“Well, I wouldn’t if somebody wasn’t standing in front of the television.”
They both throw their controllers down and grumble.
“You guys can go back to killing imaginary—”
“We’re working on a real project. This is my job, MG.” Ryan still sounds like a petulant four-year-old.
“I know. I’ll keep this brief. But I want to show you what I just finished filling out.” I hold out a paper to Ryan.
“Congratulations, you learned to fill out a form.” Ryan barely glances at the paper as he takes it. This drives me crazy about Ryan and is why I can’t date a gamer. His job is all-consuming at times. It’s like pulling teeth to get anything out of him when he’s focused. And how much he identifies with his gaming heroes verges on unhealthy. Like a lot of guys who game, I feel like he wants to be heroic in real life but decides it’s safer to be a hero in a fake world rather than face judgment. Plus, the regulations for crossbows are murder, I hear.
Lawrence, thankfully, isn’t acting like a toddler and takes the sheet of paper. “Girl, is this what I think it is?”
“Yes! I got in!” I can’t contain myself any further. “And, L, I would so be honored if you would be my model. I only have two months to come up with the best costume design of my life.”
Ryan finally glances up and grabs the brochure off the top of the stack of papers on the coffee table. “San Diego Comic-Con, Miss Her Galaxy,” he reads out loud. Realization dawns on his face as he flips through the pages. “Oh, this is that fashion show you were talking about entering.”
“Yes. And thanks to L’s encouragement and my drawings for his costumes, they’ve accepted me! More than fifteen hundred applicants, and they only select twenty!” This couldn’t have come at a better time. I entered on a whim, but now I need to see if I’m really any good at fashion and costume design. If I win, I’ll get a deal designing for Hot Topic stores . . . I wouldn’t have to get the promotion. I could give a one-fingered salute to Genius . . . but that is a big if and something I don’t want to bank on quite yet.
As good as my ideas are, my presentations at work haven’t been going so well. The more worked up I get about them, the worse they get. I am the better writer—of this I am certain—but maybe, just maybe, Casey’s favor of Andy doesn’t have everything to do with the ideas themselves. I’m concerned that even if I try harder, nothing will change. That this is how Genius is, take it or leave it. And I’m contemplating leaving it, which is something I never thought I’d do.
This contest would be something just for me. If I win, I’ll become a household name for geek girls everywhere. I’ll support my fellow femmes and rub elbows with the best. It’s time to take a risk on myself and possibly on my future.
“MG, that’s really impressive.” Ryan looks up, all trace of toddler gone. “Seriously. I thought you weren’t even going to apply.” He stands up and scoops me into a hug. It’s so warm and comfortable, I forget any weirdness between us.
Lawrence is next and swoops me up. MG sandwich. My absolute favorite spot in the universe.
“So you’ll do it, L? I’ll make you look fierce.”
“Will I be the only queen?”
I shrug. “I think so. Cleo definitely won’t be there; that’s for sure.”
“I’m in.”
Excellent. L is the Fezzik to my Inigo, and I need him there with me. “And we’ll need our cheering section. How about it, Ryan? I brought you all sorts of info.” I cut off Ryan’s response before he can roll his eyes. “I know you hate cons. I get it. But this one isn’t a gamer convention. It’s just general geek merriment. I think Jean-Luc Picard is going to be there.”
Ryan’s eyes gain a hint of interest. “I’m not promising anything.” But he takes the brochure from me.
“I have a color at eleven,” Lawrence announces, stretching up and touching the ceiling. “I need to go open the shop. Ry, I’ll see you at the gym later.”
Ryan grunts in agreement. It’s their guy-love language, though I don’t understand how one grunt can say so many different things. It’s one of the things that makes Ryan and Lawrence closer to an old married couple than friends.
Ryan was originally L’s roommate but ended up moving out because a spiteful lover had dumped a bottle of wine on their PlayStation when L beat him at Call of Duty.
Ryan didn’t mind L’s eccentricities—L was the first person who befriended Ryan at the gym after he’d moved to LA, and Ryan seems to have something dark in his past that makes him shy about meeting people. We don’t talk about it much; he clams up big time whenever I ask. Maybe it’s why he and L get along so well: they have that in common. He always says that he has a fresh lease on life here and that he’s making amends for his past any way he can.
Lawrence slips his shoes on, and I note the letter “L” written in sparkles on the black leather. That bitch has been bedazzling without me.
I blow him a kiss as he leaves, lock the door behind him, and walk back into the living room to sink onto the cracked pleather couch. I prop my feet over the end, grab one of the woefully mismatched couch pillows, and settle into Ryan’s side.
Ryan’s answering grunt means I’m clearly inhibiting his ability to make a living today. “Hang on, everybody. I’m going to mute. MG is back.” He pulls the headset off and looks down. All sorts of horrible commentary starts pouring from the TV as the other gamers in his group start catcalling and suggesting video game–based sexual positions. I catch the term “paladin missionary style” before Ryan manages to silence the channel.
“How’s work?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrow, and his eyes say that it would be going better if I stopped interrupting, but he decides to be diplomatic. “The job is more challenging than I could ever have imagined. How about you?” He draws out the syllables, obviously fishing for the reason I’m back on the couch instead of working like a good girl.
Two of the characters on screen pretend to do a striptease, and Ryan runs his avatar forward to knock them over.
“My big presentation didn’t go as well as I wanted.” I tell him about Andy basically stealing my idea.
“You have so many talents. So many skills. You can smell a story a mile away. Fastest brain this side of the galaxy. But maybe this isn’t your superpower. Maybe you’re not General Leia. Do you even really want to be a team leader? Less time on your own work? More time with the executives? Maybe this isn’t the only solution.”
My glance must give away my skepticism because Ryan rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “For instance, if Andy gets the promotion, wouldn’t there be an opening for team captain or whatever? You’d still be Kyle and Simon’s boss.”
I contemplate that. “True.” Before he can crow with satisfaction, I hold up my hand. “But Andy would still get to be executive, and I want the promotion so that I can do costume design.”
“I get that, but . . . surely if Andy gets the promotion, you use that genius brain of yours to figure out another way to do what you want to do? And maybe it will be better than your plan A?”
I press my lips together and meet Ryan’s brown eyes. His hat is on backward over his blondish hair, so he looks like a teenager, but the words coming out of his mouth are surprisingly grown-up—and almost exactly verbatim what I’ve just been telling myself. When did Ryan turn in to the adult of this relationship?
The players in the game are now testing what look like vials of potions on one another, and Ryan leans forward to yell into the mic. “Quit that, you guys. We need to test those against the alien horde . . . Aw, dammit, Lee, now you’ve attracted the band of rogue archers, and you know they’re still glitchy.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” I hop back off the couch and smirk. Ryan is already completely immersed again, his fingers flying over the controller. Something has shifted, though. Ryan seems older, wiser. Have I missed something in his life while I’ve been sidetracked with the case? Must be that girl he’s been seeing. “Love you, Ryan.”
>
He smiles, still staring at the screen. “I know.”
CHAPTER 12
It’s Friday morning just after breakfast. I’ve already walked Trog and have the television on, hoping to hear something related to my case.
“The Golden Arrow strikes again. This seems to be the latest in a recent string of vigilante justice . . .”
I turn from the sink, glass of water halfway to my mouth. It can’t be. The Golden Arrow? Is that what the media has decided to call our masked civilian? I roll my eyes at the general public’s lack of creativity with naming superheroes, seeing as our competitor already has an “arrow” superhero with a different-colored moniker.
“Moments ago we got word that this warehouse had been chained shut by persons unknown, and an anonymous call was placed to the police claiming that they would find more than just criminals inside. We suspect a drug bust of large proportions. Police have surrounded the area with crime scene tape, so we can’t get any closer, but it looks like teams are arriving to transfer dangerous individuals to the police station.” The reporter is gleeful, her red suit standing out against the grays, blues, and rust hues that make up the warehouse district alleyway. I recognize the building they’re standing in front of. It’s the same one I saw in the video at Matteo’s office.
My phone buzzes. I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen where the news feed cuts to a chopper view of the warehouse near the docks. A brilliant gold arrow painted across the front of the building and doors, at least twelve feet long, gleams in the morning sun. The bold gold glitter paint makes me think of Lawrence. This is a hero right up his alley.
My phone buzzes again, and I glance at it. It’s a text from a number I don’t recognize, but I’m not surprised by what it says.
I’m going to call. Answer your phone, we need to talk.
A smile tugs at my lips. Matteo’s learning.
As I read the lines, the screen transitions to the active call icon, and I thumb “Answer.”
“I see it. On the news,” I say without preamble.
Matteo doesn’t waste time on formalities either. Chopper noise beats in the background of his call, indicating he’s already at the scene. “I’d like you to come look. When can you get out of work?”
My heart starts to thud a staccato rhythm in my chest. “I guess around three?” This is real. It’s insane, but real. My very own comic book come to life.
“That’s late, but it’ll have to do.” He hisses out a breath. “I’ll let you get ready for work. Call me when you’re out. You’re going to want to see this.” Then he’s gone, leaving dead air between us.
“I’m glad you made it. Traffic is horrible today. Everyone is a lookie-loo.” Matteo holds my car door open for me as I climb out into the smoggy, nasty air that is LA’s inversion layer. I sputter on the smell of too many cars, too many fast-food hamburgers, and the lurking scent of wood decaying in the water. It’s why I avoid the Santa Monica piers like the plague. Everyone always lauds the “fresh sea air.” For me, I’d rather be at home with my air filter.
It’s three o’clock on the dot, and I did everything short of faking sickness to get out of the office today. Everyone wanted to talk about the upcoming gala and the Golden Arrow on the news.
“What do I need to bring with me?” I shove sketches into my Genius messenger bag, then reach in the back seat to grab the original THF issues I smuggled out of Genius. They would kill me if they ever find out. I have to hope I keep them pristine and use them only if truly needed. The new ones can be replaced. The originals can’t.
Matteo leans in and pins a media pass to the lapel of my jacket, and I go still. I am inordinately fascinated with his fingers fastening the pin, though it takes no more than fifteen seconds. My heart careens in my chest like a Mario-kart around a curve.
Matteo, on the other hand, looks cool as a cucumber. All business. This is a crime scene, after all. “There, you’re all set. Come on, let’s get you across the line. We’ve been trying to keep the media out all day. I think reporters are about to start rappelling in from the next building to get a look.”
I raise my eyebrow at him.
“I like Mission Impossible. I’m a gadget guy.”
I can see that about him.
He flashes his badge to the patrol officer standing near the street. “Kildaire, narcotics,” he says by way of greeting.
What am I? Martin, superhero consultant? Comic specialist? At the patrol officer’s nod, Matteo holds the yellow tape up, and I duck under, resisting the urge to snap a picture of myself and post it to Instagram. I’m inside a crime scene. Just call me Temperance Brennan. And Matteo is so Seeley Booth. He’s wearing a brown felt fedora today over his dark locks and sun-kissed brown skin. It looks very twenties throwback. Very noir detective. Very, very sexy. I mean, I’d find Worf drinking prune juice attractive if he put a fedora on. Be still, my twenties era–loving heart.
Thinking about Bones brings me to my only worry about the crime scene.
“The people inside aren’t dead, are they? I do not do dead bodies.”
“No. They’re all alive and in custody. I’m not sure they’ll be appreciative, given the jail time they’re facing.”
The afternoon sun shines directly in my eyes, and I squint. Perpetually wearing glasses means no sunglasses. I’m also afraid I’ve overdressed for the weather. I wish I’d worn a hat, and I’m regretting the navy-blue coat over my “Don’t Let the Muggles Get You Down” graphic tee. It’s my silent homage to the person who’s quickly becoming my favorite Muggle. I couldn’t help myself today when I saw the shirt in my closet. I thought of Matteo and had to wear it. Would it be inappropriate for a crime scene investigator expert to wear just a tee, though? I decide to swelter it out in my jacket for a bit, even though I already feel a drop of sweat sliding between my shoulder blades. Ah, Los Angeles. I hate being hot, but I hate being cold more. And as hypocritical as it is for me to hate this city and love it too, there it is. I’d never live anywhere else.
Matteo leads me over cracked and rutted asphalt, around the corner of a metal building, and to the front door of the building I recognize from the news. The golden arrow looks spray-painted, and a few other police in uniform still work to photograph and document it.
“Ah, Detective Rideout, Agent Sosa, this is Michael-Grace Martin, the comic book expert I was telling you about.” Matteo ushers me forward, his arm behind my back, toward two people in suits standing by the far end of the building.
“Hi,” I say. I reach forward for a quick handshake from both, used to leading out. God help the man if he does that limp-finger “lady handshake” thing.
“Detective Rideout assists me with the LAPD narcotics portion of this investigation.”
By the look of him, this Rideout guy’s not thrilled I’m here, but at least it’s a firm shake.
Matteo then gestures to a dark-haired agent wearing a bright-blue coat. Her hair is cut short into a stylish but severe page cut that would feel like shackles to me. All that maintenance, no movement, no creativity, just morning after morning of the same smoothing and straightening. “Agent Sosa is from the DEA and is evaluating whether or not the FBI needs to share jurisdiction. Copycat crimes aren’t common, so Detective Rideout and I are leaning toward asking for a federal profiler to help out as well.”
I snort. “Well, it’s not like it’s often that someone pretends to be a superhero.”
“Actually”—Detective Rideout levels a gaze at me—“it’s not unheard of. What’s uncommon about this case is that they’re good at it. I saw it before on patrol. Isolated incidents, and because bad guys don’t have moral compasses, the would-be hero is beat to a pulp in four seconds flat and ends up at the hospital in an embarrassingly tight spandex suit.”
Matteo shades his eyes and glances toward the building. I follow his gaze. My eyes wander over the golden arrow, lingering on the lower part of the door where more graffiti is partially obscured by a crate and a pile of crime scene ta
pe.
“Should we show the lady comic book expert the stuff we found inside the Lair of Justice?” Detective Rideout gives me a once-over that clearly shows he’s interested in two assets of my person in particular, and not the smarts. He leans over, under the guise of opening the front door, and says in a low voice, “That’s a reference to The Hooded Falcon.”
My brain flashes back to my conversation with Ryan. I need to be a professional here. A team player. I don’t want to default to insults. But years of this treatment while working in the comic book store and at Genius cause an automatic stiffening of my spine. Mansplaining comics is literally the most annoying thing in the world to me.
I halt at the door to the warehouse, and the group turns to look, a smug smirk on Detective Rideout’s face. He thinks he’s made his point. I’m about to make mine.
“No, you shouldn’t show me inside. First off, I currently write for Genius Comics and have worked in the industry for ten years—I think that far outweighs your weekend trips to the comic book store.” Matteo looks horrified, though a little fascinated at my outburst.
I can’t help myself. The words just tumble out of me, just like they do in my meetings when I get defensive. “Secondly, the Hall of Justice refers to the Justice League, which is a competitor’s property. Falcon’s personal hideout was called the Glen, until the new series when they changed it to the Falcon’s Nest, which personally I think is a dumb name, but whatever. I wasn’t there for that vote.” I take a deep breath, fully aware of the uncomfortable set of Detective Rideout’s shoulders.
“And thirdly, no, you shouldn’t take me inside because you are about to walk straight past something important. Do you see that graffiti there? To a true comic book expert”—I can’t help but add the dig—“that mark tells us who these criminals were selling to, or who the Golden Arrow thinks they’re working for.”
They turn in unison to look at the graffitied white rabbit, and I bite my cheek to keep from smiling.
The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 1) Page 10