The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(92)

Tej stands ramrod straight, his eyes round with fear. “MG, what the hell are you doing?”

I don’t answer; I vault—well, really I slide and bounce—over the folding table into the back area and grab on to the booth frame.

“Lift me up.” I pull Tej’s arm.

“What? No! What the—” The last words are muffled because I’ve used the table to climb onto Tej’s shoulders before hefting myself onto the roof of the booth. It sways underneath my feet, and I grab the PVC frame holding the banner, praying that it will hold my weight steady. It does, and I breathe a visceral sigh of relief, even with the floor swaying many feet below me.

I gather my bearings and recognize a huge Sea Witch racing down the next aisle. “Up here! L!” I frantically wave until Latifah looks up and catches sight of me.

“Which way?” Latifah searches the crowd in front of the Genius booth.

“I don’t know! I . . .” I’m scanning the crowd and happen to catch sight of a dark jacket turning the corner. “Over that way! Artists’ Alley, wearing a red top hat now!” The jacket looks to be the same size and shape as the one I saw in our chase.

Surely L can catch our thief. I have clear eyes on the figure, and we have hundreds of feet to the main entrance. I glance up again, pondering why the figure in the jacket doesn’t seem to be going toward the main entrance, and freeze.

“Latifah! The fire exit! He’s headed to the fire exit!” There’s no way L heard me. I can’t think of anything else to do, so I yell, “Stop that masked—er, hatted man!” I’ve always wanted to say that. Too bad we’re in a room full of masked men. Chaos breaks out beneath me.

And now there’s nothing left to do but shimmy down the booth, chuck my heels to the side, and sprint as fast as I can toward the fire exit.

It’s not pretty. I’m tearing through booths, clothing and toys are flying everywhere, and I’m just yelling blanket apologies as I run. I careen around a corner and spot the fire door. No one has gone through yet, or the alarm would be ringing. I slide on the floor, intent on my goal. In front of me, a dark figure bursts through the back curtain of a booth and sails into the aisleway looking over his shoulder.

I glance too and see an irate Amy Blondonis hopping through the mess of a booth, her dress caught on the booth itself. Our thief in the jacket straightens, looks at the door, then bolts. I’m outdistanced and outpaced, and there’s no way I can reach the figure before he’s in the open.

“Stop!” I scream, nothing else at my disposal. I take a risk. “We know you’re the White Rabbit! There are police outside that door. This is a setup!”

The hat turns in my direction, and the person’s steps falter. It’s enough to shift their focus to me, just enough time for L to save the day.

In slow motion, a monstrous Sea Witch rises from the tangled curtain of a booth. Latifah steps forward, holds her arm out the booth exit and across the narrow aisle, and clotheslines the fleeing thief. At the same time, a black stiletto heel flies in from the other direction, landing with a solid thunk against the back of our perpetrator’s head. It’s enough to knock the person to the ground, facedown on the carpet.

“That’s right, bitch. You don’t mess with Shwanda!”

Shwanda fishes Amy out of the crumpled booth, sans one shoe.

L is already using one of the belts from a clothing booth we demolished to truss up the victim.

The world rushes in, and I look around, realizing we’ve essentially stopped San Diego Comic-Con. There are at least five cell phone cameras pointed in our direction and not a small number of irate booth owners storming toward us.

“We need to call the police,” I say.

“Shouldn’t we look for the journals first? You know, since we’re trying to use them to keep ourselves out of jail?” L’s chest heaves, my gorgeous creation hanging half off her body. The costume looks like it’s been hit by a tsunami.

“Right. Yes.” I surge forward. I want those journals. I need those journals.

L grunts as she flips the squirming body on the ground over, then goes still. I pounce, searching the outside jacket pockets for the journals. For anything when I realize that L’s not just waiting. She’s . . . freaked out.

“What—” The words die on my lips the moment I see the criminal’s face.

It’s not Rideout. It’s not Tony Munez. It’s not even Officer James.

Her face.

Agent Sosa’s dark-brown eyes meet mine from the floor. “Hello, Ms. Martin,” she says conversationally. As if we’ve just run into each other in a bar and not run through countless booths and over countless Wookiees in a chase scene that should be in some campy meta musical episode of Supernatural.

But it doesn’t make any sense. Why would Agent Sosa be involved in this? Did we tackle an officer giving chase by mistake? I don’t think so. Why would she want the journals? My first inclination is to let her up, but my gut churns. She’s the one person I dismissed because she wasn’t an integral part of Matteo’s team. But she’d been at every scene with the DEA. And has access to the interviews and the suspects. And probably Matteo’s text about my suspicions of the painting at auction. My heart flips over as I think about Song Yee. The dawning crashes like the space shuttle in The Martian—I want to hit my own head with my hand, but my hands are still splayed on her jacket, holding her down.