The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(54)
Rideout crosses his arms again. “If our vigilante is after the journals, we need to figure out how the Golden Arrow even knows about them. I suspect help from the inside.” He looks pointedly at me, and Matteo grunts.
“Funny, I think the same thing,” I shoot back, not bothering to hide my glare from Matteo. Rideout is the one breaking the rules of professionalism here.
“Rideout, drop it. MG, he has a point. Who knows about these journals?”
“Lawrence showed one to me. I showed it to you and Detective Rideout, and you showed it to Casey Junior.” A very short list. My stomach turns over again. All jokes aside, Rideout is a jerk, but possibly right too. How would the Golden Arrow have known to even look in this office if he didn’t know the journal existed? Was he just going off the comic books? I press my lips together. It seems unlikely. It’s like the Golden Arrow sees everything I do, and that idea gives me the willies. Am I under surveillance? Does the dirty cop on Matteo’s team also feed information to the Golden Arrow? That idea seems more unlikely than the last. The Golden Arrow knows the case, that the journals exist, and has reason to want to find them. If it isn’t Casey Junior, there’s only one other common denominator.
Matteo nods slowly, his mind obviously chasing the same path as mine. “We’ll need to inform Edward Casey Junior about what allegedly happened here today and see if he wants to make a report. It’s possible that he left the room like this going through his father’s office for the auction. But maybe not. And we need to talk to the only other person who seems mixed up in this.”
I swallow hard. Lawrence.
CHAPTER 17
Cars clog the Hamburger Mary’s parking lot by the time I pull the Hurtling Turd into a spot. A good sign. Everyone loves a full crowd, and an early-summer Friday night is prime drag show time for the locals. I reach in my back seat, gather the pile of fabric into my arms, and hurry across the lot. Usually I’m giddy about coming to a drag show, but tonight my stomach is a ball of nerves. I’ll let L perform; then I’ll have to spill the beans. So many beans. And hope he has beans to spill right back that will solve my case. And keep L out of jail.
I wind my way through the crowd as quickly as possible. I hope I can get back in enough time to snag a great table. I’m almost to the back of the house when I see a familiar face. Kyle’s fiancée, Nina.
“MG!” She yells my name like we’re old friends, and my heart instantly warms a little, easing my anxiety. Her enthusiasm is literally contagious. She waves me over.
“Hey, Nina. What brings you guys here?”
She takes a sip of the large drink in front of her. “Bachelorette party!” The girls all whoop. It wouldn’t have been hard to guess, given the large tiara on Nina’s head and the sash that says “BRIDE” slung across her middle. I’m a terrible human, I’d already forgotten that she and Kyle were getting married soon.
“Congratulations,” I say, smiling. The group is already tipsy. They’re in for a good time once the queens start performing.
“Kyle said no strippers. He didn’t say anything about drag queens.”
A girl after my own heart.
“What are you doing here?” Nina eyes the pile of gold lamé.
“I’m dropping off a costume I made for my friend. In fact, I’d probably better get back there so I can still get a table after.”
“Nonsense, you’ll come sit with us.”
“Really?”
Nina grins. “I insist! We nerd girls need to stick together!” She leans over to me and whispers dramatically, “These are theater friends. They get it. They’ll be happy to have you too!”
My heart warms just a bit more. Nina does seem cool, and Kyle never outright backstabbed me the way Andy did. Maybe a friend of the female variety would do me good. Again this case has pointed out to me that I’ve been alone on my own isolated island. I can’t even remember the last time I reached out to my friends from college or my cosplay group. I suddenly miss them. “Okay. I’ll be back.”
Backstage sounds glamorous, but at a drag show, it’s pretty much one tiny room stuffed full of panty hose, cosmetics, and men in wig caps. I stand at the door and try to locate Lawrence among the group of men. Someone is yelling about lipstick on the mirror, and someone else snips back, “At least it’s not on your teeth like last time,” but I don’t hear or see Latifah Nile anywhere.
“L!” I wait, no answer. I snag one of the queens right by the door, a plump Filipino who I’ve seen several times do a great postwar-era pinup routine.
“Can you find Latifah Nile for me?” I hold up the pile of costumes.
He turns and shouts into the room, “Hey, queens! Has anyone seen La-tee-tee? You bitches just need to shut it for one second so that—”
Lawrence emerges from behind a dressing rack in the back corner of the room, one eye already done up in gold glitter, Cleopatra cat-eye style.
“Girl, you look fine tonight,” he says, taking in my own penciled purple eyebrows, glittery purple lipstick, and chunky skull-and-crossbones necklace. “You’re going to make these queens jealous. Is Atlanta here with you?” The mention of Matteo both gives me butterflies and kills them with a ball of anxiety. L is a suspect, and it’s all due to my meddling.