Pineapple Investigations

Climbing the Matterhorn (Or a Bookcase)

John Diggle is having a weird day.

Work is usually very standard in SCPD Major Crimes. A body shows up, he and his partner investigate. They catch the killer. Substitute as necessary with burglaries/robbers, luxury car theft/carjackers, and kidnappings/kidnappers. There was even an ice cream truck robbery that one time, but they never talk about that. Either way, there aren't a lot of surprises in Major Crimes. Not in Starling.

It's weird that his partner is dismissing Digg's ideas more than usual, not even bothering to reply. Instead, Lance grumbles about queens and psychics and bosses who won't see reason. Diggle only takes offense to that last one. Lyla is his wife, but they don't talk about that either. In fact, he isn't even sure Lance knows; the plaque on her desk still reads Lyla Michaels and neither of them wear their rings to work.

Needing some fresh air away from the weirdness, Diggle elects to check outside the home, examining the outside of the crime scene for any signs of entry. So far it's pretty cut and dried, but things get complicated when a Bowen is kidnapped.

Things also get weird when a blue Mini Cooper pulls up to the scene. It's so small he half expects twelve clowns to crawl out of it, but instead it's a young blonde in a purple coat and a scruffy guy with way too much swagger in his step. Curious, Diggle moves closer, keeping his eyes on the crime scene.

"...think this through?" the blonde is asking. "Okay, say I'm going to help you—"

"Please," the male replies, dismissing her with a grin that's far too charming. "Don't be exactly half of an eleven-pound black forest ham. We both know you're going to help me."

The blonde doesn't give an inch, only steamrolling over the top of him. "—with your newest enterprise, Oliver." She waves her hands wildly. "Where are you going to set up office space? What are you going to call this place? How are you going to advertise?"

He flashes his pearly whites while the blonde just stares at him. Diggle can't help but snort; clearly Con Artist—Oliver, she called him—is used to getting his way, but Blondie is impervious to his charm. "That's why I need you, Smoak," he answers. What smoke has to do with this, John doesn't know. Maybe it's a nickname. "You're the detailed planner. I'm the big picture guy."

Blondie is having precisely none of that. "How are you going to get a commercial lease? You don't have a credit history."

Con Artist shrugs. "I was going to forge your signature as co-signer," he replies. Diggle's eyebrows shoot up at his cavalier tone.

Retaliating with a poke to the shoulder, Blondie declares, "Oliver Queen, you are not roping me into this misadventure. My credit score is perfect, in spite of the fact I'm always broke." She thumps him in the jaw, which earns a soft ow. "I usually end up giving my money to you, which is incredible because you have a trust fund!"

"That I can't touch until I'm thirty," he reminds her. Diggle nods once to himself; affluence explains a lot about the guy with the sleazy grin. "And my mom cut me off because I'm not serious, remember? Who else can I depend on?" He rolls his eyes. "Besides, you're being dramatic. You don't give me that much money."

"Oliver, I claimed you on my taxes last year!" Blondie replies, voice rising an octave. "I buy your groceries and pay half the rent on the bachelor pad"—she spits the words with great disgust—"you share with Tommy."

"You said I couldn't move in with you," Oliver reminds her, as though it's a perfectly rational argument.

"And I'm still adamant about that," she answers. "I am not allowing your particular brand of debauchery into my quiet, happy apartment. Which I apparently now share with an imaginary cat." Diggle's eyes narrow at that as Blondie shoots Oliver an icy glare. "I'm still angry about that."