I am. That Andy actually presented my ideas better, and I hate it. Also rattling around is the fact that Matteo let them think I was late because I’d lost track of time with my boyfriend, insinuating I’m not serious about my job or at the very least that I’d throw over a meeting for a man. I’ve become the butt of the office jokes. Add in Matteo’s breath on my neck and how it makes me secretly want that reality to be true, and the little block jail can’t hold all my thoughts and grievances anymore. There’s no room for Matteo if I want to keep everything contained. I don’t have time for dalliances. I need to focus on my job.
Matteo patiently watches me chew through all of this, his eyes infuriatingly concerned.
“You just don’t get it, and you never will.”
“Condemned without trial, it seems.” Delivered offhand, with a ring of simple truth . . . and somehow that statement seems sexy instead of patronizing. I’m getting internal whiplash from how fast I seem to swing from wanting to punch OHT to wanting to kiss him. I blame the “hot cop” trope that is shoved at us from every crime show ever. I shouldn’t be fantasizing about kissing the cop that could arrest me for what I’m keeping from him: Kyle’s and Simon’s injuries, Lawrence’s background with Casey Senior, the journal pages.
Matteo’s hand sneaks up and rubs the back of his neck. I’ve made him a little nervous, even though his gaze is unwavering. “I’d like to explain myself?”
I raise an eyebrow. This is new territory: I’m not used to levelheaded discourse when I yell.
“I brought you a drink, hoping to catch you before work. Then I saw you drop your coffee. When I went to see if you needed help, it was obvious that your boss was mad you were late. It’s the first thing I thought of. I did all of that because I tried to call you and you didn’t answer.”
“I don’t answer calls.” But I realize that perhaps I’m using him as a scapegoat. He threw me off, sure . . . but the rest of the meeting was a creature of my own making.
“I needed to actually talk to you about the case. I can’t write down what I need to show you in a text. Or an email.” He’s caught my caveat before I can even say the words.
That stills the string of retorts that I have. “Did something else happen?”
He glances toward the building, then back at me. “Yes. If you’re okay coming to the station, I’ll bring you back after lunch hour?”
My stomach plummets. He found out about Kyle and Simon. Or the journal. “Am I under arrest for real this time?”
He laughs, and I’m glad for it. “No, MG. Although I kind of feel like I should be read my rights for upsetting you so much. This is just to ask you some more questions about a new development.”
“Oh.” His half apology smooths some of my ruffled feathers, and I make a concerted effort to lower my hackles. Recovering a little of my normal spunk, I blow out a breath, ruffling my purple bangs. “You may proceed. To the station, Alfred.”
“How was your meeting, really?” We pull onto palm-lined First Street. White arched windows, red roof, and gorgeous front lawn mark the historic downtown headquarters of the LAPD. Behind it, glinting in the sun, sits the glass cube and impressive gray metal building that houses the new station. Horrendous traffic for years while they completed it, but now it’s a building any comic hero would be proud to defend.
I shoot Matteo a glance. He’s got an adorable worried crinkle between his eyebrows. I shrug, not up for explaining Andy’s deceit. “It wasn’t your fault my meeting went badly. It’s mine. They thought your little stunt was funny.”
Matteo’s gaze is serious, though I tried to be lighthearted with my delivery. “Either way, I’m sorry. I kind of lost my head when I saw you. Struggling with the door, I mean. I apologize if I came off as unprofessional and for making you look unprofessional too.”
My heartbeat picks up, and I want to roll my eyes at myself. No matter which gorgeous lips, with beard-scruffed cheeks, are doing the apologizing, “no apologies” is my number-one rule, so I’m baffled as to why I find this apology sexy. Matteo waves his badge at the guard as we pull into a parking lot full of police cars and park along the side of the building. The tallest part stretches up into the sunshine, past the tops of the swaying palm trees.
I stare up through the windshield, first at the building, then covertly at Detective Kildaire. The full weight of his job and why we’re here hits me like a punch from The Thing. I’ve now yelled at, thought about kissing, and threatened the physical well-being of an officer of the law. Without the station and the car, he’s just a cute, slightly annoying guy. Now, watching him climb out of the car, throw his suit jacket on, and check to make sure his badge is in his pocket . . . it’s real. I fight back a groan. I’ve made a pretty awesome idiot out of myself. My palms are sweating, and my nerves resurface. Keeping things from Matteo seems logical. I’m protecting my friends. Keeping things from Detective Kildaire at the police station seems like less of a good idea. Maybe it’s time to come cle
an.
“MG?” He’s peering into the car again, concern wrinkling his forehead. “Are you getting out?” I love and hate how familiar my name sounds on his lips, as if we’ve known each other for years and it’s normal for me to be interrogated on my lunch hour for funsies.
He ushers me from the car and through a set of glass double doors bearing the insignia of the LAPD. I’m so busy gawking at the people surrounding me in the lobby, I barely register when I’m handed a guest badge at the front desk. Clerks are carrying stacks of papers, officers typing reports into computers. And a few . . . saltier people are sitting in chairs lining the wall near the front desk—a homeless man with two suitcases and three coats, a teenage girl passed out with her hat over her face.
“We’ll go back past intake, and it’ll be quieter.” He leans close for me to hear over the din. “We have more than three thousand officers on the force. It can get pretty noisy in here.”
We weave through a labyrinth of short halls and open work spaces until we reach a bank of rooms with glass doors. They’re comfortably furnished with tables, chairs, and sofas. Not exactly the dingy single-pendulum-light-fixture rooms from TV, but my palms still start to sweat.
“Right in here. You can put your coat on these hooks if you’d like. The air-conditioning is out today. The last brown-out fried something. Gotta love this city.” But I can tell he does.
After he closes the door, it’s deafeningly quiet in the room. And warm. I shrug out of my black blazer and hang it on the hook next to his suit coat. It looks cozy—too “his and hers” for my taste, like I’m admitting that we fit together, so I take it down and toss it across the back of the sofa. No need to remind me of my parents’ house where everything is monogrammed, matchy-matchy, gender specific, and just so.
It’s the embodiment of my parents’ stuffy-if-comfortable marriage. My mother gave up her true passion as a nurse to be a “lady of the house” and raise privileged, polished, perfect children. Think Emily Gilmore without the quaint East Coast charm. It’s everything I don’t want in a relationship. I want depth, breadth. I want messy and colorful. I want sitting on a couch and watching Star Wars, not sitting at a fancy dinner with sixteen forks. Matteo gives me a weird look when I move my coat, but I ignore it.
He sits in a chair across from the sofa and slides a glass of water across the oversize coffee table toward me. “I ordered you lunch. Is a veggie pita okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” Rabbit food. Probably without dressing.
He notes my displeasure, though I try to hide it. Is he this observant with every person of interest or just me? My blood sings a little, contemplating the possibility. Maybe he feels the same fascination that I feel when I’m with him.
“I just assumed you were vegetarian. You know, being fit and riding your bike to work . . .”
I laugh. “No, I only ride my bike to work because I’m allergic to other forms of exercise. I hate the gym. I hate treadmills. I hate yoga. I love biking, so I can eat whatever I want.” I eye him a little askance. It’s rare that my slightly curvy form is considered the epitome of “fit.” In fact, I don’t even own a scale. My personal philosophy is eating in moderation; feeling good over numbers; and if I don’t enjoy an exercise activity, I’ll never repeat it. Not exactly a poster child for workout-aholics. I’m afraid he’s up to that false altruism again, but the gaze he sweeps over my figure is appreciative, and it buoys my pride enough to allow the rabbit food to slide.
“I’ll split my BLT with you, then.”
I smile. “Deal.”
He fiddles with something that looks like a voice recorder. “So what do you want to believe?”
The question takes me completely off guard. Had I spoken when I hadn’t meant to? About my pondering an attraction to him? About the information I know? My heart races under my breastbone, and I feel my own neck grow hot. “W-what?”
He’s still studying the recorder. “Your shirt. It says ‘I Want to Believe.’”
First a surge of relief, then a tingle. He’s referring to the “I Want to Believe” T-shirt I changed into after the meeting. The shirt with the words across my bust, which I now realize he had to be staring at to ask the question. I can feel my ears growing hot, a telltale sign that I’m blushing. “My eyes are up here,” I joke. “It’s from The X-Files.”
He shuffles a few papers in a businesslike manner. “Why else do you put words on a shirt if you don’t want people to read them?”
True. It’s a legit question, but there’s that telltale blotch at his shirt collar, so I have to wonder if I wasn’t a little right about it too. Look at us. Matching his-and-hers blushes.
Matteo clears his throat. “Are you okay if I record this? There’s a video recording for the room, but I wanted a copy for my use as well. This comic stuff can get complicated.” Now he’s all business, and it’s a little disconcerting. Detective Kildaire is back.
“That’s fine.” I swallow twice and perch on the couch facing him.
He goes through a list of statements: today’s date, my full name, his name, a case number that sounds like gibberish, and the time of our interview. Then he reaches across and pats my arm. “It’s okay. You don’t need to be nervous. It’s just you and me talking. You look like you’re going to throw up.”
Yeah, that’s what they tell all the prime suspects on TV right before they catch them in the lie that seals the case.
“Oh good. Glad that’s on tape.” It’s my best attempt at levity.
His lips quirk up, and it does funny things to my stomach. I nearly toss my cookies with the added jolt. I have got to get a handle on myself.
“All right. Michael-Grace Martin, can you confirm for the record that you have not told anyone of our previous conversation?”
It’s weird to hear my whole name come out of his mouth. It’s even weirder that it doesn’t sound weird. I hate my name; from him it sounds normal, like he says it every day. The familiarity eases my tension, and I resign myself to being interrogated—even if kindly. He is good at his job.
I lean toward the recorder and say, “No,” in a clear voice.
“The recorder can hear you fine from the couch.”
“Oh. Okay. Then, no. I didn’t have a chance to tell anyone I met you. I mean, not that I had a reason to . . .” I’m flustered, so I scrunch up my face. “No.” There. Pretend like it is an office meeting. Clear, concise answers. It’s good practice for me.
“Can you tell me where you were Saturday night?”
I think. Not good. I’m that person on the TV show—a lame alibi that can’t be proven. “At home, in bed.”
“And can anyone verify that?” Cue color blooming under his collar, but he remains the passive professional.
“I was sleeping alone.” Thankyouverymuch. “So unless you can interview my dog, you’re out of luck—oh!” I snap my fingers. “Wait! Trog! He went out around eleven, and my neighbor yelled at me to get him a bark collar. So, yes! My neighbor can confirm that I was home.” Victory.
He takes down her name and address. “And your roommate?” I may be imagining it, but Detective Kildaire’s voice becomes steelier when he mentions Ryan.
“He and my friend Lawrence were at a video-gaming tournament. They played all night.”
He nods, makes a note, and sits forward. “Have you noticed anything unusual around your office? People doing something they shouldn’t?”
My mind goes directly to Kyle and Simon. I swallow hard. “I—uh—” I stall for time, trying to figure out a way to tell Matteo without telling him what I suspect. Is it cool to make your coworkers major suspects in a vigilante drug-busting case before you know for sure they’re behind it? “Unusual like what?” Rope, duct tape, black hoodies, and bruises? I’m so wound up; my head is about to start spinning around like R2-D2.
Matteo runs his hands through his hair. “I’m not sure what we’re looking for exactly. I brought you in because we’re worried about your office. That note that I told you about
at the first crime scene? Someone leaked its contents to the drug ring.”
“You can’t be serious. So the drug rings are stupid enough to think that someone from Genius is running around and tying them up? They’re smarter than that, surely?” I bite my lip, mind churning through what he said. One word stands out to me. “Did you say this was leaked?”
“Yes, we’re still trying to figure out what happened.”
What he’s not saying is that a leak means a cop told the drug dealers what is on that note, whether intentionally or by accident. One of Matteo’s own is possibly a double agent, and I watched enough Castle to know that rarely works out well.
“And now you think they’re going to come after Genius Comics? Just because of some note?”
Matteo doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches for a tablet on his side table and opens it while I watch with eyebrows raised. He flicks through video files, then sets it on the table in front of me.
“We’ve been following a few different leads. Someone stopped a purse-snatcher Friday night, though we can’t confirm it was the same person. Only interesting because it fits your theory of a social-justice vigilante. However, Saturday night there was another bust. This time it was some middle-ups. Our superhero tracked them to the warehouse district, and a security camera caught some footage.”
A grainy black-and-white video plays on the tablet, and I squint. “What am I looking for?”
“Just watch.”
A few figures come into frame, and I scan the screen intently. It’s too far away to make out any identifying features. I’d be hard-pressed to even determine gender and height, much less identify someone in a lineup. Is someone from Genius recognizable in this video?
“I still don’t see—” My breath catches in my throat. Something flashes across the camera. Something that looks suspiciously close to a figure flying through the air.
Matteo’s mouth presses into a line when I glance up. The rest of the video is useless. The figures on the street move out of frame, and the flash doesn’t reappear. I reach forward, swipe my fingers left to run the video back to the flash of dark movement I saw. I stare at the screen in shock, and the last vestiges of my resistance crumble like the shield around the USS Enterprise in every mid-episode fight sequence. “That looks like a person wearing a cape, flying through the air.”
The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 1) Page 7