Pretty Dirty Trick

by Tabatha Kiss

  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.”

  Ah, crap.

  Customers look from them to the truck and back again. They step away slowly, some moving to abandon their food entirely. Great. I expect the rumor mill to come up with some story about how I poison people or something.

  Someone knocks on the back door, slamming their fist over and over again.

  “Mr. Murray!”

  I turn to the door, recognizing the voice of that adorable detective who spoke to me yesterday. My lips twitch involuntarily and I step over to answer it.

  “Detective—”

  “Put your hands up!”

  I throw my arms into the air, flinching at the very large gun she has pointed at my face. “Whoa…”

  She steps inside, followed quickly by another officer. “Turn around!”

  “Okay…”

  I spin and she instantly pulls my wrists down to my back and pushes me forward into the counter.

  “Whoa—” I gasp as she locks me in handcuffs. “You are very rough.”

  “Milo Murray, you are under arrest for the murder of Martin Wells.”

  I frown. “Wait, who?”

  She pins me closer to the counter. “You have the right to remain silent.”

  “Ah, crap.”

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you.”

  I close my mouth.

  Well, this isn’t good.

  Not good at all.

  * * *

  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the inside of a room like this.

  Off-white walls. One table. Two chairs. A large mirror across from me that’s actually a window on the other side. I wonder how many pairs of eyes are staring at me, watching my every move and sizing me up, just waiting for the resident good cop/bad cop squad to come in and make an example out of me.

  The door opens and Anna Silva walks in carrying a file at her side. I expect another cop to walk in after her but she closes the door behind us. We’re alone. With obvious exception to the peepers behind the glass, of course.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Murray,” she says as she takes the chair across from me.

  “Hello, Detective,” I say, my voice sounding far sterner than I intended but this woman did shove me against a wall about an hour ago.

  She smiles, partially. She sits in silence for another few seconds, her eyes laser-focused on mine. I’d blink but I don’t necessarily want to piss her off.

  “Mr. Murray, where were you the night before last from seven to eight?” she asks.

  “In my truck,” I answer. “Just like the night before that.”

  “Can anyone corroborate that?”

  “Oh, about dozen hungry people in the Ramsay Park area.”

  “No one else?”

  I turn up my cuffed hands.

  She scribbles something on her notes. “Does your truck have security footage that can back up your story?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just never bothered,” I say. “Never thought I’d have to prove I didn’t kill anybody. The park has some, though. Check with them. Please.”

  She stares at me, studying me hard, unblinking eyes. “You sure you’re not hiding anything else, Mr. Murray?” she asks.

  “I’m not hiding anything, Detective.”

  Anna turns a page in her file. “Would you mind telling me who Jacob Tyler is?”

  I deflate. “So, I changed my name. That’s not illegal.”

  “Armed robbery is,” she reads. “Three counts of possession. About a half-dozen misdemeanors before your eighteenth birthday. Nineteen counts of fraud? That’s…” She shakes her head. “Impressive.”

  “I made a few fake IDs for friends,” I say with a shrug. “It was also over a decade ago. Not exactly relevant.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “I paid my debt.”

  “To society, maybe. But I suspect you still have a little debt left over to someone else.” She looks up. “Daniel Quinn, perhaps?”

  “I owe him nothing.”

  “So, you do know him?”

  I bite down. Walked right into it. Good going, asshole.

  “Yes,” I confirm. “He owns the lot I park my truck in.”

  “Do you know who Daniel Quinn is, Mr. Murray?”

  “Yeah.” I squint. “He’s the guy who owns the lot I park my truck in.”

  “He’s also the head of a very dangerous Irish cri
me family.”

  I throw up my hands. “I’m sorry, Detective,” I say, playing dumb. “I wasn’t raised in this area. I don’t know that kind of stuff. I had a truck, I shopped around for a legal place to park it, I got a good deal from Daniel, and our business arrangement has been solid ever since.”

  She tilts her head and I can practically hear the bullshit detector rattling between her ears. “Did you ever meet an associate of his named Doogan?” she asks.

  I look up, pretending to think. “Yes,” I say with a short nod. “I saw him once or twice around the lot. Why?”

  “Once or twice?”

  “Yeah, once or twice.”

  “So, you’ve never been to his place of residence?”

  I shrug. This is an easy one. I don’t even have to lie. “No,” I answer.

  “Then, can you tell me how your fingerprints ended up on his doorknob?”

  I blink. “My prints were where?”

  She slides a photo out of her folder and lays it down in front of me. My guts jolt, fueling my instinct to look away from the blood and gore in front of me but I lean in an inch as I catch his face. Doogan.

  That’s a shame. I kind of liked that guy.

  I glance up at Anna. She frowns so deeply, her brow casts shadows over her soft eyes.

  “Wait a minute—” I shake my head. “You think I did this, too?”

  “This is the second body in two days we’ve found covered in your hot sauce, Mr. Murray.”

  My mouth sags. “How is that—”

  “But, unlike Canon McGregor yesterday, this man wasn’t part of a mob family.” She points a stiff finger at the picture. “You know him as Doogan, but we know him as Detective Martin Wells. You killed a cop, Mr. Murray.”

  Well, that explains why they sent half the police station to pick me up. Boston doesn’t fuck around with cop-killers.

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” I say, swallowing hard.

  “You work for Daniel Quinn. You killed Canon because he wandered into your boss’ turf. You found out Doogan was a cop investigating the food truck drug route and you shot him before he could turn you in—”

  “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  Anna pulls out another photo, this one of a large, silver handgun. I nearly flinch as she slams it down on the table between us.

  “We searched your truck and found this taped to the back of your refrigerator,” she says. “How much you want to bet the bullets found in Canon McGregor and Detective Wells are a match?”

  I dip forward, blinking at it in disbelief. “That’s not mine,” I say.

  She smirks. “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Please, Anna—”

  “Detective.”

  “Detective Anna, please,” I say, making her raise a brow. “I’ve done some shady shit, I’ll admit, but I don’t kill people and I sure as hell didn’t kill a cop.”

  “Then, who did?”

  “Hell if I know. Someone’s setting me up!”

  “Who would do that? I mean… you just run a taco truck, right?”

  I exhale in desperation. “I don’t know. Please. You have to believe me.”

  Anna slides out of her chair and gathers her file. “Get comfortable, Mr. Murray. You’re gonna be here a while.”

  I exhale hard, losing more and more of my cool as she walks out and leaves me in here.

  Holy shit. I’m so fucked.

  Nine

  Anna

  Something doesn’t feel right.

  When I walked into that interrogation room, I was sure we had the right guy.

  Lock him up. Throw away the key. There was no doubt in my mind that Milo Murray was a hardened killer.

  But something about his eyes makes me pause.

  I sit and stare at his new mugshot on my computer screen, flipping between it and the old one of Jacob Tyler. I’ve looked into the eyes of dozens of killers. You never see the same eyes twice. No killer is the same as another but there’s always been a feeling deep inside of me that tells me they’re guilty long before I have the evidence to back it up.

  I expected that feeling when I walked in there today but when I looked into Milo’s eyes again and I saw something bright and innocent… and achingly familiar.

  Trevor scoffs behind my back. “You’re not developing a crush on this guy, are you?”

  I look up and glare. “No. I’m doing my job, Detective. It’s a thing some of us do around here.”

  He sneers and walks on, casting another suspicious glance at my monitor as he goes.

  Milo Murray, I think as I stare into his multicolored eyes. What am I missing?

  My desk phone rings and I pick it up. “Silva,” I answer.

  “Anna, we have a Mrs. Emery Nelson down here,” Sally says. “I believe she’s your witness.”

  “Thank you, Sally. I’ll be right down.”

  I drop the phone and jump up to rush downstairs.

  I reach the lobby to see an older woman lingering at the front desk with Sally. She stands tall and talks fast, showing a spry woman for her age. Good. The more competent she is, the better her testimony will be.

  I walk over and extend my hand. “Mrs. Nelson, thank you for coming in. I’m Detective Silva. I understand you got a good look at the man fleeing Burn Street last night?”

  She nods and shakes my hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Would you be willing to do a line-up for us?” I ask.

  “Absolutely,” she says. “Whatever you need.”

  “Come with me. It won’t take long.” I guide her down the hall. “We have a suspect in custody so whatever you can tell us will be helpful for keeping him here.”

  She visibly shudders. “Just don’t understand how someone can do that kind of thing…”

  “I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to figure that out myself, Mrs. Nelson.

  I lead her onto the elevator and we ride up to the fifth floor. We walk down the hall and I gesture her into the viewing room on the left. I look through the glass at the six men standing there waiting. All tall, dark men with short, brown hair and thick arms.

  Milo stands in the middle, looking down at the floor.

  “Mrs. Nelson, do you recognize any of these men?”

  Her head cranes up as she studies the glass.

  “It’s a one-way mirror, ma’am,” I tell her. “They can’t see you. It’s all right.”

  She grins. “Always wanted to do this. How exciting!”

  I smile back before looking into the connecting room again at Milo’s downturn face.

  “Oh!” She points at Milo. “Number three.”

  I reach out to enable the intercom switch by my head. “Number three, step forward,” I say into it.

  I click it off and watch as Milo slides closer to the glass. He looks straight ahead, his dark eyes standing out beneath the bright lights.

  I turn away from him. “This is the man you saw last night?” I ask Mrs. Nelson.

  “That’s the young man who runs that taco truck, isn’t it?”

  My eyes twitch. “I can’t tell you that, ma’am. Now, do you recognize—”

  “He’s not in any trouble, is he?”

  “Mrs. Nelson, is this the man you saw last night fleeing the Burn Street apartment block or not?”

  “Oh, heaven’s no!” she says. “I definitely would have recognized him if it were.”

  I flex my jaw and flick on the intercom again. “You can step back, number three,” I spit.

  Milo’s eyes shift left and right twice before he eases backward to stand by the wall.

  “The man I saw was much shorter,” she adds. “Thinner, too.”

  “Would you mind sticking around and working with a sketch artist?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says with a shrug.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Nelson.”

  She pulls her purse higher up her shoulder and smiles through the glass. “He always gives me extra sauce, you know,” she says with a smile. “Doesn’t even charge me
for it.”

  I glare at Milo. “Is that right?”

  “Such a wonderful young man.”

  I clear my throat and gesture to the hallway. “This way, Mrs. Nelson.”

  She follows me to the door and I glance back over my shoulder toward the line-up again. Milo Murray seems to have a lot of people fooled but that’s not surprising. That’s what frauds like him are good at. Ruthless. Charming. There’s a reason why everyone is always so surprised when they’re finally unmasked.

  But he was so nice. So thoughtful.

  He was the perfect gentleman.

  I’m not falling for it.

  Milo is hiding something.

  And I’m going to find out what it is.

  * * *

  I sit at my desk, quietly scrolling through Milo’s financial records. The judge gave us a warrant to access everything we could, so we swiped up whatever we could find in his and Jacob Tyler’s name, too. So far, I’ve found nothing. He’s good at covering his tracks but that doesn’t mean I won’t leave any stone unturned.

  I’m gonna nail this son-of-a-bitch.

  My attention drifts to the corner where our volunteer sketch artist, Abby, sits with Mrs. Nelson. Her pencil moves quickly against her sketchbook, pushing softly to easily alter it according to Mrs. Nelson’s suggestions. She glances at me and gives a nod before adjusting her glasses up her nose and getting back to it.

  My phone rings and I reach for it. “Silva,” I answer.

  “Hey, it’s Kendall. We just checked the last three registered addressed for Milo Murray and another one registered to Jacob Tyler.”

  “What’d you find?”

  “Nothing,” she answers. “Literally nothing. They were all abandoned, meaning this guy’s got some secret hideout somewhere.”

  “Keep digging until you find it.”

  I don’t wait for an answer. I hang up and click over to his mugshot.

  What are you hiding?

  For a moment, I lose myself. His eyes seem so clear and real, almost like I want to believe him, but evidence doesn’t lie. People lie. People like him.

  “Well, here’s your man.”

  I blink out of my trance to find Abby lingering over my desk. She holds out her sketch and I snatch it from her hand. Unfortunately, sketches often turn out to be a lot more average than not. A normal-looking man stares back at me with dark hair, thick brows, and a pointed nose on a clean-shaven face.