“And that’s why she’s here,” Matteo confirms.
I walk over to the heavy metal door, kneel low where kids have been tagging the building with several colors of spray paint, and point to the outline of a white rabbit.
“The Easter Bunny?” I don’t even have to look to know it’s Rideout’s dulcet tones.
“You see how this looks as fresh as the golden arrow? I don’t think it’s a mistake. This is the White Rabbit.”
The DEA agent frowns and looks at Matteo.
“You mean the Hooded Falcon’s nemesis? As in a real person?” Matteo asks. “Are we chasing two vigilantes now?”
I chew on my lip, unsure. I decide to go with my gut because that’s what I’m here for. “I don’t think so. I think it’s a reference to the White Rabbit, but it’s hidden. It’s like our suspect—the Golden Arrow, I think they’re calling him—didn’t want just anyone to find it.” A prickle rises along my neck. Is this meant for me? Is it a warning? Matteo said that these drug cartels wouldn’t think twice about killing someone to keep their silence. And here I am, willing mouse chasing a cat in a game with ever-heightening stakes.
I continue with my explanation, though Detective Rideout looks like he’s about to glaze over. You can always tell a true comic book fan by their knowledge and love of a good origin story. Falcon’s is the best in my opinion, and Rideout has sunk lower in my estimation for his failure to latch on to the tie-in.
“In the origin story of the Hooded Falcon, he’s an average Joe who stumbles upon a drug deal at a dock. Instead of walking past, he calls the police to stop it. The drug dealers see him, abduct him, stow him in the ship, then ultimately leave him on a deserted island where he has to fend for himself for months before a ship comes back. It’s where he hones his hunting skills to survive. The same smugglers come back to the island to pick up the stash. He sneaks aboard and ends up commandeering the ship, steering it into the port of Space City, and turning over the entire ship, crew, and drugs to the authorities.” I point to the rabbit. “The rabbit is the sign of his archnemesis—the White Rabbit, a Chinese drug lord. It’s accepted as a reference to China white, or a slang term for heroin.”
I look around, and all three of them are blinking at me. Suddenly I’m not so sure. “Didn’t you say that White Rabbit is what the street drug is called?”
“Yes.” It’s Agent Sosa who answers. Her mouth has puckered like she’s sucking on a Sour Patch Kid. “We did the field tests, and it’s positive for heroin. Possibly other elements, though more than likely that’s contamination from the scene. We have yet to do a full scan at the lab. It’s more likely that this drawing is in reference to the street drug.”
I bite my lip. Other contaminates like a designer drug? But . . . Occam’s razor. I suppose it’s possible I’m stretching this too far. I look at Matteo, who shrugs. We’re all in the dark here. Until I am sure that the Golden Arrow is trying to identify a specific nemesis, I should keep to the simpler explanations. “Probably.”
We tour the rest of the crime scene, but I don’t see any further indication of hidden messages or Hooded Falcon trivia. Towering stacks of boxes and crates, most of which are being sorted through, cataloged, and photographed by officers, fill the warehouse. The warehouse stock sheet says there are twenty bays of other goods to inspect, everything from books, magazines, and comic books to KitchenAid mixers, machine parts, and—I laugh—cereal. Crates and crates of cereal.
“Maybe they’re putting heroin in Cap’n Crunch. I’ve suspected it for years.” My joke earns a smirk from Matteo but not even an eye roll from Rideout. Great. He’s grumpy and he has no sense of humor. Detective Dursley it is.
Matteo points to the largest group of people in the warehouse, gathered around a small stack of crates on the floor. “We discovered the uncut heroin. Agent Sosa here has explained that more than likely it’s from Mexico, since we’re so close to the border and it’s not unheard of for illegal shipments of drugs to come on small boats from Tijuana.”
I frown. That doesn’t line up with the White Rabbit from the comics, but I’m still not sure how literal to take the story line. “Could it be from another country, say China?” Just the other week, Ryan pointed out an article online about the rise of the designer drug culture in LA. It said that countries like China, Laos, and Vietnam were hotbeds for synthetic drug production and that US port cities were starting to see more of them. Now that could be a nod to the White Rabbit in the comics. Something moves deep in my subconscious, and the image of the boat from the panel with the people tied to the dock surfaces.
“Could these drugs possibly be readying for export instead of going to other states?”
Agent Sosa squints at me.
“Well, it’s just that the initial drug bust was down by the docks, and in the scene it reminded me of from the comic, the drugs were being loaded onto a boat, not off.”
Agent Sosa flicks a glance at Matteo, then sweeps her dark page cut behind one ear and gives me a small smile that looks a teensy condescending, like she’s humoring a kindergartner. Which I practically am, since the most I know about drugs is that Tylenol Cold & Sinus wipes me out for three days. “We’re going to proceed as if it’s a standard drug trafficking case until proven otherwise. In my professional opinion, that’s what we’re dealing with.”
“It’s just . . . it’s a lot like the plotline with the White Rabbit in the series. Enough that I think you should look into it?”
Agent Sosa narrows her eyes at me, and I feel like I’m overstepping my bounds on my first day at work. “This is cut-and-dried. We’ll test it and send a report to the narcotics team, but it’s your basic pure heroin. Next it would have been cut, packaged, and trucked out to the surrounding area. I don’t even think it’s what the street teams are labeling White Rabbit. The lab will have to tell us. We’re wasting our time in this warehouse looking for clues, past testing the product.”
“One of the dealers from the first bust is with a notorious Mexican cartel,” Detective Rideout adds. “And I agree that the connection to the comic book is weak. We should move forward with the cartel theory.”
I’m not convinced. Or my gut isn’t. I shoot a look at Matteo. “The Golden Arrow is obviously a fan of the comic book. What if he’s trying to tell us something? In the comic, it has to do with China, and it has to do with shipping.”
Matteo nods slowly. “I agree that it’s too soon to dismiss the idea. That’s why we have MG here. She’s the expert. If she says there may be a connection, let’s follow up—no matter how out-there it sounds, Detective.” Rideout was muttering under his breath but stops short when Matteo calls him out.
“As I was saying, there’s no harm in checking which ships were in port the night of all the busts. See if there’s a connection. Agent Sosa, just test the sample, and let us know if there are any anomalies that would point to this not being Mexican cartel for whatever reason.”
Rideout could double for Cyclops, his laser gaze nearly slicing Matteo in half.
Agent Sosa looks likewise displeased to have her authority questioned in such a manner. “Fine. Whatever. I’m telling you to leave it alone. You’re wasting your time.”
Leave it alone? Her acidic tone gives the distinct impression that I’ve made an enemy, or two if I count how Rideout’s lip curls up right now. Yet something pools in the depths of my stomach, buoying my spirits. Matteo heeded my thoughts. He stood up for me to his partner. He thought what I’d said was worth following up on.
Something in me says I’m on the right track here, even if in their professional opinion I’m off my rocker. If this lines up and we are literally chasing rabbits, then we are also looking for the crooked cop. My head moves as if on a swivel to take in first Rideout, then the group of police working over the crate of drugs. How easy would it be to fiddle with the crime scene? There are so many cops, it would be hard to pin it down . . . but the note from the Golden Arrow was leaked by a member of Matteo’s team. So Rideout; that younger officer
I met, Officer James; or Matteo. Or any one of the other fifty cops here involved in the case. I’m not even sure how widely known the note’s contents are.
My eyes narrow as I recognize Officer James among those bagging evidence. He slips one of the baggies into his coat pocket, and my hackles rise. It could be coincidence, or it could be tampering. I open my mouth, about to ask Matteo to watch James, when I see Agent Sosa approach James. They exchange words, his hand fishes back into his pocket and produces the tagged evidence, and they both bend their heads over it. Sosa nods and puts the bag into her own pocket. No drama. No other cops shouting or pointing. No sirens, and no Golden Arrow swooping down to say, “Aha! I’ve got you now!”
I thank my lucky stars I haven’t blabbed to Matteo yet. Apparently I’m seeing the comic book everywhere. Poor Officer James. How would he like to know that I suspected him as a dirty cop just because he is the low man on the totem pole?
Agent Sosa moves off to meet with the other teams inspecting crates while Matteo takes me to the area where the men were locked up. It’s a large utility closet housing mechanical equipment—nothing tying that to the books.
“Do you have pictures of how you found the men? Were they tied with rope again?” My brain jumps to the pile of rope under Kyle and Simon’s desk. I’m looking for anything that will point me in a direction. Any direction. Why draw a rabbit? Is it really the White Rabbit, or is it in reference to the drugs? It may just be more lunacy, but I feel like I know the Golden Arrow. Like he or she leaves these clues for me, and I’m not smart enough to decipher them.
“They were handcuffed with zip ties and chained to a large welded pipe,” Matteo answers, pressing his phone’s camera on and showing me pictures of the scene this morning. I flip through, looking for anything that catches my eye. I feel useless here; I add questions instead of giving the cops any direction at all. In fair imitation of my work presentations, my one thought about the source of the drugs has been shot down, and it seemed simple: our vigilante wanted to alert us to drugs in this warehouse. Maybe end of story. No need to look further.
“Wait. Wait. Scroll back. This one here. Do you have any other pictures of him?” My stomach lurches as I catch sight of something on one of the guys’ hoodies. It’s slightly obscured by another person chained to the pipe, but I see enough of the white to think it may be a rabbit.
Matteo frowns and flicks through the pictures on his phone. “This is a little better, but not great.”
It’s enough. My eye for lines helps where Matteo’s eyes fail. It is the exact same rabbit we saw outside. “This guy has the same rabbit on his hoodie.”
Matteo shoves his face closer to the screen to verify my claims. “So what would this mean?”
“I don’t know yet.” I bite my lip, thinking.
“Well, we took everyone in for questioning. I’ll find out who he is. Maybe he’s the leader and our suspect marked him. Or maybe he’s a graffiti artist who spray-painted the same image from his hoodie onto the building.”
Again my gut tells me it’s more than coincidence, though I don’t know what it means . . . yet. I’ll get there. I feel like I’m this close to getting it. Getting what the Golden Arrow is playing at. And my writer’s sixth sense says the story isn’t done; there’s another act coming. We just have to figure it out before someone gets killed.
Daylight mingles with twilight by the time Matteo walks me back to my car.
“No matter what my partner says, we have lots to check in to. You saw stuff that we would have missed. This is getting serious. If the cartels suspect that this dude landed their whole stash of pure heroin at the PD, it won’t go without retaliation. We need to do some digging to see if your coworkers have costumes. Anything that would suggest research on drugs in LA. Rope, gold paint, stuff like that, and the party is the perfect opportunity. Do you want me to pick you up? That way we can discuss the case on our way there. Make it look more like we’re seeing each other if we arrive together.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs his shoes. Honest to God shuffles his feet. I feel an answering blush stain my own cheeks.
Then I think about Lawrence, and Ryan, and how I don’t want any more questions because I don’t want to lie to them any more than I have to. “How about I meet you at your house?”
A look of surprise crosses his face, then curiosity, then acceptance and something that looks like amusement. Like he’s figured me out. “I’m all for equal opportunity driving, so sure.”
“Just text me your address, and I’ll be at your house around nine?”
“Sounds good.” He pauses and looks at the sky, then back to me. “That was pretty impressive back there, Michael-Grace. I think you definitely proved your worth as a teammate today.”
My heartbeat zings a little in my ears, and I smile back, opening the door to the car. “I did kick a little ass, didn’t I?”
I start my engine, and the headlights cut a swath through the gathering night like Captain America’s shield deflecting enemy fire. I watch Matteo walk back toward the crime scene, a feeling of isolation washing over me. The media frenzy has died down, the reporters have gone home, and a blanket of eerie silence covers the street. Not a car in sight. It rained while we were in the warehouse, a late-afternoon squall that has heightened the smell of gasoline and rotting fish. I roll down my window, trying to ventilate my car, and glance out at my now clearer view of the alleyway.
Is that the flapping of a cape up there on top of a warehouse? My heart stops in my chest.
I squint, sure I am seeing things in the dying light of the evening. But no, my eye catches it again. The flap of fabric on the rooftop. The Golden Arrow? Come to watch us piece together the puzzle?
Immediately I throw my car into reverse, hardly looking behind me as my tires squeal on the pavement in my zeal to back up. I have to get my headlights to illuminate more of the alley. When I think I’m far enough back, I throw caution to the wind and get out of my car, cell phone clutched in my hand. If I can get a picture of him, we’ll have something to go on. I race forward, eyes on where I last saw the fabric. I can now make out the form of a person, but it looks . . . wrong as I approach. The Golden Arrow isn’t moving. He isn’t on the roof; he’s dangling from it.
I gasp and run forward, hand at my throat, disregarding the drizzle of rain pattering on my head. The figure doesn’t move at the sound of my approach, but I finally see why. The dim light of my headlights reveals a stuffed dummy, hung by its feet off a fire escape. A cape dangles down toward the street below, a huge golden arrow stuck straight through the chest. The words “You’re next, Batman” are written in black paint on the cape. Or at least I hope it’s paint. A shiver runs down my spine. The warning is clear—the drug dealers know that there is a civilian defender involved, and they’re threatening the well-being of whoever is interfering with their business. Too bad the Golden Arrow could be someone I know, and I’m stuck in the middle of this mess, and Matteo too. It’s the first moment I realize that I could seriously get hurt helping with this case—what if the drug dealers are hanging around waiting for someone to leave the crime scene who would be easy to kidnap? I punch Matteo’s number before sprinting back to my car. I don’t want to be caught anywhere near this ominous sign. I tell Matteo what I’ve seen and hang up the phone.
This is no cat-and-mouse game; this is life or death comic-book style, and since the rest of the team seems to be refusing my advice, it’s up to me to figure it out before someone I know ends up like that dummy.
CHAPTER 13
A peppering of sand hits my car as I cruise down the lonely desert road. The address that Matteo texts me is outside the city. Way outside the city. I’m feeling like I could take one wrong turn at a cactus and end up on the planet from Dune. In fact, when I pull up to the modest walled house that Siri insists is the right one, there’s not another building in sight. In any direction.
I would have pictured Matteo in a trendy downtown loft drinking sangria on his rooftop
garden patio with his neighbors. It’s so quiet out here, my steps on the gravel sound like something out of a badly produced horror movie.
“Glad you made it!” Matteo stands at the front door across a courtyard landscaped with a plethora of rocks, colorful blooming cacti, succulents, and tall spiny grass—a little capsule of the best of the desert. An oasis. “Come on in. The gate is unlocked.”
“Paranoid much?” The gate swings open on silent hinges, even though it weighs at least twenty pounds, and I close it behind me with a clang. Although if it were just a tiny gate between me and endless desert, maybe I’d be paranoid too.
He shrugs. “I bought it this way, and it keeps out the coyotes.”
“Coyotes?” I shoot a trepidatious look over my shoulder. I’m all for small, fluffy, lovable dogs, but I’m not a wildlife lover. It’s why you don’t ever catch me at the beach. Or in the pool. In addition to my translucent pale skin that burns in the merest suggestion of sunlight, I may or may not also be convinced that sharks can and will live anywhere. For instance, in swimming pools.
Matteo laughs. “They’re not out right now. They’re mostly nocturnal.” He turns to go inside. “I mean, unless they have rabies.”
I skitter up the path to the porch. “Yeah, that makes me feel better.”
“Hence the gate,” he says with a wink, sweeping the front door wide.
The house is simple and contemporary on the outside and wide open, daylit, and clean on the inside. We stand in a living room filled with square gray furniture, a glass fireplace flanked by huge windows with views to the desert, and an art deco lamp. To the right sits an open kitchen—simple, modern—and to our left is a short hallway to what I assume is the bedroom and the bathroom. It’s so neat, clean, and contemporary, it looks like I walked straight into a design magazine. The magazines I like to glance through, not the ones dripping tassels and jacquard. Sleek and professional. Grown-up. I slip off my bright-yellow flats and set them next to his leather shoes.
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