The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(47)
The warning light in my head flashes. There’s something more here.
“Here’s the thing: the media isn’t reporting this because we haven’t released the information, but there was a note at the first scene that indicated a connection to Genius Comics. At the most recent warehouse bust, there was a white rabbit spray-painted both at the scene of the crime and on a suspect. We’re trying to determine if there’s a real White Rabbit out there, and you are one of the only people who would be able to help us with that, Mr. Casey.”
Dead silence. I didn’t expect Matteo to take this tack at all. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck. He hasn’t asked about a costume or an alibi. He’s gone in with my suspicions and gone in swinging, presenting them like fact and not wild speculation. Calculated, professional, to the point. This is Detective Kildaire in all his glory, traces of “my” Matteo gone.
“I . . . You’re sure?” He doesn’t seem surprised. His ashen face looks closer to terrified.
Matteo leans forward, and I can just see the compelling and serious expression on his handsome face. “Deadly sure. It’s why we need to get to the bottom of this. The drug lords are after this wannabe superhero, and they’ve picked up on the comic book connection too. They could target your staff and your building if we don’t shut this down. If you think you know something, I suggest you share it.”
“I-I was younger when my father wrote it. Dad didn’t discuss everything with me, but yes. Honestly, I think he wrote about something real.”
“What makes you think that?”
Casey takes a deep breath, holds it in for a long count, then lets it back out slowly. He raises his eyes to Matteo’s face. I know that look. I see it in the boardroom monthly. He’s taking Matteo’s measure. His fingers cease fidgeting on the table, and Casey seems to take hold of himself. From my vantage point, it looks like he’s about to be truly honest with Matteo.
“My father did always use the newspaper for inspiration; that’s true. And the drug culture in LA in the eighties was insane. The comic book was his way of trying to change the ills of the world. I mean, he was constantly trying to help out kids from bad situations. He’d hire them or mentor them when he could, but it was more than that. My father saw himself as some sort of superhero.” The last came out with a note of bitterness.
Matteo doesn’t respond, allowing Casey room to continue. I shift on my feet, heart pounding. It’s a good thing I’m not in there. I’d be halfway across the table to get answers.
Casey continues after a sip of water. “Something about that last story line was different, though. My father was different. Gone a lot. Lots of . . . questionable personal decisions. At the time, I thought he was going senile, that he finally thought he was the Hooded Falcon . . . We were fighting more. But I think he’d based his last comics on something real that he was investigating. He didn’t tell me about it, and if he told anyone about it, it would have been the equally crazy kid who lived with us—he was trouble. There were other kids he’d hire for odd jobs—helping with his typewriter or gadgets or whatever. But this one . . . got to my father the way no one else had, and he used him until the day he died. I told my father that every chance I got, even though my father wouldn’t listen to me.”
My stomach turns over. The kid who lived with them. He has to mean Lawrence. There’s true bitterness in Casey’s voice. If he’s involved in this case somehow, could he be the one to have broken into Lawrence’s place? My place? Could my boss be the Golden Arrow?
Rideout picks this moment to burst into the room where I’m standing, sloshing a cup of coffee all over the floor. He mutters an expletive as he jams a headset on and tries repeatedly to get the earbuds inserted properly. He shoots me a look like it’s my fault he’s been getting coffee and missing the interview. “Kildaire, ask him about the arguments. Possible motive.”
Before Rideout even finishes speaking, Matteo’s voice—quiet, calm, and without a hint of being prompted—comes out from the TV screen, “You were fighting. Fighting about what?”
Casey Junior shrugs, and for a moment I glimpse the younger man he must have been when his father was alive. Not the big bullish businessman but the awkward teen. “I was fifteen. We fought about everything. His comics. His eccentricities. How embarrassing it was to have me invite friends over and have him show up in a cape and tights. About this kid he had live with us for a little bit. He just brought people in off the street and fed them and stuff. It was stupid and dangerous. Though he’d never invited any to live with us before. I had to nip it in the bud.”
Rideout watches the TV screen like a hawk now. “Use the journal,” he growls. We talked about Casey Junior possibly being the culprit, but my stomach clenches at the fervor in Rideout’s voice. He’s like a hound on a scent. If this is how Rideout questions people, no wonder Matteo does the interview first.
Matteo gives an almost imperceptible nod. “And did you fight about how he was ending the comic?” Matteo’s words slide home, and Casey Junior’s jaw tightens.
“What do you mean, ‘ending the comic’?” Casey Junior’s face has shuttered, his features completely controlled.
“We found evidence that your father planned to end the comic after the current story line. Did that make you angry?”