Matteo searches my eyes in that “more than professional” manner again that makes my heart turn to electric goo. “No, I mean, are you asking me to the work party for you or for the case?”
Applause fills the air around us as yet another act finishes up. I haven’t even heard the song or seen the performer—the world always falls away when I’m with Matteo. I’m also not sure how to respond to his question. I’m not going to lie to myself; I want Matteo to come with me. I want to see him in a hot comic-inspired costume. I want to dance with him, laugh with him, do a normal couples-type thing with him . . . Only we aren’t a normal couple.
We’re a pretend couple, and we’re trying to solve a thirty-year-old mystery. Unless I make a move. My thoughts distill. This may be my opportunity to change the pretend part, even if we have to wait until after the case is over to follow through. That’s assuming we all live through this and no one gets arrested. I am not wearing a jumpsuit; orange clashes terribly with my hair.
I put on my big-girl panties and answer him honestly. There’s that candor thing again. “Both.”
He lets out a breath, and I see relief mixed with another emotion on his face. Anxiety? He reaches over and puts his hand on my knee like he did while watching Star Wars, and he gives it a small squeeze before returning it to the table. “Deal.”
My heart stutters in my chest again. He’s glad I asked him for me and not just for work.
“Wasn’t that wonderful, ladies and gents? Another round of applause. You’re really going to love this next one too, but first, I wanted to say a special hello to my dearest friend . . .” Gold sequins glint in the spotlight, and my attention is drawn to Latifah as she struts back onto the stage . . . and the double take she does when she lays eyes on Matteo. Uh-oh. This is definitely not when L usually reappears. Not the night to go off script. This could be bad. So, so bad. Here I am trying to keep these two apart, and Latifah is literally going to land in our laps. I can only pray that Matteo doesn’t recognize Lawrence in drag.
I smile grimly as a vision in gold sequins sashays across the crowded floor in our direction. “I guess you’re about to meet my friend, Latifah.”
I see understanding dawn on his face the moment before he turns in the booth and comes face-to-bustier with Latifah. I say my prayers.
“Hello, sugar,” she purrs into the microphone. “It seems my sweet girl here has brought Atlanta brisket for dinner instead of a hamburger.” The crowd roars with good-natured laughter as Latifah makes a big show of sizing up Matteo’s shoulders.
She holds up one hand, showing off her long golden nails. “Don’t you know this is a bachelorette party? You are being very naughty by crashing it. Should I send you to my room?”
She winks at me, then squeezes Matteo’s shoulders one more time before doing a dramatic shiver and wandering back to the stage. “Whew, I am burning up in here. This man sandwich is hot!” She throws another wink back at me. “You just let me know if you need help with it, sugar.” She sashays back up to the stage.
Matteo is beet red now; I can even tell in the dark. Even as much as I’m freaking out, this is hilarious. I try not to laugh, but it’s difficult when the table literally shakes with the mirth of the other girls.
“You should see your face,” Nina says in gasps. Then she reaches around me and grabs Matteo’s hand. “But you are such a good sport about it.”
He really is. I offer him a small smile. “Okay, now we might be even for you crashing my evening.” I relax just a little, realizing that Matteo doesn’t recognize Lawrence as Latifah.
He rubs a hand over his hair and over the scruff on his cheeks. “You drive a hard bargain.”
I shrug and sip my beer. “If you don’t pay no tolls, you don’t get no rolls.” And at his baffled look I set down my beer. It’s time to get Matteo out of here before Latifah comes back. “Sorry. Men in Tights reference. And didn’t you have case developments to discuss?”
He shoots a look over my shoulder to Nina, who is clearly involved in counting her money with the rest of the table to figure out how much they have to tip the performers. He scoots in closer to me and bows his head so he’s closer. To anyone else, it would look like a lovers’ tête-à-tête. I shake off another ridiculous pang of longing over our pretend status.
Matteo doesn’t seem likewise conflicted right now. He’s back to business. “It’s about the suspect with the painted rabbit on his hoodie. He didn’t see the person who did it—dressed all in black except for some sort of cape. We ID’d the suspect, but it took a long time to find any reason the Golden Arrow would have marked him as different. We were looking, but nothing stood out. No priors, clean record, not even a parking ticket.”
“That’s it! He must have help on the inside. No one has a clean parking record in LA.”
Matteo rolls his eyes. “Anyhow, I just finished looking through his family’s records, and I came across something interesting. Do you recognize this name? It’s his father.”
I lean over and glance at the phone screen Matteo has pointed in my direction. “Song Yee?” I ponder this. “No, never heard of him. Yee, is that Korean?”
“His family is from China, all legally immigrated in 2012. Midfifties, married, teenage son named Huong.”
The White Rabbit. I told Detective Rideout and Agent Sosa I thought there was a connection to China. My Spidey sense tingles. It’s more than just a coincidence. I don’t understand the drug part; that’s Matteo’s wheelhouse. Maybe this kid isn’t just a drug dealer. Maybe his family produces the drugs. Ships them in to the dad or the son, who deals it. This would certainly fit the White Rabbit’s story line. Maybe the Golden Arrow has tagged the White Rabbit; maybe it’s that cut-and-dried. Over and done.
“Should I have heard of Song Yee?” I ask. There must be a reason Matteo is asking. Some connection to our case other than China.
“Not necessarily . . . except Song just bought into a printing company. He only owns a small portion, all on the up-and-up. Nothing shady about buying in, but I happened to look into the company’s clients, and—”
“A printing company?” I’m confused.
“Marvelous Printing.”
I sit back and think. My gaze meets Matteo’s as it finally dawns on me. “They print some of our comics. They print The Hooded Falcon.”
A beat filled with hooting, hollering, and “Uptown Funk” stretches between us as I absorb the information. I sit back and take a sip of my now warm beer. I bought it only to nurse something while I watched L, but I really wish it was something stiffer at this point.
“Could this be how the Golden Arrow discovered Yee, or as I’d bet, the White Rabbit?” I ask.
“I hoped your creative genius could figure that out.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” I pull off my glasses and tap them on the table while I think. “This has to be what the Golden Arrow knew about Yee’s son. Too coincidental. But I’m still puzzled how this ties in to any of the other stuff. Maybe Huong or his father could simply be the White Rabbit we’re looking for. It’s not exactly like the comics, but they could be importing drugs from their family in China and dealing them out of the warehouse. But . . . how could this kid being a drug dealer relate to the printing of The Hooded Falcon?”
“We questioned him this afternoon—Huong Yee, the son. He’s still in custody and had some interesting information to share in exchange for a plea deal. He told us that there was a cop working with his ring. And he’d give the identity in exchange for us dropping his charges. Not only that, he didn’t think the drugs came from Mexico like Sosa’s theory. We’ve arranged to speak with a judge on his behalf. I’d like you present when we question him again, for the plea deal. We’ve asked Agent Sosa to review the tape of the interview and be present for the next one too. She knows these bigger rings better than I do.”
“The dirty-cop thing plays right into the comic book story line, but how could the Golden Arrow have known that?”
Mat
teo shrugs. “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe you’re right and the Yees are the White Rabbit, and that’s all he meant to show us. But it sure seems more than a coincidence. The Hooded Falcon crops up yet again.”
I tip the half-empty beer to the side, then let it fall back to the table. What I wouldn’t give for my red ball and a desk wall to think right now. “But that doesn’t make any sense. What does a printing press have to do with the drugs?” My mind works a mile a minute, looking for the thread of the story. Even if one of the Yees is the White Rabbit, neither of them seems old enough to be the same White Rabbit Casey Senior was chasing.
“I don’t know, but we’re going to add surveillance to the printing press until we figure it out.”
Matteo jumps slightly as his phone buzzes in his hand. Frown lines crease his brow as he flips through a message. He shoots me a look, then glances back at his phone.
Nina leans over my arm and sloshes a drink toward Matteo. “You guys look waaaay too serious. This is a party.” She executes a cute little wiggle in the seat next to me. “And, MG, your friend Lawrence was so good tonight. Your costume was divine!”
Matteo’s eyebrows draw together, and I realize he’s put two and two together. “Your friend . . . Lawrence.” I can literally see comprehension dawning.
I sip my beer and try to look innocent.
Matteo sighs. “Well, I don’t have time to talk to him, er, her, right now. Probably tomorrow by the time this all gets wrapped up, but I’ll tell Rideout I located him. Her. Lawrence.” He motions to his phone, picks up his water, and salutes the table. “My apologies, ladies. I didn’t want to crash the party, just stopped by to say hello. MG, I’ll catch you later?”
I spin to face him, relief and curiosity warring for dominance in my heart. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah, that was work.” He stands, straightening his tie. His eyes slide past me, and I can tell he doesn’t want to say anything in front of our audience. So I follow him out the door and to the parking lot.
It smells like a summer night just before a storm; a wet heaviness hangs in the air, and the clouds seem charged.
Matteo vibrates with an anxious energy. “There’s a ship off schedule that just pulled into the dock outside the warehouse. It could be nothing, but patrol has been watching specifically for something like this.”
“But you think it’s something?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure. Detective Rideout and Agent Sosa think we’re chasing our own tail and wasting resources monitoring this warehouse. The drug operations know it’s under surveillance, so Sosa thinks they’d never continue to use it.” Matteo runs a hand down his face.
I chew my lip. “I can see her point.” I hesitate. “But . . . the dock. The warehouse. The rabbit, then the boat. It’s all the progression in the book. I think the ship thing is our best bet at following the Hooded Falcon. At least until we figure out the printing press angle. If you stop watching the warehouse, what happens if we miss the next clue? What happens if we miss the White Rabbit himself?”
“That’s what I’m thinking too.” He tucks the phone back in his pocket. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”
I cross my arms. “What if you miss it? The clue, I mean. You would have missed the white rabbit without my help.”
He shoots me a look. “You’re not coming.”
Oh yes. I am.
“I didn’t say I’m coming with you. I just asked what if you miss a clue.” I watch enough true crime TV to know that he can’t take a civilian along, but if I just happen to feel like strolling in the warehouse district of LA at night, well, then he couldn’t stop me from exercising my basic rights.
He studies me, sensing a trap. His phone buzzes again, and he starts walking to his car, pushing the unlock button on his fob. The lights flash on a dark sedan that I gather is his undercover car. “I’ll call you once I’m there and see what’s going on.”
“You should probably get going. Toodles.” I wave at him and turn, making a show of walking back toward Hamburger Mary’s.
“Michael-Grace . . .” Matteo can tell something’s up.
“What? I already said I know I’m not going with you.”
Of course I’m going. Just not with him. I’m the Captain freaking Janeway of my own destiny, and if he thinks I’m going to let him or that jerk Detective Rideout screw with my crime scene, with the masked avenger masquerading as my favorite hero, when it’s me who tipped them off in the first place? Not to even mention the fact that Rideout thinks it’s me working with the Golden Arrow? Forget Captain Janeway. Trekkies unite and all due respect, but she has to play by Starfleet’s rules. I shove aside the niggling thought that I should play by the rules. I need to be a rulebreaker. A vigilante hero of my very own. I am the Han frickin’ Solo of my destiny now.
CHAPTER 18
It takes me a moment to debate. If I stay, I could catch L before the police talk to him. If I leave, I won’t get a chance to talk to Lawrence until after my midnight stroll in East LA. I don’t have time to dither, and Matteo is already at his car. My come-to-Jesus meeting with L is going to have to wait.
I yank my phone out of my purse as I run, ricocheting off any number of men, women, queens, and the rainbow in between as I go. Normally I’d apologize. Right now I have to get to my Millennium Falcon and get to a nunnery—er, warehouse.
I’m texting and running, a huge no-no, but manage to get one sent off to Lawrence.
Something big came up, had to go. You were wonderful. Need to talk after your show, will text you later.
I’m startled when the phone buzzes not a few moments later. Usually L is MIA during a show. L’s message makes me laugh out loud. Well you wouldn’t want it to be small, would you? Have fun, I know I would.
Oh, L. Only he could make me truly belly laugh in the middle of chasing a police detective chasing a masked avenger chasing criminals unknown. L better still love me after I explain the mess I’ve gotten him into.
I skid in my heels on the pavement as I run down the poorly lit aisle toward the Hurtling Turd, now thusly dubbed the Millennium Turd. I am, after all, Han Solo. I catch sight of a set of taillights pulling out of the parking lot and breathe a huge sigh of relief. The lights belong to a dark new-model sedan, and I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that Matteo is behind the wheel.
I slide into my car and pray over the steering wheel, Please, oh please, oh please, start. The engine cranks on the first try, and I crow in triumph. Oh, how I’d give my left arm for light speed at this moment.
It’s only several moments more before I too am out on the main street on my way to the warehouse. In fact, it’s not too long at all before I can see the dark sedan ahead of me in traffic. Okay. I can do this. This is about stealth. I need to stay far enough back in traffic so he can’t see—
My phone rings.
I don’t need to look to know it’s Matteo, but I look just so I can see his name on my phone. “I don’t answer phone calls,” I announce to my passenger seat, where the phone flashes. I reach over and send it to voice mail.
Surely he can’t see me. There’s no way he can see me. I intentionally let a huge pickup truck cut me off.
My phone rings again, and again I send it to voice mail. “I don’t answer calls.”
Matteo didn’t say the words “You cannot show up at the crime scene” to me. He just said I wasn’t going with him. Big difference. He must have figured out my loophole.
My phone dings my text message tone. Smart man. But I’m smarter. I glance at the phone, where Matteo’s name is lit up on my display. There’s a one-word text underneath: No.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Matteo,” I say in my best stewardess voice, picking up the phone. “I don’t text and drive either.”
I click off the phone, toss it back on the passenger seat, and proceed in a blessedly quiet car toward the coast.
I decide I can’t quite shadow Matteo directly to the warehouse district. Traffic thins. I get off an exit early and weave my wa
y through dark streets, picking up my phone again and using my GPS to guide me.
“Okay, no big deal. Remember? I’m Han Solo.” I throw the Millennium Turd into park and switch off my lights. Except now I remember that Han was supposedly frozen in carbonite for a year before his rescue, so maybe not the best battle cry.
I’m about a block east and a block north of the warehouse, and it’s dark. Like the inside of Dexter’s mind dark. Patches of low clouds block any moonlight, and surprise, surprise, the streetlights in this part of the city work only every so often. I reach over and grab my phone, wondering if I should predial 911. I mean, it’s not like there are just people lurking on every corner looking to grab the next person that walks by. I don’t want to be paranoid. But I also don’t want to be stupid. I already know there might be some legitimately bad people in this area getting ready to move hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of illicit substances.
I debate only a moment longer. Somewhere out here is a masked avenger. I’d bet my near-mint copy of The Black Canary number 1 on it. The heels of my shoes crunch as I step gingerly onto the gritty, cracked pavement, and I close my door as quietly as I can . . . which feels like the decibel level of approximately 6.7 air horns. I need desperately to get a new car. The Millennium Turd is just not a stealth vehicle. Speaking of, I’m not really dressed for stealth myself. The dark colors that happen to make up my outfit are sparkly as well. I’m about as well hidden as a disco ball at a flashlight festival.
I scoot across the street and into the deeper shadows afforded by the taller warehouse. Then I creep up the block. I jump out of my skin only once when something skitters away from me into a broken window, and once when a car door slams farther down the street. I see one other person hurrying in the opposite direction. I stay where I am, stock-still, until he passes. Not a few seconds later, a car engine roars to life, and headlights spill against the metal buildings.
After what seems like an eternity, I ease around the corner of the warehouse I’m looking for. A large semi idles in front of the huge bay doors, a shipping container strapped to the flatbed trailer. A crew of maybe eight men pack the container in an efficient manner, though I can’t identify the crates from this distance. I wish I owned binoculars. I’m hoping against hope that this is the White Rabbit’s crew. All of this will be over, and I can move on with my life, and my best friend and I won’t have to be the number-one suspects in a crime Lawrence knows nothing about.
The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 1) Page 18