The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(32)
He smiles, still staring at the screen. “I know.”
CHAPTER 12
It’s Friday morning just after breakfast. I’ve already walked Trog and have the television on, hoping to hear something related to my case.
“The Golden Arrow strikes again. This seems to be the latest in a recent string of vigilante justice . . .”
I turn from the sink, glass of water halfway to my mouth. It can’t be. The Golden Arrow? Is that what the media has decided to call our masked civilian? I roll my eyes at the general public’s lack of creativity with naming superheroes, seeing as our competitor already has an “arrow” superhero with a different-colored moniker.
“Moments ago we got word that this warehouse had been chained shut by persons unknown, and an anonymous call was placed to the police claiming that they would find more than just criminals inside. We suspect a drug bust of large proportions. Police have surrounded the area with crime scene tape, so we can’t get any closer, but it looks like teams are arriving to transfer dangerous individuals to the police station.” The reporter is gleeful, her red suit standing out against the grays, blues, and rust hues that make up the warehouse district alleyway. I recognize the building they’re standing in front of. It’s the same one I saw in the video at Matteo’s office.
My phone buzzes. I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen where the news feed cuts to a chopper view of the warehouse near the docks. A brilliant gold arrow painted across the front of the building and doors, at least twelve feet long, gleams in the morning sun. The bold gold glitter paint makes me think of Lawrence. This is a hero right up his alley.
My phone buzzes again, and I glance at it. It’s a text from a number I don’t recognize, but I’m not surprised by what it says.
I’m going to call. Answer your phone, we need to talk.
A smile tugs at my lips. Matteo’s learning.
As I read the lines, the screen transitions to the active call icon, and I thumb “Answer.”
“I see it. On the news,” I say without preamble.
Matteo doesn’t waste time on formalities either. Chopper noise beats in the background of his call, indicating he’s already at the scene. “I’d like you to come look. When can you get out of work?”
My heart starts to thud a staccato rhythm in my chest. “I guess around three?” This is real. It’s insane, but real. My very own comic book come to life.
“That’s late, but it’ll have to do.” He hisses out a breath. “I’ll let you get ready for work. Call me when you’re out. You’re going to want to see this.” Then he’s gone, leaving dead air between us.
“I’m glad you made it. Traffic is horrible today. Everyone is a lookie-loo.” Matteo holds my car door open for me as I climb out into the smoggy, nasty air that is LA’s inversion layer. I sputter on the smell of too many cars, too many fast-food hamburgers, and the lurking scent of wood decaying in the water. It’s why I avoid the Santa Monica piers like the plague. Everyone always lauds the “fresh sea air.” For me, I’d rather be at home with my air filter.
It’s three o’clock on the dot, and I did everything short of faking sickness to get out of the office today. Everyone wanted to talk about the upcoming gala and the Golden Arrow on the news.
“What do I need to bring with me?” I shove sketches into my Genius messenger bag, then reach in the back seat to grab the original THF issues I smuggled out of Genius. They would kill me if they ever find out. I have to hope I keep them pristine and use them only if truly needed. The new ones can be replaced. The originals can’t.
Matteo leans in and pins a media pass to the lapel of my jacket, and I go still. I am inordinately fascinated with his fingers fastening the pin, though it takes no more than fifteen seconds. My heart careens in my chest like a Mario-kart around a curve.
Matteo, on the other hand, looks cool as a cucumber. All business. This is a crime scene, after all. “There, you’re all set. Come on, let’s get you across the line. We’ve been trying to keep the media out all day. I think reporters are about to start rappelling in from the next building to get a look.”
I raise my eyebrow at him.
“I like Mission Impossible. I’m a gadget guy.”
I can see that about him.
He flashes his badge to the patrol officer standing near the street. “Kildaire, narcotics,” he says by way of greeting.
What am I? Martin, superhero consultant? Comic specialist? At the patrol officer’s nod, Matteo holds the yellow tape up, and I duck under, resisting the urge to snap a picture of myself and post it to Instagram. I’m inside a crime scene. Just call me Temperance Brennan. And Matteo is so Seeley Booth. He’s wearing a brown felt fedora today over his dark locks and sun-kissed brown skin. It looks very twenties throwback. Very noir detective. Very, very sexy. I mean, I’d find Worf drinking prune juice attractive if he put a fedora on. Be still, my twenties era–loving heart.
Thinking about Bones brings me to my only worry about the crime scene.
“The people inside aren’t dead, are they? I do not do dead bodies.”
“No. They’re all alive and in custody. I’m not sure they’ll be appreciative, given the jail time they’re facing.”
The afternoon sun shines directly in my eyes, and I squint. Perpetually wearing glasses means no sunglasses. I’m also afraid I’ve overdressed for the weather. I wish I’d worn a hat, and I’m regretting the navy-blue coat over my “Don’t Let the Muggles Get You Down” graphic tee. It’s my silent homage to the person who’s quickly becoming my favorite Muggle. I couldn’t help myself today when I saw the shirt in my closet. I thought of Matteo and had to wear it. Would it be inappropriate for a crime scene investigator expert to wear just a tee, though? I decide to swelter it out in my jacket for a bit, even though I already feel a drop of sweat sliding between my shoulder blades. Ah, Los Angeles. I hate being hot, but I hate being cold more. And as hypocritical as it is for me to hate this city and love it too, there it is. I’d never live anywhere else.