The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(95)
The prints show a young man weighing bricks of heroin. The man’s features had aged by the time of the anniversary party, but it’s unmistakably Agent Sosa’s father, Anthony Munez.
“So, your dad is the White Rabbit.” I know she won’t answer me. “Is that why you blocked this case at every turn?”
Agent Sosa won’t meet my eye.
I press on. “Was Huong Yee going to out your father? Or was it you he’d seen—the new White Rabbit?”
She is still silent, but her chest rises and falls at a rapid rate.
I shrug and look at the group gathered around us in silence. This feels so dramatic. “Fine. Stay quiet. I don’t know what’s on this video, but I’m guessing it’s going to incriminate your father. It’s why your father killed Edward Casey Senior.”
The crowd does an impressive imitation of a movie scene: a collective gasp, complete with an outbreak of rabid conversation.
I turn to Matteo, guilt melting all my bravado. We’re back to the fact that this man is now well aware that I lied to him, withheld evidence, aided a suspect in eluding police, and set up a sting operation on my own. Quite the little superhero story line of my own. “I couldn’t tell you because . . . well, I thought Rideout was the double agent. I was wrong about that.” My eyes flick to Rideout and his ashen face. “Anthony Munez not only killed Casey Senior to protect his identity but claimed to have used the information Casey sent to the police department to fake a drug war, round up his competition, and put them all away. It really was brilliant. For thirty years, it worked. But Edward Casey’s journal resurfaced. He got his revenge. He got his justice in the end.”
“That’s quite the story,” Rideout says. No condemnation. Just fact.
I shrug. “It is just a story at this point, but I’m pretty good with stories. I bet you’ll find that I’m right when you do the hard work of pulling together the evidence.”
“I want a lawyer,” Agent Sosa announces as she’s escorted ahead of us.
“I bet you do.”
I nearly crack a smile at Rideout’s dry response. At least he’s a jerk to everyone, and not just me.
“The only thing I can’t figure out,” I say more to myself, “is where the other journal went. Either Sosa ditched it, which could be possible, or . . .”
“Or what?” Rideout barks, a touch of his old bite in evidence. “Spill it, story girl.”
“Or the Golden Arrow was here and tried to nab the envelope. Maybe that’s what the scuffle was. If you find the journal, maybe you’ll find our vigilante. They might not even know we’ve caught Sosa or that she had the envelope.”
“Or you’re the Golden Arrow and trying to draw up a ruse.”
The accusation is so simple, it takes my breath away. “Why would I go to all the trouble of pointing out a loose end if I was hoping to get away with it?”
“Criminal brilliance?”
I look down, my slinky white slacks and rumpled thin cami clinging to my body. “And just where do you think I’d be keeping it?”
Rideout has the decency to look away and mutters something about a pat-down at the station.
“I’m fairly certain there’s another journal missing. I took a picture when I snuck in to see the painting—sorry,” I mutter as Matteo shoots me a look. “My cell phone is in my jacket pocket. But I know I have a picture showing two journals. My jacket is back in the auction room,” I say, and a police officer is dispatched while we wait.
Matteo holds up his hand to Rideout and signals another cop forward. “If MG is right and Sosa doesn’t have both journals on her, then maybe it’s true that someone attempted to stop her, or she dropped one of them. Engage the con security team, and let’s do a sweep for the item. And hope to God that there are two sets of prints on the journal if we find it,” he adds, cutting off Rideout’s retort before he can voice it. “Since MG doesn’t have a journal on her person, I’m going to go with innocent until proven guilty.” He turns an eye to me. “You’ll have to come in for formal questioning, though, and your cell will be kept as evidence until you’re cleared.”
I hold out my wrists to Matteo. “I’ll come willingly to the station for questioning, but you can cuff me if you’d like.”
“Maybe later.” He still looks pissed, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
CHAPTER 28
I ring the doorbell on the exterior of the metal gate. It’s an old-fashioned one that rings a real bell, nothing digital, nothing electric. I have to ring it twice before I get a response from the house. The blinds move slightly as someone looks out; then the door cracks open.
Dragons dance in my belly; I wonder if he’s going to shut the door in my face. If he’s going to dismiss me before I can explain. It’s been two months of hell—seeing him interrogated in the hearings for the trial—and not getting to talk to him or touch him. Explain myself other than through my testimony.
“Hey, I wasn’t expecting you.” Matteo is in bare feet and pajama pants. He looks relaxed and scrump-diddly-umptious. That is, minus the frown lines that crease his face and the set of his shoulders. Those say that he’s nervous to see me too.