Pretty Dirty Trick

by Tabatha Kiss

  “No other features stood out to her?”

  Abby slides her sketchbook into her book bag. “She said it was dark. It’s the best I could get out of her…”

  “Thanks, Abby,” I say, laying it down. I raise my arms, stretching them out over my head as I take a breath. “How are your classes so far this semester?”

  She grins with excitement. “Tonight… we start nudes.”

  I laugh at her sinister, winking eye. “Have fun.”

  “I will. See you next time, Detective. You have my number.”

  “Bye, hun.”

  She heads toward the elevator and I pick up the sketch again, frowning to myself.

  “Let me see him.”

  I look over at Trevor in the desk next to mine. He gestures for the sketch and I pass it to him.

  He scoffs. “Looks like every random dude on the street.”

  “And not enough like Milo to help our case. No shortage of tall, dark, and handsome in Boston, I guess,” I say.

  “I mean… I don’t want to prove your point or nothing, but…” He holds the sketch up to his own face, showing off the resemblance.

  I roll my eyes. “Another dead end, then.”

  “Good sketch, though.”

  “I’m talking about that forehead,” I quip. “You could sell ad space on that thing.”

  He laughs. “I walked into that one.”

  “Said your forehead.”

  He glares at me with pouting lips as I turn back to my computer. Pages and pages of transactions and statement balances wait for me. It’s going to be a long day and I’ve already hit my five cups of coffee limit that’s not actually a limit.

  My scroll finger stops dead.

  “Boston Bio?” I read.

  Trevor looks up. “What?”

  I blink. “Nothing, just thinking out loud.”

  A large four-figure deposit stands out between trips to a grocery store. Boston Bio. A fertility clinic. Coincidentally, the same clinic I used to help conceive Charlotte.

  What the hell was Milo doing at a fertility clinic — I check the date — five years ago?

  My stomach turns over.

  Oh, no.

  I click over to his mugshot again, slamming the mouse button down hard as if it will make it happen faster.

  No, no, no.

  I zoom in on his eyes. Those gorgeous multicolored eyes. Brown irises with spikes of bright blue shooting out from his pupils.

  I grab my phone, quickly swiping it on to see the photo of Charlotte on my home screen.

  Brown-hair. Dimples. Cleft chin.

  This isn’t possible.

  There was a profile. Donor #7134-C. I chose the sperm of a tall, dark, and handsome lawyer. Milo fits the first part but he’s miles away from the second. I saw a photo of the donor. That guy was literally James Bond by way of Chris Evans. He had a dalmatian puppy. It wasn’t Milo. It isn’t Milo.

  I look between their photos again, feeling that same dread fill to the edges of my gut.

  Oh, no.

  Ten

  Milo

  I yawn. Not much else I can do in here.

  I can barely even sleep. The sun pours in from the window above my cot and the city sounds aren’t exactly soothing. I’ve been stuck in this jail cell for hours now. Maybe I should have made an effort to have more friends. They could have paid my bail. Can murder suspects even get bail?

  I hear the outer doors open and somebody wanders in slowly. The sound echoes all around me, but I ignore it in favor of just a few more seconds of peace.

  “Hey, Milo.”

  I jolt upward and look over to see her standing behind the bars.

  “Anna,” I say.

  “Detective.” Her throat clears. “I need to ask you something.”

  I hop off the cot to get a better look at her shadowed face. She makes it a little difficult by partially looking down at her shoes but as I step closer, she turns her head up. Any other situation and I’d be flashing a wink to keep her attention but I’m not exactly in the position to flirt right now.

  I wait for her to continue but she just stands there staring at me. “Is there something I can assist you with, Detective?” I ask, feeling snarky.

  “Heterochromia,” she says.

  I lean into the bars between us. “My eyes?”

  “Have you always had it?”

  “What does that have to do with my case?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Uh…” I shake my head but whatever. I’ll play along. “Yeah. I was born with it. Got it from my mom.”

  She nods while her eyes scrape the floor between us. “Does the number 7134-C mean anything to you?”

  I chuckle awkwardly. “No. I can’t say it does.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Detective, what is this about?”

  Anna takes a deep, slow breath. “Have you…” She exhales hard. “Have you ever donated sperm?”

  I blink as a chill takes my spine. How far back into my history are they digging here? How many scams have they uncovered? If I say the wrong thing, I’ll never see the outside world again.

  “Do I need to see a lawyer, Detective?” I ask.

  “This isn’t about your case,” she says. “I just need to know if you’ve donated sperm and, if so, what information did you put in your profile?”

  I stare at her as my mouth sags.

  “Milo,” she says, her voice rising. “Have you ever donated sperm?”

  “Yes,” I let slip.

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. Like, five years ago?”

  “Harvard Law graduate?” she asks. “150 IQ? Lives in Chicago with a dalmatian named—”

  “Named Layla,” I say with her. “Yeah.”

  Her face turns white. “Oh, my god,” she whispers.

  She turns around to face the wall with one hand over her mouth and the other on her stomach.

  I stare with confusion. “Anna?”

  “I’m gonna vomit.”

  “What are…” I pause. “Wait, did you?”

  She spins back around, her face contorted in horror.

  “Your daughter?” I ask, pointing up at my eyes. “The one with the—”

  “Oh, god,” she says.

  “She’s mine?”

  Anna freezes. “Ugh…”

  I rush forward, slapping my forehead against the bars. “Ow—! Really? Are you sure?”

  She bolts for the door.

  “Wait, Anna! Detective!” I extend my arm out of the cage. “Wait a minute. Detective, wait a minute!”

  The door slams behind her and I listen to her shoes crashing down the hallway.

  Holy crap.

  I pull my arm back and clench the bars to hold myself up.

  “Whoa…”

  Eleven

  Anna

  Anna? Anna?”

  I look up from my desk. “What?” I ask no one.

  Trevor leans over, blending into my eye-line. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Looks like you just got slammed by a bus.”

  That’s exactly what this feels like.

  A speeding bus just collided with my life. I feel ill and terrified. I had a very specific image in my head of who the father of my daughter was since the day she was conceived. That’s now shattered into a thousand pieces.

  He’s a liar. A fraud. He’s got connections to the Irish mob. His criminal record is a mile long.

  My murder suspect fathered my baby.

  Oh, god.

  “Anna.”

  I blink out of it again. “What?”

  Trevor kicks off the floor and slides his chair to get closer to me.

  I stand up. “I’m gonna get some coffee.”

  “Wait—”

  I don’t stop. I feel him watching me as I navigate through the sea of desks toward the break room but the thick walls closing in on me block him out. Luckily, the room is empty and I’m l
eft to experience the complete breakdown of everything I know in peace.

  How is this even possible?

  Did the clinic screw up? No, this wasn’t a matter of some idiot clerk accidentally switching a few profiles around. Milo knew exactly what was in my donor’s file. #7134-C. The tall, dark, and handsome lawyer from Chicago.

  He did this on purpose. He scammed the clinic, took their money, and ran. And I suffered the consequences.

  “Hey, Silva.”

  I glance up at Kendall in the doorway, quickly realizing I’m holding an empty mug. I set it down. “What’s up?” I ask.

  “We just got security footage from Ramsay Park,” she says. “You need to see this.”

  I swallow my personal shit and follow her back onto the main floor. Trevor stands over Dougie’s chair with his hands on his hips and a sour look on his face.

  I reach them and exhale, calming down a little bit more. “What’d I miss?”

  Dougie points at the screen. “The city just sent this over. From two nights ago…”

  I look at the footage. Dozens of happy, smiling people wander by on the sidewalk. Behind them, the Hot Sauce taco truck sits in its usual spot across the street from The Smoothie Zone.

  And, clearly, I see Milo in the window.

  “What time is this?” I ask.

  “Seven twenty-four,” Dougie answers. “He putts around for another thirty minutes or so and then drives off.”

  It sinks in. I’m not sure if I’m more disappointed or relieved.

  “He didn’t kill Detective Wells,” I murmur.

  Trevor leans in. “Well, wait. He still could have—”

  “Wells died at seven thirty. There’s no way Milo could have driven across town in time. He was right. Someone’s framing him.” I rub my heavy eyes. “Let him go.”

  “He could still have killed Canon McGregor,” he argues.

  Dougie shakes his head. “Nah, already checked that. He was there the night before, too. Airtight alibi.”

  Trevor grits his teeth. “He had the murder weapon in his truck.”

  “It could have been placed overnight by anyone in the Quinn’s parking lot. We have no case,” I say. “Just let him go.”

  “Anna,” he leans over to look me in the eyes, “are you okay?”

  I breathe in, feeling my air rattling around in my chest.

  “Yeah, I think I’m gonna take off. Pick up my kid and…” My voice falls. “I don’t know. I’m just gonna go.”

  He reaches out to touch my arm. “Call me if you need—”

  I walk out of his touch toward my desk with tunnel vision to grab my things and get out of here.

  I just want to go home and hug my daughter.

  After that… I haven’t quite figured that part out yet.

  Twelve

  Milo

  Well, this was unexpected.

  Not in a but-I’m-guilty kind of way. In a the-deck-was-stacked-against-me-but-I-still-turned-a-full-house way. I knew I didn’t kill those people but this world is becoming more and more guilty-until-proven-innocent every single day.

  And Anna.

  How could this possibly be a coincidence?

  I walk down the outer stairs of the station a free man but I don’t feel like one. I can hardly take a deep breath without fueling the fire in my lungs. It feels like a doctor just sucker-punched me in the gut after telling me I didn’t have cancer.

  I have a daughter.

  The thought stops me cold at the street corner a little too suddenly. A woman behind me walks into me and shoves my shoulder.

  “Fucking pervert,” she spits as she passes by into the street.

  I laugh. What the hell else am I supposed to do?

  I step forward but a long, black car halts in front of me, blocking my path. I grunt in annoyance and wave my arm to the side.

  “After you,” I say.

  The back window rolls down and I groan at whatever more abuse this day is going to throw at me.

  “Mr. Murray.”

  I look up. A woman in black sunglasses stares at me from the backseat. Curly, blonde hair and dark brown eyebrows poke out above the frames. She’s either very naked or she’s wearing a very, very low-cut top that’s hidden from view.

  “Yes?” I say.

  “Get in.”

  “What?”

  “I said, get in the fucking car.”

  I sigh. Her accent is thick, fierce, and very Boston-Irish. The last thing I want right now is more mob bullshit in my life.

  The door opens and a large man steps out to intimidate me inside.

  I throw up my hands. “All right. All right…”

  He shoves me in and I sit down next to a man with a pistol balanced on his right knee. His legs jut out in all their man-spreading glory but it doesn’t look like he’s willing to give me any space, so I squeeze up. The men sandwich me in place on the seat and the car starts to move again.

  I look across at the woman. I keep my eyes locked on her face but I can make out the overall details of her. Her dress is black, hugged tightly against her curves like a second skin. Red, knee-high boots. White, pale body.

  “Do you know who I am, Mr. Murray?”

  I shrug. “Nope.”

  She pinches the edge of her sunglasses and slides them off. Her eyes are a deep reptilian green. “I’m Morgan McGregor,” she says. “You were arrested for killing my brother, Canon. Care to explain why?”

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” I repeat for the up-teenth time today.

  She sits patiently with her hands gently folded in her lap.

  I sigh. “Someone planted evidence at the crime scene and in my taco truck — but I alibied out. I didn’t do it. They know it. I know it. They let me go.”

  She presses her lips together thoughtfully. “You work for Daniel Quinn’s obnoxious food truck circuit, then?”

  “I park my truck in his lot but I don’t know what you mean by—”

  “Cut the bullshit, Mr. Murray. I’m no cop. I don’t give two shits how dirty your hands are. I just want to hang up whoever killed my brother by his fucking balls.”

  My groin clenches involuntarily. “I understand.”

  “You work for Daniel Quinn,” she repeats. “I believe a Quinn killed my brother. I want you to find out which Quinn it was.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, desperately. “I make tacos, lady. Daniel passes his shit through my freezer and I look the other way. I don’t get involved. If I knew anything, I’d tell you.”

  She nods at the man next to me and I feel the edge of his pistol press into my neck.

  “Okay — okay.” I present my begging hands. “Daniel might have mentioned your brother. But he said he didn’t kill him. He doesn’t want a mob war.”

  “My brother didn’t either,” she says. “He wanted peace and cooperation between our families and he was killed for it.”

  “That’s probably true, but—”

  “Mr. Murray, did you ever sneak a bite of dessert before dinner even after mother said no?” she asks over me.

  I squint. “I don’t know. Yeah, maybe.”

  “Have you ever committed a crime you knew in advance to be illegal?”

  “Sure,” I answer. “Who hasn’t?”

  “So, then, do you agree that an insubordinate Quinn might have killed my brother against Daniel’s wishes?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You will find out which Quinn killed my brother,” she says again, her voice harder, “or…”

  I wait. “Or…?”

  “Or I will hang you up by your—”

  “My fucking balls,” I say, nodding. “I got it.”

  She gestures to the driver and he comes to a quick stop by the curb. “You have two days, Mr. Murray.”

  I wince. “I kinda got a lot on my plate right now. I can probably fit it in next—”

  The man beside me pulls back the hammer on his pistol.

  “Two days,” I say with a big nod. “Sounds reaso
nable. No problem. I’ll get right on it.”

  Morgan smiles, though I really wish she wouldn’t. I almost feel like she’s about to detach her jaw and swallow me whole. “Have a good night, Mr. Murray.”

  “Oh, you, too,” I mutter as the brute shoves me back outside.

  I plunk down into a deep puddle. The water splashes up my ankles and I curse to myself as Morgan rolls her window down again.

  “And Mr. Murray…”

  I groan. “What?”

  “If you tell anyone about this, I will—”

  “Something about my balls?” I ask as I scrape my foot against the curb.

  She smiles again and the window slides back up as her cliché ride rolls off down the street.

  I step up onto the sidewalk and reach for my phone in my pocket to distract me from the hell I just encountered. It still has a little bit of juice left but it’ll die any minute now. I tap over to my messages.

  Found lipstick on your collar. We need to talk.

  Translation: You’re in some deep shit now, son.

  * * *

  I take a cab to the South End Truck Lot. The moment I step out, the air shifts and an icy cold breeze strikes my face. Fresh clouds fill the sky above me. Another storm tonight. Another storm tomorrow, too.

  I feel the eyes on me before I even step into the office hub. The place isn’t populated with other drivers like usual. They’ve all gone home. Probably sensed the same darkness I feel as I walk inside.

  Lots more suits stand around. Their voices go quiet the moment they see me. I expect one of them to be Doogan like always but then I remember what happened to him. They probably already know and — given the cryptic texts — Daniel already knows I was arrested for his murder.

  I beeline through the sitting area and into the hallway toward Daniel’s office.

  “Milo,” he says as soon as we make eye contact. “Sit down.”

  Two men stand in the doorway. They part ways to let me in and I lower down into the chair in front of Daniel’s desk.