by Tabatha Kiss
Wasted.
Kendall and Dougie have already sectioned off the apartment by the time Trevor and I arrive. It’s not easy to walk in and I pause as soon as I see Martin’s cold, blue face on the floor. Even Trevor stays out in the hallway for a few minutes before walking in.
“Christ…” he mutters behind me.
“No sign of forced entry,” I say, checking out the door. “Have we dusted the handle for prints yet?”
Dougie shakes his head. “No.”
Trevor clears his throat. “I’ll do it.”
I step away, giving him space to work.
“Six shots to the chest,” Kendall says, looking down. “Just like Canon.”
I kneel beside the body and take a deep breath. My nose twitches with a familiar rush of spices and sweetness.
“Hot sauce,” I say. “Just like Canon.”
Milo and his smug grin flash in my head.
“There’s a witness next floor down,” Kendall says, checking her notepad. “Emery Nelson. Says she saw a man with dark hair bolt out the front and run down the street last night around seven-thirty. She checked the window after she heard a loud thump upstairs and feet racing down the stairwell.”
“We’ll get Gloria to confirm time of death,” I say with a nod. “Gives us a timeline.”
I stand up and move over to the desk in the corner as I slide on a pair of gloves. Stacks of books and notes flood the place but it’s all bullshit. Nothing at all that would give him away as a cop. He’d keep his case notes hidden if he kept a hard copy at all.
I look around the room, thinking like a teenager. If I wanted to hide my stash from Mom and Dad, where would I put it?
“You smell something, Silva?” Dougie asks.
I drop to my knees to look under the bed. Nothing but dust. “He ever mention if he kept notes?” I ask. “And where?”
Dougie shakes his head and instantly heads for the closet to start tearing it apart.
I pull the mattress up to check there. A dirty magazine or two. I sift behind the books on the shelf beside the desk. Nada.
I eye the dresser. I lean over and pull out the bottom drawer full of old jeans. I yank it off its track and set it down on the floor to look in beneath it.
Jackpot.
A dark blue file rests inside on the floor. I pull it out and flip it open. Each page is handwritten on wide-ruled notebook paper, laid out like diary entries. One for nearly each day he’s been under. Sometimes, it’s just one sentence or one detail he wanted to remember. A few hand-drawn maps. I read the first entry.
They know me as Doogan.
Six
Milo
Am I capable of murder? I guess everyone wonders about it once or twice. I know I’ve thought about it but I also flipped off the fence onto a defiant no. I’m not a killer. A thief, yes. An asshole, definitely. But a killer? I don’t have the stomach for it.
I need help.
It’s not something I’ve ever been comfortable asking for but desperate times call for extreme, often nonsensical, actions that I will probably regret in about ten minutes time.
I scan the street behind me before I enter my apartment building. It makes me look sketchy, not gonna lie, but the last thing I want is for the wrong person to find out where I live.
My shoes echo softly as I bypass the always-broken elevator and move for the stairs. I shake the rain off my coat but it doesn’t do me a bit of good as the ceiling above my head leaks rainwater. It’s not the fanciest of living spaces, I’ll admit, but that’s more or less the point.
It’s much easier to leave a place you have no attachment to.
I reach the fourth floor and open the last door on the left.
I hang up my jacket and do a quick check of my bedroom and bathroom before sitting down on my couch in the living room with my phone in my hand. The sooner I start, the sooner it ends, I tell myself, but that doesn’t make my fingers swipe any faster.
Finally, I tap his number and hold the phone up to my ear, listening to the dull rumble of ring after ring until he picks up.
“Hello?”
“Lance, it’s me,” I say.
“Uh…” He pauses. “And by what name does me go by nowadays?”
“Milo.”
He laughs. “That’s cute. I like it.”
“Look, Lance, I…” I accidentally nip the tip of my tongue and wince at the sharp pain.
“You what?”
“I need some advice,” I spit out.
“What kind?”
“The legal kind.”
There’s a heavy pause before he finally exhales. “Aw, shit.”
I lean forward a little. “It’s not that bad, Lance. I just need to know what I should do if — hypothetically — a cop maybe accused me of murder.”
“I’ve only been a lawyer for a decade or so but I’m pretty sure getting accused of murder is pretty bad, Jake.”
“Milo,” I remind him.
“Who did you kill?”
“I didn’t,” I say, “but I think someone’s gone through a lot of trouble to make it look like I did.”
“Someone who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Milo… how much trouble are you in here?”
I bite my cheek. “The kind where they tell you not to leave town for a while.”
My senses twist with regret. I should hang up. Just say I’m sorry for bothering him and hang up. Forget I called him. Just forget everything like always.
“Okay…” Lance clears his throat. “You’re officially a person of interest in their case, so they’re going to be watching you like a hawk. If you’re involved in anything — anything — even the least bit shady, I’d suggest you stop now if you don’t want to get caught.”
I nod. “All right.”
“Don’t talk to any cops. Find a lawyer you can afford and send any officer who comes knocking their way instead. If you tell me where you are, I can fly out there and maybe—”
“No, don’t…” I close my eyes. “I’ll be fine. Just forget about this, Lance. Thanks anyway.”
I hang up before he can say anything else. I sit back and wait for the regret and the anguish to take me over.
Because that’s just what family feels like.
Seven
Anna
“You’re gonna burn it,” I say as I take a sip from my wineglass.
Vincent shakes his head but he doesn’t look up from the cherry tomatoes he’s slicing in front of him. “I am not going to burn it,” he says again.
I squint harder through the oven’s window. “Definitely doesn’t look right.”
He slices louder, the blade thunking against the cutting board. “It’s chicken. It’s fine. It’s supposed to look like that.”
“I don’t know…”
Vincent straightens up and points a large finger over my shoulder. “Get out of my kitchen.”
“This is my house!”
He straightens his arm, pointing harder. “Out!”
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m taking the salad. We’re hungry.”
“Okay.”
I grab the bowl of leafy goodness off the counter and he juts out at me.
“Wait.” He snatches it from my hands and sets it down in front of him, quickly dropping the cherry tomatoes inside and giving the thing a quick mix. “There.”
I gesture with my chin. “Tongs, please.”
Vincent picks them up and drops them into the bowl.
“Thank you, little brother.”
He slides an oven mitt on. “Get out, big sister.”
“Meanie.”
“Weirdo.”
We both smile as I spin away and walk from the kitchen to the dining room. I look through the corridor into the living room and my grin spreads at Evey as she tries to keep Zachary and Charlotte entertained.
I hold up the salad bowl. “I come bearing food!”
Evey gasps and looks at the kids, one standing on either side of her wide
hips. “You guys hungry?”
They cry out in excitement and stand up quickly to head toward the table.
“Wash hands first!” I remind them, pointing down the hall to the bathroom.
They instantly double back and head that way.
Evey lets out a long and deep breath as she slowly falls into her chair at the table.
I chuckle. “You look tired.”
She turns her head up and tosses her blonde hair to one side. “I feel tired.”
“Everything okay at the bar?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah. It’s the cold and rainy season, which always fills stools. Just hired a few new bartenders who are working out so much better than I thought they would.”
I nod as I sit down across from her. “That’s always nice.”
“Just trying to get the place running like a well-oiled machine again in time for…”
Her lips press together. Evey’s almost as bad at keeping secrets as Vincent is.
I play dumb. “In time for what?”
Vincent walks in with a small tray of dinner rolls and sets it down in the middle of the table. “About ten more minutes on the main course.”
I wince teasingly. “Check it in five.”
He takes the seat next to Evey and glares at me.
Evey smiles and takes his hand. “Now?” she whispers to him.
He shrugs. “If you want.”
“Okay.” She turns toward me with a long grin and wide, happy eyes. “Anna, we have something to tell you.”
“Okay.” I set my wineglass down. “What?”
“We’re pregnant!” she says, her voice a high-pitched squeal.
I feign a gasp. “Oh, my god! That’s amazing!”
Her face falls and she glares at Vincent. “You already told her.”
“What?” He jerks back. “I did not.”
“Oh, please. That was so fake.”
I nod. “She’s right. I can’t fake surprise. Sorry, little brother. I’m really happy for you guys, though.”
Evey grins. “It’s okay. I’ll just have to get to you first for the next one.”
Vincent chokes on his water. “The what?”
“Have you seen the ultrasound yet?” she asks me.
“I caught a little peek of it,” I say.
She slides off her chair to rush into the foyer for her purse while Vincent’s face slowly recovers its color.
Two pairs of tiny feet come rushing back in from the hallway. I pull out the chair beside me for Charlotte to hop up on while Zachary slides out his own chair by his dad and takes his seat. I feel a surge of excitement. This time next year, the kids and adults will be even. The year after that? If there really is a “next one,” we’ll be outnumbered.
I scoop some salad into Charlotte’s bowl and she slowly pecks away at it. I split a piece of bread with her, happy to finally soothe my empty stomach.
Evey comes back and hands me the ultrasound photo.
“Beautiful!” I say, excited to see it again.
“What’s that?” Charlotte asks, tugging on my sleeve.
I show it to her. “That’s your new cousin, Char.”
“Oh, okay.” She nods and casually goes back to eating.
I laugh. “Well, I’m excited for you, Evey.”
Vincent fills Zachary’s bowl with salad and slides out of his chair to go check on the chicken. I give him a smug smile. He pretends not to notice it.
I turn back to Evey, lowering my voice for girl talk. “Baby number two,” I say, smiling.
“Baby number two,” she repeats, her smile much wider.
“Girl or boy?”
“Well, I always kind of wanted boys,” she says, her eyes slowly turning toward Charlotte. “But after her…”
“I love having a little girl,” I say, looking at her. “Boys are pretty awesome, don’t get me wrong, but the ratio of things Zach destroyed compared to the damage Charlotte has done…”
“Amen to that.” She laughs. “So, what do you think?”
I tilt my head. “Think about what?”
“You ever going for baby number two?”
I hum a response. I can’t even begin to think about that right now. “I don’t know,” I finally say. “We’ll see.”
She lays her warm hand on mine. “Well, if you do, let us know. Not that we have any say or anything, but as a happy, willing, frequent caregiver who also runs her own business and owns half of another one currently expanding…”
“I’ll definitely alert you if I plan on dropping more free babysitting on your and Vincent’s already tight schedule.”
She raises her glass of water. “Thank you.”
Vincent returns with two plates in his hands. He lays one down in front of Evey and the other in front of me. My senses explode from the sight and smell of my brother’s delicious chicken parmesan.
“Dinner is served, ladies,” he says.
Evey grabs her fork. “I have been waiting for this all day long.”
“This looks amazing!” I say. “Took it out just in time, huh?”
He ignores the petty jab and reaches out to pinch Charlotte’s cheek, making her giggle. “Kid-sized portions coming right out,” he says.
My heart beats warmth from my head to my toes. Charlotte adores her uncle and I couldn’t ask for a better father figure for my daughter.
Still, I wonder how her life would be different if Mommy could ever get her personal shit together long enough to keep a man around. One who’s strong and smart. Good cook would be a plus. Great with kids is a straight-up requirement. Attractive, obviously.
I slice off a chunk of chicken and put it in my mouth. I’m as picky with men as I am with my food but, as usual, Vincent nailed it.
He comes back with the kids’ plates and sets them down. “How is it?” he asks us.
Evey just gives him a thumbs up, her mouth completely full.
I twist my hand back and forth. “Eh…”
He rolls his eyes and walks back into the kitchen to make his own plate.
Sense of humor, I think as I take another delicious bite. My man would need one of those, too.
Martin’s notes don’t paint a pretty picture of the Quinn family.
Every family has their metaphorical skeletons but when it comes to a mafia family, those skeletons are often literal. Drugs, murder, mayhem. There’s enough here to easily take down several individuals in the family but Martin was thinking big. He didn’t want to arrest just one Quinn.
He wanted all of them in one fell swoop. The main family. Every confidant. Even their wives.
Rest in peace, my friend. We’ll take it from here.
I sit back in my desk chair to take a breath. If I don’t pull myself out of these notes every few minutes, I might go mad.
“Hey, Silva.”
I rub the bridge of my nose to suppress a yawn as Trevor lays a steaming coffee mug down in front of me and slides into his desk. “Thank you,” I say. “So very much.”
He flashes a wink as he sips his own. “So, we looked into that parking lot.”
“Parking lot…” I repeat, letting my eyes fall to the notes scattered along my desk.
“The one Martin named as part of the—”
“The Quinn family’s new drug route,” I recall. “Yes. Go ahead.” I stare at him over the rim of my mug.
“It houses thirty food trucks in the Boston area,” he says, his smile growing. “And guess who parks his little taco truck there overnight.”
I don’t even have to say it. “So, he’s not just an idiot.”
Trevor raises his mug. “He’s an idiot who works for the mob.”
“Allegedly,” I say. “Did Martin specify which trucks were involved?”
“No.”
“Then, we’ll have to go through one-by-one and figured that out for ourselves,” I say. “But if Milo is involved, that gives us a connection. Just need motive and opportunity to build a solid case for murder.”
“The hot
sauce places him at both scenes,” he points out.
“It’s far from a smoking gun,” I argue.
“How? Only he has access to it. Said so himself.”
“Yeah, him and the twenty-nine other truck drivers who park there, along with the Quinns who own the lot. It’s a dead end. Purely circumstantial.”
His desk phone rings. “Okay, then we need a murder weapon. Did you frisk him?”
“No, I did not frisk him.”
He raises a brow. “But you wanted to, right?”
I recoil. “No.”
“One of these days, Silva, I’m going to prove you’re human.” He sets his mug down and turns to answer his phone. “This is Rhys. … Perfect timing. Send it over.”
I bounce my foot impatiently. “What is it?”
Trevor falls into his desk chair. “The prints I pulled off the doorknob belong to a man named Jacob Tyler,” he says. “Mugshot is coming in right… now.”
I push against the floor and slide over in my chair to look over his shoulder. Trevor double-clicks the file in his email and the mugshot opens.
“Whoa…” I say.
Trevor smirks. “Well, he looks awfully familiar, doesn’t he?”
Milo Murray stares back at me. Younger and a little rougher around the edges, but those multicolored eyes are hard to miss.
“Yes.” My guts twinge. “Yes, he does.”
Eight
Milo
What’s the best way to distract oneself when they’re a person of interest in a murder investigation?
Tacos.
Order up. Number 11. 25. 31. Get the next customer. Follow the recipe. Receive money. Repeat. The midday rush just outside of Ramsay Park is the perfect escape. We’re still TBD, so no mob bullshit for me today. Just me and my truck and later, once all the hungry people are full and happy, I’ll drive on home, kick back with a nice beer, and—
Multiple police cars round the block with sirens blaring, heading straight toward the park. I pause, curious to know who got busted with what but when they slam on their brakes next to my truck, I tense up.
“Milo Murray, step out of the truck and put your hands on your head.”