The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(22)
“MG?” He’s peering into the car again, concern wrinkling his forehead. “Are you getting out?” I love and hate how familiar my name sounds on his lips, as if we’ve known each other for years and it’s normal for me to be interrogated on my lunch hour for funsies.
He ushers me from the car and through a set of glass double doors bearing the insignia of the LAPD. I’m so busy gawking at the people surrounding me in the lobby, I barely register when I’m handed a guest badge at the front desk. Clerks are carrying stacks of papers, officers typing reports into computers. And a few . . . saltier people are sitting in chairs lining the wall near the front desk—a homeless man with two suitcases and three coats, a teenage girl passed out with her hat over her face.
“We’ll go back past intake, and it’ll be quieter.” He leans close for me to hear over the din. “We have more than three thousand officers on the force. It can get pretty noisy in here.”
We weave through a labyrinth of short halls and open work spaces until we reach a bank of rooms with glass doors. They’re comfortably furnished with tables, chairs, and sofas. Not exactly the dingy single-pendulum-light-fixture rooms from TV, but my palms still start to sweat.
“Right in here. You can put your coat on these hooks if you’d like. The air-conditioning is out today. The last brown-out fried something. Gotta love this city.” But I can tell he does.
After he closes the door, it’s deafeningly quiet in the room. And warm. I shrug out of my black blazer and hang it on the hook next to his suit coat. It looks cozy—too “his and hers” for my taste, like I’m admitting that we fit together, so I take it down and toss it across the back of the sofa. No need to remind me of my parents’ house where everything is monogrammed, matchy-matchy, gender specific, and just so.
It’s the embodiment of my parents’ stuffy-if-comfortable marriage. My mother gave up her true passion as a nurse to be a “lady of the house” and raise privileged, polished, perfect children. Think Emily Gilmore without the quaint East Coast charm. It’s everything I don’t want in a relationship. I want depth, breadth. I want messy and colorful. I want sitting on a couch and watching Star Wars, not sitting at a fancy dinner with sixteen forks. Matteo gives me a weird look when I move my coat, but I ignore it.
He sits in a chair across from the sofa and slides a glass of water across the oversize coffee table toward me. “I ordered you lunch. Is a veggie pita okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” Rabbit food. Probably without dressing.
He notes my displeasure, though I try to hide it. Is he this observant with every person of interest or just me? My blood sings a little, contemplating the possibility. Maybe he feels the same fascination that I feel when I’m with him.
“I just assumed you were vegetarian. You know, being fit and riding your bike to work . . .”
I laugh. “No, I only ride my bike to work because I’m allergic to other forms of exercise. I hate the gym. I hate treadmills. I hate yoga. I love biking, so I can eat whatever I want.” I eye him a little askance. It’s rare that my slightly curvy form is considered the epitome of “fit.” In fact, I don’t even own a scale. My personal philosophy is eating in moderation; feeling good over numbers; and if I don’t enjoy an exercise activity, I’ll never repeat it. Not exactly a poster child for workout-aholics. I’m afraid he’s up to that false altruism again, but the gaze he sweeps over my figure is appreciative, and it buoys my pride enough to allow the rabbit food to slide.
“I’ll split my BLT with you, then.”
I smile. “Deal.”
He fiddles with something that looks like a voice recorder. “So what do you want to believe?”
The question takes me completely off guard. Had I spoken when I hadn’t meant to? About my pondering an attraction to him? About the information I know? My heart races under my breastbone, and I feel my own neck grow hot. “W-what?”
He’s still studying the recorder. “Your shirt. It says ‘I Want to Believe.’”
First a surge of relief, then a tingle. He’s referring to the “I Want to Believe” T-shirt I changed into after the meeting. The shirt with the words across my bust, which I now realize he had to be staring at to ask the question. I can feel my ears growing hot, a telltale sign that I’m blushing. “My eyes are up here,” I joke. “It’s from The X-Files.”
He shuffles a few papers in a businesslike manner. “Why else do you put words on a shirt if you don’t want people to read them?”
True. It’s a legit question, but there’s that telltale blotch at his shirt collar, so I have to wonder if I wasn’t a little right about it too. Look at us. Matching his-and-hers blushes.
Matteo clears his throat. “Are you okay if I record this? There’s a video recording for the room, but I wanted a copy for my use as well. This comic stuff can get complicated.” Now he’s all business, and it’s a little disconcerting. Detective Kildaire is back.
“That’s fine.” I swallow twice and perch on the couch facing him.
He goes through a list of statements: today’s date, my full name, his name, a case number that sounds like gibberish, and the time of our interview. Then he reaches across and pats my arm. “It’s okay. You don’t need to be nervous. It’s just you and me talking. You look like you’re going to throw up.”