The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(14)
CHAPTER 6
“So are you British?”
“What? No. Why would you even ask that?” I’m digging through the filing cabinet in the airless room that serves as our library of past work.
“You have one of those short dogs, and you have a picture of a telephone booth on your desk.”
“First off, it’s a TARDIS. Second off, Trogdor isn’t short. Well, he is, but it’s on purpose.”
“A . . . TARDIS?”
I ignore him.
“Your desk and your card say ‘MG.’ You don’t like your first name?”
“Is this twenty questions? How would you like it if you had a girl’s name as a first name? I got called a boy all the way through elementary school. My first name is Michael-Grace. I don’t have a middle name. Doomed to a life of stumping fill-in forms.” I take a breath, realizing I’m dumping stuff on him that I usually keep to myself.
“No, I don’t like my name,” I say. “But it got me this job, anyway, because my boss thought I was a guy in the résumé portion. I guess all’s well that ends well.” I stop short of telling him that in my final interview with Edward Casey Junior, president of Genius Comics, he assumed I was a secretary. He actually asked me to get a pitcher of water and glasses for his meeting with Michael Martin, having missed the “Grace” portion of my name on my résumé. I’ve always wondered if the debacle contributed to my landing the job, and I spend every chance I can proving to him that despite my gender, I’m the best writer he has on staff.
“We’re supposed to be researching your theory, remember?” Not talking about my personal life. I pull out the plastic-covered book and set it on the table. I slap his hands away from touching it, shove a pair of disposable gloves from a box on the table into his hands, and slide a pair on my own before carefully slipping the comic out of the protective wrapping. This is why I don’t date non-nerds. I shudder to think of the skin oils that would find their way onto these beloved possessions—outsiders just don’t get the magic of a pristine issue.
With a scent of the ink and paper, I’m swept back to the first time I held The Hooded Falcon. Some girls get moony-eyed about first boyfriends. First kisses. Me? The boys called me a boy but wouldn’t hang out with me either. Well, at least until I was fifteen and the “girls” popped out. Then boys just wanted to hang out with my chest. No, for me it is comic books that make me weak in the knees.
I catch Matteo watching me. “Didn’t you say there’s a new development in the case that made you think of the comic book? Care to share it with the class so I know what I’m looking for?”
Matteo laces his fingers and leans his elbows on the table, bringing us closer together. “I need your help because I think someone here is in danger.”
I’m not sure if the tingle running down my spine is because of his words or his intense gaze locked on to my own.
“Danger?” I try to play it off and force a laugh. “Thanks, Professor Trelawney, for your prediction. Now you sound like the one in the comic book.”
“I mean it.” His gaze doesn’t change intensity, and another chill spills down my back. “I got the case file back from forensics today, and the note left at the scene? It references Genius Comics.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Is it?” Matteo’s eyes have a light of certainty in them, and it dawns on me how intimidating it would be to be interrogated by him. He comes off as this L.L.Bean catalog cover model, but there’s this depth of conviction in him that is gripping at moments. Muggle waters run deep apparently. I squint at him. Maybe I’ll upgrade him to Squib.
“You don’t have to be a Genius to chase the White Rabbit,” Matteo says.
I blink. “What?”
“That’s what it said. The note left at the crime scene. The ‘G’ in ‘Genius’ is capitalized.”
I see the Genius connection, sure, but my mind instantly jumps to the White Rabbit bit. The White Rabbit, a.k.a. the Hooded Falcon’s nemesis. Surely this note couldn’t be tying together drug dealers, my favorite comic book, and a White Rabbit–esque villain? Not possible. Okay, it’s possible. But highly improbable. Comic books don’t come to life. I know. I spent half my teenage years hoping for that very thing.
Detective Kildaire takes my silence as doubt. “See where I’m going? Genius Comics? You already confirmed for me that Genius Comics is the current producer of Hooded Falcon comics. And didn’t you say you thought the chalk outline looked like a rabbit? I looked at it, and I’m not as convinced it’s a rabbit, but maybe our vigilante is a lousy artist. Or White Rabbit could reference the street name for the specific brand of heroin these dealers are selling. Still waiting on lab results on whether or not it’s the same designer drug formula. We’ve had a rise in its popularity recently.”
My shoulders give an inch. Okay, relax, MG. No need to see boogeymen around every corner. This theory makes a lot more sense than the White Rabbit outline indicating the actual White Rabbit, THF’s nemesis.
“Unless . . . you have other theories tied to the comic?” His gaze is shrewd. He leans farther forward, bringing his face close to mine across the table. Can he read my thoughts that easily? “These criminals are bad guys. I know you understand that concept. I don’t want some overweight guy in spandex with a hero complex to get killed because he thinks it’d be fun to play superhero. Right now the drug rings are just pointing fingers at each other. And it could be that’s it and that I’m chasing phantoms. But. If this is a real person trying to live out some superhero fantasy connected to this comic, I’m not sure how long that will hold if this masked avenger continues his antics. I’m trying to take the shortcut if this is a real person trying to tell us something using this comic.”