“I didn’t know it. I guessed. But it’s good that the building is intact, right?”
“There’s a fair amount of smoke damage, but yes. Largely, it could have been worse.”
I sit back against my seat and stare out at the dark streets streaking past my window. “So . . . why would someone do that?”
Matteo looks tired. He draws a hand over his face. It’s a thinking face, but more than that, it’s a frustrated thinking face. “I don’t know. I have theories, but each seems as unlikely as the next.”
We’re almost back to the warehouse. I vaguely recognize the street we shot down on our way to the fire.
“Do you think this is the Yee connection? That somehow someone found out?” I ask.
Matteo is silent.
“But why would he burn Marvelous Printing?”
Matteo eases up behind my car and puts the sedan in park. “Again, I don’t know. It seems like it was for attention. Either way, I missed my mark tonight. And Detective Rideout isn’t happy with me. He can tell I’m . . . distracted right now.”
I’ve mucked things up more than that. No matter that it was two sets of lips doing the kissing, it was most definitely my idea to close the gap.
Matteo watches my face. Reading my mind. “Michael-Grace, I wouldn’t have traded that kiss for anything. It’s just . . . you could have gotten hurt. I let my feelings take precedence over my job, and my job, this case, is the most important thing right now, you know? Detective Rideout was right to call me on it. He also thinks that you somehow convinced me to be at the warehouse on purpose tonight. I don’t know why he’s so convinced that your motives aren’t pure, but tonight didn’t help disprove his theory. I told him he was crazy, but he’s threatened to bring our . . . involvement up to the captain.”
My face falls.
“MG, this case won’t always be between us. But we need to figure out what’s going on, and right now that’s more important than how I feel about a kick-ass girl I met in a coffee shop, okay?”
All of a sudden it feels like the end of a date. And not the good kind. Matteo is quiet. He looks spent, and I don’t doubt it’s been a long day for him. I fight the impulse to reach across the car. To reestablish the connection I felt earlier.
“Okay,” I say, making a production of putting my shoes back on my feet and jingling my keys.
Matteo takes a breath in, holds it for a few counts, and lets it back out. “MG?”
I turn to face him, keys in hand.
“You didn’t have anything to do with tonight, did you?”
I hate that he has to ask, and my heart falls further. “No.”
“And you don’t know who set the fire?”
“No. I would have told you.”
He nods slowly. At least I feel like he believes me, but he looks back up, and I can still see the smallest shred of doubt in those dark eyes. “Okay. It’s just that this is serious business. After today it means charges of breaking and entering. Arson. This has gone beyond tame wannabe-superhero stuff. It’s outright dangerous for everyone involved. There won’t be a slap on the wrist. This means jail time. Even if it ends up being one of your friends.”
I swallow and nod. Lawrence. Or one of my coworkers. Or major charges against me if someone—Rideout, the Golden Arrow, whoever—is trying to frame me like Matteo suggested. Serious business indeed. Suddenly the Golden Arrow seems scarier than the White Rabbit. More tangible. Closer to me, breathing down my neck. When did my superhero become a villain?
“I’m going to make sure your car starts.” Detective Kildaire is back.
“I guess you’ll call me when you have more information?”
He nods. “I’ll be in touch. Don’t say anything to anyone until you hear from me, okay?”
I open the door and step out into the night. After being ensconced in the car for more than an hour, it’s chilly in the damp quiet of the sleeping city. I have the strangest urge to lean back in and tell Matteo it’s going to be okay. My gut still says there’s something tied to the warehouse. Something we missed tonight because the Golden Arrow had other plans.
True to his word, he waits until my car sputters to life. Rather than refreshed, I feel like my damage bar is lower than ever. My shields are down. My heart is battered. This Friday night definitely has not turned out at all like I thought. And somewhere out there, our masked friend still runs free.
CHAPTER 20
Lawrence buzzes like a bee, cleaning up the station where he trimmed my hair while I’m ensconced in one of those bubble-orbit hair dryers with my foils. It’s too bad I’m here to ruin Lawrence’s day and maybe our friendship. It’s been three days since the fire at Marvelous Printing. The media has covered the fire as suspected arson and hasn’t publicly announced the Golden Arrow’s involvement. That doesn’t stop pictures of the burning arrow from showing up on Twitter or blog posts the police probably don’t want published. The Golden Arrow is gaining quite the cult following, truth be told. I’ve seen more than one post praising the person for “doing what the police couldn’t” and a few about people trying to contact the Golden Arrow to see if he needs a sidekick. People aren’t just fawning over him; they are contemplating following his example. Exactly what the police are hoping to avoid.
Radio silence from Matteo since Friday night, though I know Lawrence is on his short list. I’ve been on pins and needles, waiting for Matteo to show up at any moment, or at the very least call me to tell me he’s arresting my bestie. Finally, I couldn’t stand waiting. I told L I want to get a new color for the gala, and here I am. Lies of omission.
We’re just finishing making my hair Power-Up Blue, and I couldn’t love it more. Just shy of navy, and it screams superhero. Superman wishes he had hair this awesome.
I pretend to read through the new issue of The Hooded Falcon. The fire has set back production at Marvelous Printing. Nothing major damaged, but all the machines needed to be cleaned over the weekend. I got a call from Andy early this morning informing me that our limited run of Hooded Falcon origin books was lost in the fire. He dropped off a new test copy, straight off the press, just this morning, and he needs everyone on the team to sign off on the test copies today. It’s the only way the issue will be released in time for the thirtieth anniversary.
“Weight-of-the-world-type stuff?” Lawrence catches me staring out the window into the waning late afternoon light. The Monday rush hour is winding down, and the roads are quieter. It’s my favorite time of day—pensive. Not quite dark enough to need light, not quite light enough to see well, everything made of part shadow, part reflection. If I were a superhero, this would be the time of day I’d go crime fighting.
I sigh. “More like fate-of-the-world-type stuff.”
L arches one perfectly drawn brow at me. He sets down the broom, spins the chair next to me, and settles in it. “This sounds serious. Is there a shortage of sequins for my dress?”
Despite my anxiety, laughter bubbles out of me, and I instantly feel better. “No, I have all the material I need for your dress, you tall drink of water.”
“Is it Hot-Lanta?”
“Part of it.”
“Your date didn’t go well? I’ve been wondering why you haven’t texted gushing. Bad kisser? Fish lips?”
I think back to the “date” where we saw a drag show, kissed in an alcove, and missed catching the person who set off an explosion at a printing press. “It’s complicated. I like him. And he likes me. But the timing isn’t right.” Like we are just two normal people who met in a coffee shop. I sigh. Rip off the Band-Aid. “But that’s not what’s got me in a funk. Well, not all of it. L, we need to talk.”
“Girl, you’re not breaking up with me for that tramp down the street? He wouldn’t know navy from cyan.”
“No, definitely not. You’re still my best friend, but . . . I may not be yours after this.”
“I doubt you could make me hate you, M. What’s up?”
I bite my lip and toss the test copy o
f The Hooded Falcon onto the countertop with L’s styling tools. “Do you remember the journal you showed me? Well, I kind of broke my promise to you. I showed the copies to someone.”
Lawrence frowns at me, an expression I see so rarely, it makes me swallow in nervousness. “You showed someone the copies I gave you?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Michael-Grace, I knew you’d end up showing one of your nerdy friends. It’s not a big deal. I still have my journal, and you got your research.”
I close my eyes. “It wasn’t a nerdy friend. It was the police.”
“You . . . the police? Why on earth would you need to show sketches to the police?”
Go big or go home? If I’m going home, I’m going home big because everything tumbles out in a rush. “Because I’ve been helping investigate a rash of copycat comic book crimes. Matteo is a narcotics officer, and my boss was in for an interview. Matteo showed him the copies, and Casey Junior is convinced the new crimes are linked to drug dealers his dad was following before he died and that he was murdered by a crooked cop.” I swallow, nearly tossing my cookies onto the floor. “And you . . . were there. Casey Junior said you were involved. And you have a journal, so now you’re kind of a person of interest in the case, so I need to ask you some questions before the police show up to take you in for questioning.”
We both look at the door. I half expect to see Matteo marching into the little shop, furious that I’m interfering again. That would probably be the nail in the coffin for us romantically, and Rideout would definitely have his proof that I’m meddling in the case.
I refuse to look in the mirror or at Lawrence. Long moments pass. I shut my eyes, contemplating becoming a praying woman.
“That’s a lot to handle.” No sass. No character. Pure unfiltered Lawrence.
I open one eye. He’s still in the room with me and hasn’t bludgeoned me with a curling iron, so that’s a minor success. “I know.”
“You’ve had all that going on and you haven’t told me?”
My long-held breath explodes out of me. “The police told me to keep my involvement secret. There have been threats made against people involved in this case.”
“I see.” Sarcasm drips from his words. “Thanks for letting me know I’m involved.” Cue internal eye roll.
“I’m really sorry, L.” My voice sounds a little quavery. I will not cry.
He stands up, lets out a deep breath, and wipes his hands on his pants. “I guess what’s done is done. What do you need from me?”
“Are you mad?”
“Beyond pissed.”
“Are we okay, though?”
“We will be, eventually. Let’s work on keeping my ass out of jail first, shall we? You owe me some damn fine costumes for at least a year to make up for this.”
I offer a small smile that doesn’t extend much past my lips. “Deal. I need to know if you have any other journals, and . . . well, the police are going to ask for the journal, and I want to see it before they have it. I think we should copy it in case the crooked cop gets his or her hands on it.”
He moves off, removing his color-guard apron and tossing it on the counter as he goes. “I’ll go grab it. Come with and ask me whatever else you need to know.”
“Okay. Do you have any more journals or know where more of them are?”
“No, I was just given the one by Senior as a gift. Maybe he gave the others away. I don’t know. He was pretty eccentric. Maybe he hid them in a safe or something.”
That confirms my suspicions, but at least L is a second voice for that. I follow him up the narrow stairs in the back of the salon to his apartment. It’s cluttered with what I can describe only as bachelor queen kitsch. Pieces of costumes, wigs, piles of workout magazines, and dirty dishes scattered around a one-color-palette living room dominated by a TV and gaming system. “Okay. I also need to know about your relationship with Edward Casey Senior. I know you said you worked for him and he helped out, but his son seems to feel like it was more. Not in that way, but as in you guys spent a lot of time together?”
Lawrence digs through a box on the kitchen counter, muttering to himself. “I didn’t give you the journal, did I?”
“No, you made copies and took it back.” A tingle starts at the base of my spine.
“Maybe I put it in my closet up here.” He opens what should be a second smaller bedroom door to reveal his personal walk-in closet. Rows and rows of queen costumes. I rarely come in here; he keeps his current stuff downstairs. Lawrence has amassed an impressive collection of fabric.
I’m in awe, looking at a history of my costume design skills. I spy a hastily sewn drapey white evening gown with a stitch so crooked, my fingers itch to rework the entire thing. My first costume for L.
“L, do you keep all my costumes?”
“Of course I do. They’re works of art. Listen, I mean it. When you’re winning awards for costume design, I’m going to sell these for millions. MG originals.” He’s digging through a stack of papers on a side table.
It touches something inside me. I forget the case for a moment and run my hands along the fabric. This is why I love design. Each of these costumes allows the wearer to step into another skin. To be whoever they want for the night. It’s part of what I want to do with my job, and I bite my lip thinking about the promotion I may or may not get. As written right now, it doesn’t out-and-out include design time. I’d still be in limbo. If I, by some miracle, get the job, do I still want it?
“Do you think the queens were serious last night about paying me to make costumes?” My mind also flashes to Nina’s offer to hire me for Kyle’s costume. And her offer to introduce me to the theater costumers. Maybe there’s a simpler way to do what I want. If I’m willing to give up wanting to be an executive at Genius.
“You are my secret weapon,” he jokes. “Even if I’m pissed at you currently.”
“I’m serious. Do you think they’d hire me? If I quit my job or went part-time?”
Lawrence studies me from over a half stack of papers. “You want to talk about this now?”
“Yes.”
He shrugs. “You’ve been turning them down for years now. Most of them would jump at the chance. But you’d have to do mine first and then the others’.”
Isn’t this what Ryan was talking to me about? Being creative with my own solutions instead of hammering a square peg into a round hole? Who says I can’t do both? I have been. If I can costume part-time and write part-time, I won’t have to get the promotion. I won’t have to massage the job description. I can continue my work as a writer on the projects I love, continuing to look for opportunities at work, but not let that stop me from designing. Suddenly the Miss Her Galaxy competition holds new meaning. It’s not a test anymore. It’s the inaugural flight of my new decision. Let Andy have the promotion and kiss executive ass. I’m going to do what I am good at. I’m going to go into business for myself and design things I love for people I adore.
“It’s not here. Bedroom,” Lawrence says.
A dash of cold water on my thoughts. My fashion future needs to wait. We’re both moving quicker now, sensing something is off. Lawrence may be bachelor-messy, but he’s not careless. Especially not with a prized possession.
Lawrence practically tears through the box under his bed, tossing items onto his pillows. “I wouldn’t have put it somewhere else.”
“L . . .”
“Maybe in my closet.” He heads over there and paws through the junk on the floor. Old tennis racquets, a medicine ball, layers of glitter-camo something.
“Lawrence. You know last week how you thought someone had been in your apartment?”
Lawrence stops digging and turns to me.
“What if the Golden Arrow got your notebook?” I finish.
“Girl, this is bad. How would he even know that thing existed?”
I hesitate. “I told the police, and Casey Junior did say he thought his dad was killed by a cop.”
A shadow passes over Lawrence’s face. I wait for it to lift, but the gloom stays put. “That was thirty years ago. But if Junior is right and this is about his father, this is bad. Like really bad. And if the police are in on it, or in on it again . . .” He trails off, rubbing his hands over his face. “Did your boss really say he thought Casey Senior was murdered?”
The weight of that idea hangs on Lawrence’s frame, heavy as a millstone.
“Yes. He said he thinks the heart attack ruling on the police report was a cover-up.”
“I’d suspected, but of course, I couldn’t come forward. I was a homeless high-school-dropout drag queen. I figured everyone would think I was crazy.” He runs his hands over his face again and looks at the ceiling. “Casey Senior was definitely playing superhero on his own time. I just never knew that it was what he put in his comic books or that it got him killed.”
I sit on the bed in the purple-tinted sunshine streaming through the sheer paisley curtains, the roller shade beneath hanging lopsided and broken. Lawrence comes to sit next to me, and we both bask in the warmness of the sunshine for a moment, lost in thought.
L’s voice breaks the silence. “I was always a good kid, but my parents didn’t take kindly to me coming out. My dad was head of the psychology department at a state college, and my parents had dreams of me becoming a professor or a lawyer. I failed all my classes in school except theater. I’ve always known it’s what I wanted to do. Long story short, they kicked me out when I told them that I preferred men to women. I didn’t have anywhere to live or a way to pay for school, so I started doing drag shows. Back then it wasn’t as popular as it is now, and it took me a while to meet my real drag family. I fell in with a bit of a rough crowd at first—drugs, meaningless sex, sabotage—but it was a place to live, and I loved the stage. Anyway, one of the things they’d have me do to earn my rent was to steal stuff for them to sell. I didn’t love it, but I didn’t really have any options.”
“Lawrence, that is awful.”
He nods. “It wasn’t good. So there I was in this ritzy neighborhood, supposed to break into this house where the people were on vacation. I broke into a window, crawled in, and came face-to-face with Casey Senior. You can imagine my shock. I’d gotten the wrong house. I think he expected me to pull a gun or something, but I’ve never been made of material like that. So I apologized profusely, made up some ridiculous story about how I was dog-sitting for these people, forgot my key, and broke into the wrong house by mistake.” L gives a humorless chuckle. “He knew I was lying, of course, but he invited me to sit with him like I was a guest and not some skinny black kid who had just busted his window. He asked me my name, and I told him my real one, and when he asked what I was really doing, I told him the truth too. All of it. My parents, the queens, the drugs, the stealing. How we’d hit several houses in the neighborhood. I can’t explain it. The guy had this energy around him. He made you want to trust him with your story.”
The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 1) Page 20