The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(83)

Outside the warehouse, I hear a car backfire and tires screech, and a bright flash of headlights beams through the window as the car pulls a U-turn. I look over at L. We’re completely exposed, lit up as bright as daylight. I can’t breathe. My muscles feel weak and stiff at the same time. And the bridge of my nose itches something fierce, impossible to ignore.

Directly below the stack I’m sitting on, someone coughs. Then the radio crackles to life again. “It’s just kids spinning doughnuts outside again. Maybe call patrol and have them cruise by.”

I feel like I’ve heard that voice before. I chance a look down. The guard looks an awful lot like the cop who took Casey Junior’s statement. What is his name? Officer James?

Why would Officer James be working guard duty on a building the police aren’t supposed to be watching anymore?

We sit there as he walks around the boxes, scuffing his feet. My heart is in my throat, my ears rushing and ringing with my pulse. My drink from the party threatens to make a repeat appearance.

Several long minutes pass, and just as I’m getting ready to break, a phone rings below us. Officer James answers with a clipped hello, then silence.

“Yes, sir, the boxes are here. Pickup at eleven o’clock.” A pause. “No, sir, nothing out of the ordinary.” A third pause, and this time the voice is lower and shaky when it replies. “I took care of it, sir. Made it look like he hung himself in jail. I don’t think he’ll be making his plea bargain anymore. I would say his father has been adequately warned about the dangers of discussing this matter with the police.”

A fresh wave of nausea crashes over me. My fingers clench in reaction, and it’s everything I can do to keep still and quiet. Lawrence must read it on my face because his eyes narrow to slits, and he shakes his head as forcefully as he can while lying on a pile of teetering boxes.

“Yes, sir, wire it to my offshore. Thank you.” A click.

Oh my God. Officer James has killed someone. Someone in custody. Someone whose father needed warning about working with the police, and someone whose plea bargain was to trade information about the White Rabbit. It must have been Huong Yee. Son of the printing press owner. The kid who was going to out a cop and testify about the White Rabbit. Bastard.

Footfalls slowly fade, and I begin to breathe again. Feeling comes back to my fingers and toes as my oxygen reaches normal levels. After a few moments of intense silence, I hear Lawrence slide down, then feel a hand on my leg.

I step into his palms and, like some sort of ill-trained acrobat, manage to turn my ankle again, landing with my stomach on his head, then fall halfway down his back before he can catch me and right us both.

“You are a terrible cat burglar,” L says as he pulls me toward the illuminated exit sign.

“I like to think of myself as a corgi burglar. I don’t like cats.” Corgis aren’t graceful either.

He uses his phone to look at the door, then pushes through, pulling me after him, and we spill out into the night air. It’s thick with the smell of burning rubber and exhaust. Somewhere inside the building, a sound rings out of the dark. An impossibly loud beeping.

“Come on, we need to go. Now. That must have been a fire exit. We just set off an alarm.”

In the distance, a police siren wails to life.

I’m already limping down the street toward the car when L spins me around, grabs my hand, and starts running the opposite way. “Never lead them directly to your car! We’ll go two blocks up and then two over, and then double back.”

I’m out of breath already as we dash down side streets and through alleys. I’m sure we make as much noise as two bulls in a china shop, but we don’t stop.

“Is that something you learned as a security guard?” I ask.

“No, it’s something I learned from breaking up with dramatic men.”

Lawrence huffs and puffs too as we sprint across the main street.

Twenty minutes later, I’m drenched in sweat, I have insta-blisters all over both feet, my ankle is on fire, my wig is tucked into the top of my shirt, and we finally circle back around to the car. It’s untouched behind the dumpster, and truth be told, I’m glad we parked several blocks from the warehouse in question. It would have taken either a stroke of genius or a large police force to have searched this well already.

I slide into the driver’s seat and coax the engine to life. Sputtering, the Millennium Turd makes a less-than-spectacular exit from the alley, and soon we’re on our way home.

Lawrence slumps against the passenger window, already stripped down to his sparkly black T-shirt. I can tell he’s not impressed with my sleuthing skills. More than unimpressed. He seems out and out ticked. “We’re in trouble. I want you to take me home.”

“I know. Lawrence, that guard is a cop. I saw him at the station with Matteo. He’s got access to all of Matteo’s stuff. He’s going to know you worked for Casey. He’s going to hear your interview. I . . . I think he killed a suspect, a kid, Lawrence. He killed a kid to keep him from talking.”

“What you found in there had better be worth it, girl. This is bad.”

I flip his phone to him as I skid around a curve. “Here, look through what I took. There’s something in the bottom of that box. Those are tear sheets. They come back to Genius when comics are unsold as proof that the books have been destroyed. They’re trash. They’re counted, then discarded. There shouldn’t be anything else in those boxes.”