The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(33)
Matteo leads me over cracked and rutted asphalt, around the corner of a metal building, and to the front door of the building I recognize from the news. The golden arrow looks spray-painted, and a few other police in uniform still work to photograph and document it.
“Ah, Detective Rideout, Agent Sosa, this is Michael-Grace Martin, the comic book expert I was telling you about.” Matteo ushers me forward, his arm behind my back, toward two people in suits standing by the far end of the building.
“Hi,” I say. I reach forward for a quick handshake from both, used to leading out. God help the man if he does that limp-finger “lady handshake” thing.
“Detective Rideout assists me with the LAPD narcotics portion of this investigation.”
By the look of him, this Rideout guy’s not thrilled I’m here, but at least it’s a firm shake.
Matteo then gestures to a dark-haired agent wearing a bright-blue coat. Her hair is cut short into a stylish but severe page cut that would feel like shackles to me. All that maintenance, no movement, no creativity, just morning after morning of the same smoothing and straightening. “Agent Sosa is from the DEA and is evaluating whether or not the FBI needs to share jurisdiction. Copycat crimes aren’t common, so Detective Rideout and I are leaning toward asking for a federal profiler to help out as well.”
I snort. “Well, it’s not like it’s often that someone pretends to be a superhero.”
“Actually”—Detective Rideout levels a gaze at me—“it’s not unheard of. What’s uncommon about this case is that they’re good at it. I saw it before on patrol. Isolated incidents, and because bad guys don’t have moral compasses, the would-be hero is beat to a pulp in four seconds flat and ends up at the hospital in an embarrassingly tight spandex suit.”
Matteo shades his eyes and glances toward the building. I follow his gaze. My eyes wander over the golden arrow, lingering on the lower part of the door where more graffiti is partially obscured by a crate and a pile of crime scene tape.
“Should we show the lady comic book expert the stuff we found inside the Lair of Justice?” Detective Rideout gives me a once-over that clearly shows he’s interested in two assets of my person in particular, and not the smarts. He leans over, under the guise of opening the front door, and says in a low voice, “That’s a reference to The Hooded Falcon.”
My brain flashes back to my conversation with Ryan. I need to be a professional here. A team player. I don’t want to default to insults. But years of this treatment while working in the comic book store and at Genius cause an automatic stiffening of my spine. Mansplaining comics is literally the most annoying thing in the world to me.
I halt at the door to the warehouse, and the group turns to look, a smug smirk on Detective Rideout’s face. He thinks he’s made his point. I’m about to make mine.
“No, you shouldn’t show me inside. First off, I currently write for Genius Comics and have worked in the industry for ten years—I think that far outweighs your weekend trips to the comic book store.” Matteo looks horrified, though a little fascinated at my outburst.
I can’t help myself. The words just tumble out of me, just like they do in my meetings when I get defensive. “Secondly, the Hall of Justice refers to the Justice League, which is a competitor’s property. Falcon’s personal hideout was called the Glen, until the new series when they changed it to the Falcon’s Nest, which personally I think is a dumb name, but whatever. I wasn’t there for that vote.” I take a deep breath, fully aware of the uncomfortable set of Detective Rideout’s shoulders.
“And thirdly, no, you shouldn’t take me inside because you are about to walk straight past something important. Do you see that graffiti there? To a true comic book expert”—I can’t help but add the dig—“that mark tells us who these criminals were selling to, or who the Golden Arrow thinks they’re working for.”
They turn in unison to look at the graffitied white rabbit, and I bite my cheek to keep from smiling.
“And that’s why she’s here,” Matteo confirms.
I walk over to the heavy metal door, kneel low where kids have been tagging the building with several colors of spray paint, and point to the outline of a white rabbit.
“The Easter Bunny?” I don’t even have to look to know it’s Rideout’s dulcet tones.
“You see how this looks as fresh as the golden arrow? I don’t think it’s a mistake. This is the White Rabbit.”
The DEA agent frowns and looks at Matteo.
“You mean the Hooded Falcon’s nemesis? As in a real person?” Matteo asks. “Are we chasing two vigilantes now?”
I chew on my lip, unsure. I decide to go with my gut because that’s what I’m here for. “I don’t think so. I think it’s a reference to the White Rabbit, but it’s hidden. It’s like our suspect—the Golden Arrow, I think they’re calling him—didn’t want just anyone to find it.” A prickle rises along my neck. Is this meant for me? Is it a warning? Matteo said that these drug cartels wouldn’t think twice about killing someone to keep their silence. And here I am, willing mouse chasing a cat in a game with ever-heightening stakes.
I continue with my explanation, though Detective Rideout looks like he’s about to glaze over. You can always tell a true comic book fan by their knowledge and love of a good origin story. Falcon’s is the best in my opinion, and Rideout has sunk lower in my estimation for his failure to latch on to the tie-in.