“Come on in. I’m about to make some coffee. Not the fancy coffee shop stuff, but it’s not too bad.”
“It’s okay. I’ll take a cup. I can’t believe you live all the way out here, on purpose.”
He busies himself in the kitchen, putting an actual kettle on the stove. I haven’t seen a real kettle since I left my mother’s house.
“For five years,” he confirms.
Five years driving this far out of the city to go home? No way. I’m too instant-satisfaction. If there were a transporter available, even if it were only questionably safe, I’d be the first to use it.
He catches me looking at him and frowns. “I know it’s not glamorous, and most people live in LA for the city and the nightlife, but I like how quiet it is out here. I like to think.”
“Think about . . . coyotes?”
Humor sparks in his eyes again. “Mostly my job. I take work home, review cases. I find answers and make connections I can’t make while I’m in the office where it’s busy. Sometimes I think about the universe. You are reminded how small you are out here in the desert. I like that. Puts everything in perspective after a tough day.”
Spines ebb and flow beneath my fingers as I run my hand down his bookcase. Even the books are neat, orderly, and I think even organized alphabetically and by category. The architecture section is particularly prodigious, and I read the titles The Small House, The Sustainable House, and Desert House. “So you really did go to architecture school?”
“Mm-hmm.” He’s pouring the water into a French press, so I keep looking at the books.
“Did you design this house?”
He laughs. “No. It’s midcentury modern by a local architect really into passive solar design. Not too many people want to live this far out, so I got a deal on the place. Really, no one recognizes what a work of art and science a house like this is. Or not many people. But someday I’d like to design my own house out in the desert.”
“It’s like camping every night.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I’ve been camping exactly once. Let’s just say we refer to it as the Great Misadventure of 2012. It involved carrying a thirty-pound cooler with no handles more than two miles, a pillowcase with my clothes in it, a lopsided tent that trapped every mosquito inside, and Lawrence being mistaken as the suspect in a carjacking and arrested in the parking lot on our way home. We didn’t repeat it.”
Matteo snorts. His hair is a little more tousled than I’ve seen before. He’s relaxed in jeans and a new button-down shirt, his cheeks clean-shaven, his dark eyebrows furrowed over the task of placing the mugs and saucers on the counter in a neat line. It’s . . . adorable. And that odd sense of intimacy hits me again before I’m ready for it. Like I’m peering into his soul without his permission. I turn back to the books, afraid of what he might see on my face if he catches me looking this time.
The rest of the bookshelf is filled with psychology books, crime scene investigation books, and a big fat tome of federal codes, which holds zero interest for me, so I wander into the kitchen.
“How did you end up being a detective if you went to architecture school?”
He pauses, and I can see the internal debate about how to answer. “That’s a long story. I didn’t know it until I was grown-up, but my mom had been a drug user. She missed her family in Mexico, felt alone and bored. It’s not that uncommon for housewives, actually. It made me want to help prevent others from making the same mistakes she did. So I joined patrol, and then when I discovered I was really good at narcotics, I put in for the promotion to detective.”
From the shadow behind his eyes, I’m guessing there’s more to this story, but I don’t pry because we haven’t exactly crossed the gulf between pretend significant others into the realm of “Tell me your deep dark childhood secrets.” Even superheroes guard their origin stories in comic books.
“We have to wait until the timer goes off,” Matteo says as I slide onto a barstool. The concrete counter is smooth and cool under my elbows as I prop my chin in my hands awaiting liquid sustenance.
A chiming sound emanates from my pocket, and I pull my phone out. It informs me that it’s searching for a signal and that I’m currently roaming. No joke; it’s a regular safari out here. It’s apparently been searching for a while because I can practically see my battery charge draining.
“Do you need to make a call?” He’s eyeing my phone as he pours the coffee into cups. The rich aroma fills my nose, and my mouth actually waters. Coffee, coffee, coffee. The song of my people.
“No, my phone is just searching for a signal. It’s draining the battery.”
“Service here can be tricky. I have a landline if you need.” He motions with a spoon to the corded blue telephone attached to one of the stained wood columns that separate the kitchen island from the living room.
“You have a landline?”
The spoon clinks as he swirls something into each cup then places mine in front of me. He doesn’t answer because, well, duh, he just told me he did. After a quick scan, I don’t see a television either. Definitely no towering stack of video games like my living room—thank you, Ryan—or any of the memorabilia junk that fills my friends’ houses. Or any of the typical accoutrements of router, modem, and cables.
“You don’t have Wi-Fi.” Beyond judgment, I’m in the horror zone.
“Nope.” And he seems entirely unperturbed about his caveman status. He licks the spoon and tosses it in the sink. “Now, I made you a breakfast blend with coconut oil and a sprinkle of cinnamon. Don’t knock it until you try it.”
He laughs at the face I make. Hipster status fully reinstated. “Coconut oil?” Though the scent of cinnamon tantalizes my nose.
“It makes the coffee taste even better. Would you like a biscotti?”
I nod my head. What man even has biscotti in his house? Double hipster points awarded, even if they are awesome hipster points. I can’t think of any other way to phrase it, but Matteo is the adultiest adult I’ve met in a long time. He’s a real grown-up. Fully in the man category, unlike some of the borderline perpetual teenagers I seem to meet.
If my life is Firefly, my crew consists of these forever-young people—they’re playful, they’re geeky, they’re always up for a marathon of Arrow. But in a way, it’s refreshing to meet someone who made the leap—Matteo’s the novelty in my world. Usually I am repelled by the thought of dating an adult. I picture being a grown-up as stuffy, no room for play, fun, or color in life. It’s “go to the office, kiss wife on cheek, read the news, go to bed, repeat until you die,” as modeled by my parents. But Matteo . . . His version of adult is different. It’s polished, sophisticated, and sure, he owns more than one pair of shoes and a couch made from something other than plastic, but he seems alive still. Maybe it’s his job, that he brushes shoulders with danger. Maybe it’s that he seems to not only accept my quirks and my hair and my comics but is charmed by them. Or maybe it’s just him.
My eyes stray to my yellow flats sitting next to Matteo’s shoes on the step. Out of place, but a welcome relief against the gray background. Like his house needs my splash of color. The thought takes my brain all sorts of places and gives me a pang of wanting I shouldn’t feel with my work partner. I mentally pull myself back from the edge.
“But what do you do out here?” No online gaming. No Reddit. No Instagram. No Netflix.
“I read. I sit out on my patio and listen to the desert. Work on my cases. Think.”
“So you work, and then you come out here and you work. But don’t you get—” I snap my mouth shut, realizing how personal and inappropriate my question is going to be.
“Lonely?” He thinks for a moment, then sips his coffee. “Yeah. Sometimes. And I know everyone else loves the city, but it fills up my head. I get this wired energy, and I can’t relax. I can relax out here, and I need it. I’m not a great person otherwise. I’ve met that Matteo. I don’t like him.” He looks . . . wistful? Bitter
? Resentful? His eyes find mine, and we sit in silence as the steam from our cups rises between us. “But yeah. Lonely sometimes.”
It sounds like an admission. A personal admission, like maybe he feels less lonely with me here. My stomach does a flip-flop. He hit the nail on the head with how I’ve been feeling lately. Wired up and pulled in a lot of different directions. Maybe I need some time in the desert too. Complete with a bodyguard to protect me from coyotes and all the bad guys who suddenly sprang to life in my world.
But no Netflix. That seems extreme.
I take a hesitant sip of my coffee to fill the thoughtful silence that’s fallen. It’s . . . good. Better than good. This is the best damn cup of black coffee I’ve had in ages—no milk, sugar, or caramel needed. Just like Matteo, it’s simple, straightforward, and unique. I moan in delight.
Humor is back in his eyes now, the flash of vulnerability and heat gone. “I told you it’s good.” He takes another sip to make his point. “So if we’re supposed to be dating, I should probably know more about you. What exactly is it that you do for work?”
I shrug. “Perhaps I’m a woman of mystery.”
He looks out the window, so I can’t tell if he’s teasing. “You most certainly win that title. I know you know a lot about comics. But what do you do?”
“I write,” I say simply. “In big comics it’s often split up into two pieces. The art and the writing. Some people get to do both. Quite a lot of the commercial stuff is published so fast that it’s easier for one person to do one, and one to do the other. I lay out a general story line and break it into pages and panels. Then the artist draws what they think matches with the story. Sometimes it’s a two-way street and they feel really strongly about a panel they want to draw, and I adjust the story or the structure of the page for it.”
We lapse into silence. I can’t quit contemplating my damn shoes at his house. Like a splatter of yellow paint from a dropped brush on an otherwise pristine page of line drawings. A puzzle to figure out, like there’s something to put together. The feeling his house has been missing my shoes.
“Were you ever married?” My words fall out before I check them.
“Going right for the big guns, huh?” But he doesn’t look upset.
“It seems like if we’re supposed to be dating that I would know.”
“I was engaged for a few years.”
“Oh. What happened?” I want to smack myself. “Wait, you don’t have to answer that. That’s really nosy.”
I catch a flash of white teeth as he laughs again, and my spirits buoy. “It’s okay. And you don’t need to be sorry. I’m glad I figured out it wouldn’t work before we got married and had kids. She was an actress—”
“Ah. No need to explain further. They are a breed apart.” LA is swimming with wannabes, almost-wases, and has-beens. Neck-deep. Can’t throw a rock without hitting one.
He smirks. “She wanted to live in the city and constantly be out for exposure. When I sold my place in LA and moved out here, she didn’t like having to drive in for auditions or shopping. She was wonderful and vibrant and fun. Cliché as it sounds, she was like an exotic flower. She didn’t fit in the desert, which is where I fit.”
My mind goes directly to his lush courtyard full of exotic-looking vegetation. Did he plant them just for her? An oasis for his love? I’m admittedly a little jealous of said exotic flower, but I push it down. I get what he’s saying. It resonates deeply, like a chord struck in me. “Dreams have to match up. Or at least be compatible side by side.” I’m not sure what else to say, but it seems to be enough.
He nods. “How about you? Ever married?”
“God no.” I snort. Then I feel bad. He’s told me about his; I can at least return the favor. “I was almost engaged once when I was too young—my first year of law school. He didn’t ‘get’ me, and I had the good sense to end it before we made each other miserable. There hasn’t been time after that. Or anyone who seems pleasant enough to deal with for a lifetime.”
There haven’t been a pair of shoes that could sit next to mine in a doorway for more than a few months. Tom worked for my dad while I was in law school. My first real love, forever trying to change me. The night he asked me to marry him—two kids in love who had no idea what they wanted in the world—he told me that if I said yes, I “wouldn’t have to write those comics anymore—not work at all when we had kids.” It was my moment of reckoning, looking at a future just like my parents’. No fun, no color, no passion, no room to be crazy into geek fandoms. Tied down. Boring. Typical. I didn’t want to be typical. I wanted to be a superhero. I told him no thank you, dropped out of school, colored my hair the next day, and never looked back, even after my parents told me they wouldn’t give me another dime if I didn’t finish law school.
Enter the Hurtling Turd, my new crew, and the job at Genius I landed after three years of freelance writing that had finally made my dream come true. But here I am thinking that just maybe something has been missing. Maybe I like how my shoes look next to Matteo’s. He intrigues me, makes me feel a way I haven’t before in my life. Longing for stability. For permanence. For partnership, where before I was a content party of one. Pretty heavy stuff.
“I’ve been thinking about the case,” I say, not taking my eyes from his face. “And I read some of my old comics last night looking for the White Rabbit.” I want to see how crazy he thinks I am away from the crime scene and away from his partner.
No sign of a smirk. “And?”
“I can’t help but feel like this bust is more than what it seems on the surface. Everything has lined up with the comic books, maybe too well. This person, the Golden Arrow. Why not just call the police, report drug activity, and call it a night? It’s like they’re trying to indicate that they’re following a certain person or story line. It’s like trying to read tarot from a normal deck of playing cards—like I’m looking for something that isn’t there. But. My gut says it’s worth following the story, not just the crimes. The connection. The presence of a drug war, then and now. The heroin in a warehouse. It’s going to sound crazy, but I’m a writer, and I draw off of real life all the time. What if Casey Senior wrote about a real drug ring? And somehow the Golden Arrow figured it out?”
Silence.
“But why would the crimes repeat themselves if they already happened thirty years ago?” Matteo takes another sip of coffee and mulls over his next words before speaking. “Right before Casey Senior died, there was a huge bust of the biggest heroin rings in the city. The streets were cleaned up. I’m not saying you’re wrong. It’s just how would we ever go about proving it’s all related?”
I let out a breath. His willingness to listen frees up my mind to start piecing story threads together. That bust he’s talking about—the city was rid of its most notorious criminals. But maybe someone has survived and had their pickings of a marketplace conveniently cleared of competitors. “In the comic, the next steps are catching smugglers on the boat and chasing the White Rabbit. I think we’d be smart to look at the shipping logs. Stake out the warehouse. Search to see if there are connections to China.”
Matteo nods slowly. “As it stands, I’m set to interrogate the man from the warehouse who had the rabbit on his hoodie. It was painted on. We just need to figure out why, or if he saw the person responsible. If all this is more than coincidence, we’re also possibly looking for a double agent. Maybe that’s why our Golden Arrow can’t come to the police,” Matteo adds.
I give one nod, unwilling to comment. It’s true. If we are following this story to its extent, we are also looking for a dirty cop. I keep thinking this seems designed for . . . well, me. Like the Golden Arrow expects me to put together these clues, and it’s unsettling.
Matteo shrugs. “I’m just glad you stumbled upon me in the coffee shop to help us out. We’d have no clue without you. We’ll call it divine providence until we see a reason to think otherwise. Ready to go?” He drains the rest of his cup, and I follow suit.
> “We’ll review what you know about your coworkers in the car. Yours or mine?” He pats his pants pockets, looking for the little notebook he carries everywhere.
“Let’s take mine,” I reply. But as we walk briskly to the door, I can’t help but feel oddly sad about leaving. Though this whole case is complicated, my thoughts feel more in order here, in this quiet place with this quiet man. There’s something serene that would possibly become addictive. I can picture sitting with Matteo, each of us with a book in front of the fireplace . . . and I slam the door shut on that vision. Again I am reminded that Matteo isn’t just some guy I keep hanging out with. We have a crime to solve, and we are both in uncharted territory.
CHAPTER 14
“So we’re looking for a costume, a cape, anything that would suggest knowledge about drugs and crime, and Hooded Falcon anything,” Matteo reminds me on the doorstep of Kyle’s house.
“Roger that. I hope you’re ready for geek immersion.”
As the door opens, I school my features, trying to look like I’m not snooping in my coworkers’ lives in order to solve a drug-related crime spree. We make it perhaps two feet inside before we’re attacked by geekery. A small herd of people descends on us wielding wands and a large floppy brown hat—bringing forcefully to mind the time I was attacked by geese at MacArthur Park. I hate nature.
Before I can defend myself, the large floppy hat lands on my head, covering my eyes, and the darn thing starts to sing. When the hat ceases its wagging, it crows, “Better be . . . Hufflepuff!” much to the delight of those standing by. I recognize Kyle’s sarcastic snort.
“I would have bet Slytherin.” Most definitely Kyle. I lift the brim.
“You’d better be glad I don’t have my rubber-band gun, Kyle. Plus, what a lame welcome. I’m obviously a Gryffindor. I demand a retrial.”
A titter of laughter ripples around the group, and the hat is replaced on my head. It does its jiggly dance, and I stand patiently until it crows, “Better be . . . Gryffindor!” More laughter as it’s pulled back off and transferred to Matteo’s head.
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