| |
I’ve got ninety-nine problems and Ryan loses his initial court appeal, so now I’ve got one hundred.
I’m back at the LA County jail, but I’m not looking forward to this meeting with Ryan. I thought by now I’d have some concrete evidence to hand him. But all I’ve got is a handful of half-formed theories. If my head were a dress, I’d have untrimmed thread ends hanging everywhere on the inside. Nothing seems to connect.
We’ve got two ex-cons who are somehow still in contact with drug people. From what I can tell, Frank is taking a legit job at an automotive garage that just happens to be next to a drug dealer’s lair—even though the police found exactly nothing when they searched both buildings last night. I know, because Matteo texted me at midnight when he finally got home. I couldn’t muster a response even though I was up, channeling my frenetic energy into sewing my Golden Arrow outfit, because what would I say? “No problem because I was the one out there causing problems, and I almost died so I’m also not up for snuggling?”
Then there’s the conversation we overheard about Casey Junior being in the way, and how the suit-wearing higher ups in the drug ring are going to “take care of it.” I’d told Lelani that much when I’d finally gotten back to her house and found her already drinking a glass of wine—her night had been a bust; she’d spent it following Uriah Pender on various errands. He hadn’t attended the meeting, nor been one of the people chasing us. She hadn’t seemed concerned about the threat against us or Casey, but I am. And I plan on telling Casey so as soon as is prudent.
I drum my hands on the steering wheel of L’s Challenger, letting the soothing sounds of NPR wash over my nerves in some attempt to calm them. That backfires because the words “drug bust” from the news report crash into my psyche and I lean forward so fast, the seatbelt catches. My shoulder strains as I manage to grab the volume knob and spin it wildly to the right.
“—huge drug bust in a Tahoe hotel, one dead and three hospitalized. Police are analyzing the substances found in the hotel room but it’s believed that the men found recently received a shipment of drugs and were dividing them into sellable quantities when they decided to indulge themselves. This is the latest in the region’s uptick in designer drug overdoses, made high profile by the Golden Arrow case in Los Angeles.”
Chills race down my arms.
“Witnesses say the man who died jumped from the fourth story balcony into the hotel pool. Previous to the jump, neighbors say that the man was raving mad, prompting local authorities to suspect hallucinogenic drugs like the type gaining a worrisome hold on the West Coast.”
Or the same drug? Is it possible that the drug ring we’ve been chasing has moved? Or expanded? And Tahoe. Hadn’t I just heard it mentioned at Al’s Garage?
“In related news, inside sources say that alongside LA’s famous Golden Arrow, another vigilante hero may be active, distinguishing their work with a feather boa. It’s unclear what authorities currently believe, we reached out to the Los Angeles Police Department but received no comment. Be sure to visit our website for more news about America’s ongoing war against drugs, and the history of Real-Life Superheroes . . .”
I don’t hear anything more. I’m stuck on the fact that the reporter said that there’s a vigilante hero marking things with a feather boa. Surely that’s a coincidence? But how many vigilante heroes can there be in Los Angeles?
There’s a buzzing in my ears. No wait. It’s on my leg. My phone is vibrating, and I look down to find I’ve missed three calls from an unknown number and now a text from Matteo that says, “Rideout says you’re late . . . everything okay?”
No, everything is not okay. But I can’t really elaborate so I turn down the volume, then text back, “Just pulled up,” and go on autopilot. I can do this. I can visit Ryan, offer some morale. Remind him we love him and are rooting for him. I don’t have to think about drug rings or vigilante heroes.
It takes ten minutes to check in at the front desk, and then two passes through the metal detector because I forget I have Lawrence’s car keys in my pocket. I’m a mess.
Finally, I’m shown into a room that is a far sight cushier than the one I saw Ryan in last. The four office chairs aren’t even chained to the beat-up-but-wooden table.
“Wow, cushy digs,” I admire before realizing that I’m not alone in the room. There, glowering in the corner like a specter, is Rideout, who gives me a ghoulish grin and a salute hello.
It’s more unsettling than any surly greeting could be. I stare at him warily. He shrugs and turns his attention to the little man at his side. “Michael Grace Martin, Jeremiah Loudon.”
The little old man, dressed in a gorgeous suit I suspect could be a Brioni, neatly combed iron gray hair, and black spectacles holds out his hand for what I call a “lady” handshake. Something about him smacks of Southern Hospitality, and it’s confirmed a moment later when he drawls, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Martin.”
There is nothing on Thor’s green earth I hate more than a lady handshake, save perhaps someone who kisses the back of my hand, so I’m already indisposed to dislike this person. I struggle to reject the impulse to wipe my hand on my jeans. However, because he might be someone related to Ryan’s case, I play polite. “Thank you, you as well. Mr. Loudon is it?” I can’t help but frown because something is tickling in my brain. “Have we met before?”
Mr. Loudon smooths his impeccable suit. The fabric is definitely high end. That, combined with his cognac-colored leather loafers spells money. “I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure, maybe you’ve heard of my illustrious career from my client.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re the public defender?” I can’t hide the fact that I’m unimpressed with his service, given that Ryan’s first court appearance did not go favorably. And shocked he can afford a Brioni suit on that salary.
He barks out a laugh, and Rideout fails to cover his own laugh as a cough.
Okay, not the public defender then.
“I am Mister McCarthy’s new legal representation, Jeremiah Loudon, Esquire, at your service.” He gives a half bow.
“Noted criminal defense lawyer,” Rideout adds, relishing me looking like a fool.
“Ah,” I say. “Ryan hadn’t told me he’d retained a new lawyer but it makes sense given . . .” I wave around. Somewhere behind me a series of doors slam shut, which I hope means Ryan will soon arrive because an awkward silence has settled in the room.
I can’t help but study Mr. Loudon because even though he’s a well-known lawyer, I can’t put my finger on why I feel like we’ve met before. Or maybe it’s just his name. Something about being introduced to him sits crosswise in my brain, refusing to be the Tetris piece that fits into its slot.
Loudon. Loudon. I chant it in my head, rattling around for anything that surfaces. Criminal defense lawyer. The only criminals I know are the ones I’ve helped put in jail—wait, that’s it. “You represented Uriah Pender.”
Another door slams, but Mr. Loudon doesn’t flinch the way I do. I suppose he spends a lot of time in rooms like these. “Ah. I cannot really disclose that sort of information.”
I’m saved from further speculation by the door to our room flying open, and two uniformed police stepping in followed by Ryan. Nothing in this world will ever cause me to get used to Ryan in handcuffs or orange.
Tears prickle my eyes as he’s helped into a seat, then hands freed. Detective Rideout nods to the police escort, and they leave the room.
“Hi,” I say with a dab at my eyes. “You look good.”
“Liar,” Ryan says. But he reaches across the table as far as his shackles will allow and takes my hand, and we hold on to each other like a life raft.
I hiccup a laugh. “You’re right. Do they have something in a cool spring? Pastel?”
“I’ll ask the costume director,” Ryan jokes back.
I shoot a look over my shoulder. “You have a new lawyer.”
“I figured it was probably a good idea since my first appearance didn’t go so well. I guess when you plead Not Guilty, having confessed when I turned myself in counts against me.”
“So now what?” Traitor tears threaten to spill over my cheeks, and I give what could only be described as a decidedly unladylike sniffle.
“Mr. Loudon was referred to me, and we have a new plan of action to plead guilty and try to minimize my sentence as much as possible by playing up the fact that I was actually acting in public interest and service to the city.”
Hope kindles in my stomach. “Well that doesn’t sound too bad.”
Ryan’s eyes cut to the table. “He thinks I can get it down to maybe five to ten.”
“Five . . . ?”
“Years in jail, MG.”
The tears do spill over because I cannot even think of my steady eddy roommate Ryan spending even five years in jail.
Five.
Years.
Five years without Ryan. Five years of him locked up. Panic wells up where once hope had been. “This is the very best that a ‘noted criminal defense lawyer’ can do?”
Behind me, I hear the rustle of suits. I don’t even care that I’m criticizing him.
“It could be twenty for arson,” Ryan says.
And now I’m just mad. “Okay sure, but like, there’s got to be something.” I close my eyes. “What about what we talked about before. Information to trade.”
Ryan sits forward. “I asked . . .” He pauses, and I realize he’s trying to frame this so he doesn’t implicate Lelani. “I told you that I don’t know enough and no one else does, either. I’ve told Mr. Loudon everything I know, or am willing to divulge, and he says it’s not concrete enough.”
“But what if we can get—”
“Tell me about how Lawrence is doing,” Ryan interrupts me, a brief blaze of hope in his eyes before they dart to the two men standing behind me. “And you. Tell me everything.”
He emphasizes everything in a way . . . well, in a way that if I were a vigilante hero in jail would mean “find a way to get me the information you’re talking about without just blurting it out.”
I blather on as long as I possibly can about my work woes, and Lawrence’s Christmas event—which he’s declared will be called Santa’s Slay—and all the plans we have for that. Unfortunately for us, Jeremiah Loudon seems impervious to boredom and is attentive the whole time. ’Round about the time I’m talking about my new plot line for The Hooded Falcon, there’s a commotion in the hallway. A buzzer goes off.
We all crane our necks to look out the small window in the door, and the only thing I can see is the flash of black and blue as two guards run past. Yelling ensues.
“I’ll go check it out,” Rideout says, stopping at the door and peering out before slipping into the hallway. His exit admits the sound of a man and woman screaming at each other and the crash of something unidentifiable hitting the wall.
I’m about to stand and rubberneck as my curiosity-that-killed-the-cat demands, but instead decide to take full advantage of the distraction. I lean across the table and look into Ryan’s eyes. Keeping my voice low, I speak as quickly as I can. I don’t think I can be heard over the din; it literally sounds like someone is playing soccer outside with a metal chair.
“Ry, I’m working with Lelani. No time for you to be upset, okay? We’re doing it to find you information to get a plea deal. I’m not fully settled on how, but I’m pretty sure that Carry Cars are transporting drugs across the state at least, and possibly across state lines. Tell the police to look into the connection between a Carry Car delivery of hazardous goods and the hotel where the drugs were found. It’s my suspicion that the drugs that were delivered are the same drugs that DeWayne developed, or they’re trying to replicate them. I don’t have proof of that—”
We’re inundated with a cacophony and the door slams behind me. I’ve managed to ease back in my chair without appearing too guilty.
Instead of Rideout, it’s our guards and they’re already helping Ryan up out of his chair as I stand as well. “Sorry,” the policewoman says as she cuffs him, “we can try again later, but we’re going to have to secure this area.”
Ryan’s lawyer and I watch as he’s pushed to the door, hampered by his restraints.
“Thanks for coming,” he says with a shrug. Only I can tell that Ryan’s putting on a front—intentionally playing at ease. I see the intensity in his eyes. He’s thinking about what I told him. “Oh, hang on, can I say one thing?” The guard grudgingly shuts the door again, and it’s quieter.
“That plot you’re thinking of for work? It’s smart. It reminds me of when Swoosh breaks the Falcon out of the Chuckler’s lair. Issue 72, I think. Just make sure he doesn’t make the same mistake twice.”
I open my mouth, but he cuts his head sharply to the side. I snap my mouth shut so fast I bite my own lip, and instead blink hard at him. “Okay,” I manage. And then as he’s being escorted out of the room, I add, “Love you, Ryan.”
Rideout slips back in and settles into a chair. “We’re to stay here for a few minutes while they secure the area. We’re locked in.”
Grand.
“Are you okay?” Mr. Loudon lays a grandfatherly hand on my shoulder. I hate when people touch me. I shake off his hand and slide into a chair opposite Rideout, who is peering at me in a manner I can’t discern. Like he’s trying to figure me out. It’s still unsettling so I turn my attention to Mr. Loudon.
“Fine, thank you.”
“You look upset,” he presses.
“My best friend is in jail,” I say unable to keep back my dry retort. I should be more respectful given the circumstances. But really, it’s not that that’s bothering me. It’s Ryan’s last statement. Either jail is getting to him or . . . or he’s trying to send me a message only I can decode. Golden Arrow to Golden Arrow.
“So, you work with Ryan now?” I ask, fishing around for some sort of conversation point. All I want is my phone back so I can Google search THF Issue 72.
“I do,” Loudon answers, stooping down and teetering a little in an almost over-the-top show of age before sinking back down into his chair with a soft “oof”. Was I terrible for not liking old people either? I should feel some sort of gratitude for this person—Ryan’s only hope at getting out of jail, perhaps—but mostly I just feel grossed out. And a little worried that at his advanced age, he won’t have the mental faculties to do the job correctly, stellar reputation or not. I’m a terrible person.
“Not enough criminals with big bank accounts?” I ask, then internally grimace at my acerbic barb.
Instead of being offended, a smile tugs at one corner of Loudon’s mouth. A kindly gesture, but again I have the sense I’ve seen it before. Maybe on television? “Well, I suspect that you and I are a lot more alike than it seems on the surface,” he drawls.
Well that was cryptic.
Sensing my confusion, he continues. “I enjoy a challenge. Ryan has told me that you don’t back down from a fight, and I admire that. You don’t get where I am if you like the easy pickings. These high-profile cases are good for my career, and it’s fun to have a big fish on the line instead of spoiled kids fighting traffic tickets.”
I mean, I guess I could respect that. “You like the fame.”
I expect him to correct me but he shrugs. “Is that so bad?”
“I guess not. So, Ryan has told you about me?” I don’t know why this surprises me.
“Ryan has told me all he knows about recent events, including his personal life,” Loudon confirms in a measured drawl. At this, Rideout perks up visibly, and Loudon laughs. “Which will remain between my client and me until such time we feel the need to share with the court.”
I can’t help it. I eye him skeptically. What does he mean he knows everything? Does he know stuff that even I don’t?
“Which is how I know that we have something else in common,” he continues.
“Oh?”
“Mr. McCarthy says you are devoted to your pedigreed dog and that he is quite the ambassador of his breed.”
This is again quite the surprise. “I guess. I mean, of course I am.” I try not to pull a face. Trogdor is a purebred simply by default, and I have never thought of him as pedigreed.
“I also am a fervent supporter of the sport dog. Bloodhounds bred for competitive tracking,” Loudon says, folding his hands across his slight paunch.
“Oh?” For a writer, I need to learn new words. I clear my throat. “What is your dog’s name?”
He laughs, “Well, my favorite is named after my college roommate’s nickname . . . bit of a joke really. Couldn’t very well name a female Steven, now could I?”
At that I do have to smile. “Mine is named after a cartoon, also sort of a joke. You said your favorite, how many do you own?”
“I think I am up to twelve right now, at least until this litter of puppies sells. I stop by the kennels at least twice a week to watch a training session.” He sits forward. “I believe the Pembroke was bred for herding; do you drive out to the sheep farms for competitions?”
I blink. First because he just said his fervent support of his dogs includes only seeing them twice a week at his kennels and then again because picturing Trogdor herding sheep is . . . well, it’s ludicrous. “Er, well, Trog isn’t from working lines,” is the best I can manage.
But it’s enough because Loudon nods knowingly. “Ah, yes. I agree that sometimes the show lines make better companions . . . less intense. If you ever want to test his metal though, you let me know and our trainers would be happy to give you use of our facility.”
“Er . . . thank you.”
I’m saved from any further conversation by a brisk knock at the door.
A curly haired officer sticks her head into the room. “All clear, sir.”
“Thank you.” Rideout stands and opens the door to show that we should leave. “I have a lot of extra work to do today. I’m sure you do too, given all of what’s going on.”
This last statement isn’t leveled at Loudon like I assumed, but at me. I nearly look behind me, in fact to make sure he’s not talking to someone else. “Er, yes, I guess I have quite a lot of work for my presentation.” I give him a sideways look. Is he being friendly?
“Well, see you around soon,” he says with a wink.
A wink.
Mr. Loudon follows me out, and I try to forget the mocking salute Rideout gave me as I walked past. What on earth could make that man happy enough to wink at me? Trying to shake myself, I turn my brain back to the bigger problem at hand. Ryan’s message.
I fumble to free my phone from the plastic bag at the front desk, and by the time I’m back out at the car I’ve confirmed my suspicions. Ryan said something about Swoosh breaking the Falcon out of the Chuckler’s lair in Issue 72. While the Chuckler is indeed the villain in that issue, Falcon breaks himself out of his fortress. In doing so, he’s gravely injured.
Was Ryan just confused?
I climb into the Challenger and pause before turning over the wheel. Why would Ryan choose this issue to reference? Was it that he pictured himself as the Falcon locked in the fortress? Was someone the Chuckler?
But no, that didn’t seem to be it. Only one thing made any sort of sense, and a chill went down my spine. Swoosh was Falcon’s partner in crime. If Ryan saw himself as Falcon, his partner in crime would be Lelani. He’d mis-referenced Swoosh breaking Falcon out . . . but did that mean he thought that might happen?
I turned over the engine and let it purr under my hands.
Could that be Lelani’s end game?
Could she be trying to break Ryan out of jail?
That was absolutely ludicrous. But . . . I had to give some credence to it since Ryan had used code to get the message to me. But what to do about it?
As I headed back to Lawrence’s, I wished not for the first time that I could tell Matteo everything and ask him what on earth I should do.