There’s a brief loud ripping sound, then a crash and a thump that sounds a lot like someone falling off a chair onstage. The hell? This isn’t in Operation Janeway anywhere.
L pulls my arm out of my socket, requiring me to climb over people to get out of our seats. All around me in the dark, mass hysteria reigns. Chairs clatter to the floor. I can only vaguely see L’s form as we plow through the rest of the row into the aisleway. The emergency exit is the only source of light in the ballroom now.
The auctioneer tries feebly to calm people using the PA system, talking about an orderly exit, when all the lights flood back on. Pandemonium ceases; everyone freezes midflight. Chairs are everywhere, people and costume pieces scattered. The auctioneer waves a hand. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Someone just bumped the bank of lights. We can all settle down now and return to order.”
I think I see Ryan hurtling past the hulking form of Casey Junior, sitting and moaning on the stage like he’s been sucker punched in the dark.
“That was weird,” I grouse, rubbing at my temple.
L is still on high alert. I can feel her vibrating next to me. “More than weird. That was a diversion. Look at the stage.”
My eyes trail over the covered tables to the round one where they set the large print after the presentation. My print. The one with the journals and the evidence in it . . . or the remnant of what was once the beautiful piece. I gasp. No, no, no. The canvas sags open, a gaping slice straight through the middle. The top and bottom curl away, revealing the back of the frame. No journals. Nothing. Gone. But . . . I didn’t see anyone. Not a White Rabbit. Not a Golden Arrow. Not a damn thing.
“The painting! The journals!” I spin to L. “What do we do?”
“Hang on.” L looks to Shwanda’s corner, then to the corner with Amy Blondonis. They exchange complicated hand gestures, and her shoulders relax a fraction. “Unless someone went through the ceiling, I don’t think anyone made it through an exit. The girls gave me the all clear, which means the doors haven’t been opened. The thief is still here.”
And I still have a chance to slay this monster. Good thing I have my ass-kicking heels on. “I need to get to that microphone.”
I make my way as fast as I can up the side of the stage and walk across to the auctioneer, who eyes me with alarm. It could be the blood oozing down my face. Or my disheveled appearance. Who knows?
“It’s okay; I work for Genius. I need to make an announcement.” I step up to the microphone and address the audience. “Someone call security. We need to keep the doors closed. One of the items has been destroyed, and the person responsible may have an item of interest—”
I don’t even get to finish. There is a second scuffle, this time by the back door. Abandoning my announcement, I race to the edge of the stage in time to see the long blonde hair of Amy Blondonis diving into the center of a circle of costumed bystanders, her fingers grasping just shy of the shirt of a figure who bolts through the back door.
“L! We have to go! He’s getting away!” I leap off the stage, only to find Latifah already racing through the crowd, her ample curves and ample height no match for the flummoxed herd of attendees. Behind me I hear several people take up the cry as they see the damaged painting, but we’re already off and away, chasing after our villain.
“Which one is it? Arrow or Rabbit?”
“I don’t know!” I’m yelling to be heard over the pandemonium as we careen around a group of six-foot dragons and scramble through the back door. Amy and Shwanda are in hot pursuit, just the glimpse of a figure up ahead, wearing a big black leather jacket and a black ball cap pulled low over the face.
I’m impressed at the speed Latifah manages in her five-inch stilettos. Mine are inches shorter, and I’m barely making muster. Amy Blondonis dodges costumed folks in the small hallway, yelling something I can’t hear or understand.
“What do we do?” I gasp, already tiring. We’re approaching the exhibition hall, and I groan inwardly. There’s no way to track this person if they make it in there. We’re sunk.
“In gaming terms, we are going to Leeroy Jenkins the shit out of this bitch,” Latifah yells. “Hold my wig.” She yanks the confection right off her head, exposing the wig cap as she runs, and throws it over her shoulder at me. “You find a way to navigate. I’m going to catch this mother.” In an unbelievable burst of speed, L is at the heels of Amy Blondonis.
“Navigate. Navigate. I’ve got to navigate?” I’m not even sure what that means. Eyes on the ground, maybe? Up. I need to get up above to see the Golden Arrow. I need the Genius booth.
Not two seconds later, Shwanda screeches past, taking an alternate route. I hope L is trying to circle around to cover the other exits.
Yells and a large crash explode from within Artists’ Alley, likely our villain having a hell of a time shaking Amy and Latifah. My suspicions are confirmed when a shout rises above the general murmur of the crowd and I see a booth topple not two hundred yards to my right.
I need to find something to climb on. My eyes alight on the huge Genius banner. It’s held by a PVC frame and attached to the ceiling with cables. There is no way it’s safe, but it’s sitting on top of the booth, so I sprint for it.
“MG!” I hear my name shouted, but I can’t spare time to look. I need to get eyes on the ground, and it needs to be now. Not even bothering to explain, I burst through the line of people waiting for pictures with characters, practically bowling over Captain Genius before I right myself and race to the back table.
Tej stands ramrod straight, his eyes round with fear. “MG, what the hell are you doing?”
I don’t answer; I vault—well, really I slide and bounce—over the folding table into the back area and grab on to the booth frame.
“Lift me up.” I pull Tej’s arm.
“What? No! What the—” The last words are muffled because I’ve used the table to climb onto Tej’s shoulders before hefting myself onto the roof of the booth. It sways underneath my feet, and I grab the PVC frame holding the banner, praying that it will hold my weight steady. It does, and I breathe a visceral sigh of relief, even with the floor swaying many feet below me.
I gather my bearings and recognize a huge Sea Witch racing down the next aisle. “Up here! L!” I frantically wave until Latifah looks up and catches sight of me.
“Which way?” Latifah searches the crowd in front of the Genius booth.
“I don’t know! I . . .” I’m scanning the crowd and happen to catch sight of a dark jacket turning the corner. “Over that way! Artists’ Alley, wearing a red top hat now!” The jacket looks to be the same size and shape as the one I saw in our chase.
Surely L can catch our thief. I have clear eyes on the figure, and we have hundreds of feet to the main entrance. I glance up again, pondering why the figure in the jacket doesn’t seem to be going toward the main entrance, and freeze.
“Latifah! The fire exit! He’s headed to the fire exit!” There’s no way L heard me. I can’t think of anything else to do, so I yell, “Stop that masked—er, hatted man!” I’ve always wanted to say that. Too bad we’re in a room full of masked men. Chaos breaks out beneath me.
And now there’s nothing left to do but shimmy down the booth, chuck my heels to the side, and sprint as fast as I can toward the fire exit.
It’s not pretty. I’m tearing through booths, clothing and toys are flying everywhere, and I’m just yelling blanket apologies as I run. I careen around a corner and spot the fire door. No one has gone through yet, or the alarm would be ringing. I slide on the floor, intent on my goal. In front of me, a dark figure bursts through the back curtain of a booth and sails into the aisleway looking over his shoulder.
I glance too and see an irate Amy Blondonis hopping through the mess of a booth, her dress caught on the booth itself. Our thief in the jacket straightens, looks at the door, then bolts. I’m outdistanced and outpaced, and there’s no way I can reach the figure before he’s in the open.
“Stop!” I
scream, nothing else at my disposal. I take a risk. “We know you’re the White Rabbit! There are police outside that door. This is a setup!”
The hat turns in my direction, and the person’s steps falter. It’s enough to shift their focus to me, just enough time for L to save the day.
In slow motion, a monstrous Sea Witch rises from the tangled curtain of a booth. Latifah steps forward, holds her arm out the booth exit and across the narrow aisle, and clotheslines the fleeing thief. At the same time, a black stiletto heel flies in from the other direction, landing with a solid thunk against the back of our perpetrator’s head. It’s enough to knock the person to the ground, facedown on the carpet.
“That’s right, bitch. You don’t mess with Shwanda!”
Shwanda fishes Amy out of the crumpled booth, sans one shoe.
L is already using one of the belts from a clothing booth we demolished to truss up the victim.
The world rushes in, and I look around, realizing we’ve essentially stopped San Diego Comic-Con. There are at least five cell phone cameras pointed in our direction and not a small number of irate booth owners storming toward us.
“We need to call the police,” I say.
“Shouldn’t we look for the journals first? You know, since we’re trying to use them to keep ourselves out of jail?” L’s chest heaves, my gorgeous creation hanging half off her body. The costume looks like it’s been hit by a tsunami.
“Right. Yes.” I surge forward. I want those journals. I need those journals.
L grunts as she flips the squirming body on the ground over, then goes still. I pounce, searching the outside jacket pockets for the journals. For anything when I realize that L’s not just waiting. She’s . . . freaked out.
“What—” The words die on my lips the moment I see the criminal’s face.
It’s not Rideout. It’s not Tony Munez. It’s not even Officer James.
Her face.
Agent Sosa’s dark-brown eyes meet mine from the floor. “Hello, Ms. Martin,” she says conversationally. As if we’ve just run into each other in a bar and not run through countless booths and over countless Wookiees in a chase scene that should be in some campy meta musical episode of Supernatural.
But it doesn’t make any sense. Why would Agent Sosa be involved in this? Did we tackle an officer giving chase by mistake? I don’t think so. Why would she want the journals? My first inclination is to let her up, but my gut churns. She’s the one person I dismissed because she wasn’t an integral part of Matteo’s team. But she’d been at every scene with the DEA. And has access to the interviews and the suspects. And probably Matteo’s text about my suspicions of the painting at auction. My heart flips over as I think about Song Yee. The dawning crashes like the space shuttle in The Martian—I want to hit my own head with my hand, but my hands are still splayed on her jacket, holding her down.
I don’t have to wonder what to do for long, because from behind me a voice I recognize very, very well rises above the chaos.
“Don’t anyone move. I’m Detective Kildaire of the LAPD, and as far as I’m concerned, all of you are under arrest.”
CHAPTER 27
“Matteo!” I’m delighted and mortified to see him in front of me. “You came!” I note with distaste that Detective Rideout is present, along with a few other police wearing San Diego uniforms.
“Yes, I got your text . . . I also found you on a surveillance tape at a warehouse, as well as your fingerprints on some items of interest in a box of comic tear sheets. You failed to mention that when you told me about the painting.”
I wince.
He spares me a quick glance, then back to Agent Sosa. His eyebrows shoot up as recognition dawns on his face.
“Kildaire, get this crazy woman off of me. We’re in pursuit of a suspect; they tackled me by mistake.” The police behind Matteo shuffle around, gearing up for action, instantly on alert for a person of interest.
“No, you are the suspect,” I argue back, turning to Matteo. “Don’t let her go. I promise I’m right.” It makes sense. She had access to the drugs. She had access to the reports. Matteo asked her to watch Yee’s interview, and she probably saw the Casey interview too. Enough to know we were on her trail. This explains her icy disdain for me at the party. How she didn’t want me taking a picture of Anthony Munez. Maybe afraid I’d put two and two together and recognize the similar dark eyes, the same straight nose. Only I didn’t. Not until now, when I could study her face up close. Sosa. A married name. I’d been looking for one White Rabbit, but she is the protégé—a family business. I remember the day James handed her a baggie at the warehouse. And when I heard Officer James admit to interfering in the case, potentially committing murder. And though I was wrong in assuming Rideout, I was right on all other counts.
Matteo’s gaze rakes my face, taking in the blood covering my cheek. His shoulders relax momentarily when he realizes I’m not mortally wounded, but the royally pissed look doesn’t take long to surface again. He helps me up, then squats down next to Sosa, placing a restraining hand on her back to keep her prone while he continues speaking. “I am going to give you thirty seconds to explain what went on here before you’re all taken to the station. MG, you told me you wouldn’t do anything stupid. Assaulting an officer qualifies as really stupid.” There’s no hint of a smile or smirk in his gorgeous hazel eyes.
I have to gather myself, heart hammering inside my chest. I’m surprised my ribs contain it. This is where the rubber meets the road. I need to lay it all out and hope Matteo believes me. Forgives me for doing it on my own. I take a breath and recap how I texted him to encourage the leak and lure the Golden Arrow and/or the White Rabbit to the auction.
The story tumbles from my lips. The auction, the chase.
“I was attacked,” Sosa interjects. “I arrived just as the lights went out. Someone shoved me through that doorway. I was giving chase.” She does have a lump rising on her cheek. But so do I. Shit went down in that room; it’s not a stretch of the imagination that someone’s elbow caught her face as she dove out the door.
She’s pretty convincing. I have the slightest moment of self-doubt. Could I have seen this wrong? No. The story fits.
I can’t read Matteo’s face. He’s Detective Kildaire all the way right now. He looks to each of us in turn. Weighing my testimony. Assessing. “And you all”—Matteo motions to Amy, Shwanda, and Latifah—“just thought that rather than waiting for security or calling the police, you’d ruin merchandise and put lives at risk by chasing a thief through a convention by yourselves?”
No one answers, but all eyes turn to me. The captain goes down with the ship. “It’s my fault. Waiting at the auction. This whole idea. The chase just . . . happened. I’m sorry about that.” But I caught one of the suspects we’ve been searching for. That has to count for something, right?
I can hardly bring myself to meet Matteo’s eyes, but when I do, I wince. There’s condemnation in his gaze, but beyond that, there’s hurt. Betrayal. Maybe a semibroken heart. And definitely broken trust. I feel as badly about that as anything. It’s hard to breathe, like someone is sitting on my chest. I did the right thing, but I’ll have to pay the price.
Matteo’s mouth is a thin line. “You’re going to have to come in for questioning.”
My shoulders sink slightly, but I take a deep breath. “I realize that. And I’m ready to accept my punishment.”
Matteo’s gaze flicks away like he can’t keep looking at me. He grunts and rises to his feet. “Fine. Rideout, call Officer James. Tell him we need holding cells for questioning.” He motions to two officers who step forward and lift Agent Sosa off the ground. The snap of handcuffs is audible as they tighten around her wrists.
But I can’t get past the mention of Officer James. We cannot go into custody with him around. We’ll end up dead for sure. “Wait! You can’t!”
The cops stop what they’re doing and face me again, most wearing expressions that say they clearly think I’m off my ro
cker. I clear my throat and drop my voice so that only Matteo can hear me. “Um, you can’t have Officer James involved. He’s been working with the White Rabbit.”
Matteo rocks back on his heels like I’ve slammed him bodily. “What?”
“Lawrence and I saw him in the warehouse.”
“Officer James has been doing patrols. That does not mean he’s dealing drugs.”
My head shakes back and forth before he’s finished speaking. “We heard him say that he’d helped make it look like Yee hung himself in his cell.”
Matteo’s eyes widen, a hint I’m breaking through the natural detective skepticism. I get the sense that not many people know the details about that, certainly not the public.
Feeling faint hope he’ll believe me, I continue, “Look, all I can tell you is what I heard. I know it’s my word against his, but—no, wait. I heard something else. Something you can use to check it out. He asked that money be wired to his offshore account. Matteo, that would be proof, right?”
Matteo’s expression is still shuttered. He is silent for a count of five, in which I don’t move or breathe. Then he turns to his partner and says, “Rideout, call the captain. Apprise her of the situation. Have Officer James put into custody pending investigation as well. We can cite two eyewitnesses until we get a look at his financials. Better yet, ask her to confiscate his phone also.”
Rideout studies me, and I’m expecting some sort of remark, but he just looks . . . rattled. Ashen-faced, he turns and lifts his cell to his ear, presumably to make a call to the captain.
The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 1) Page 28