Hot Sauce Read online

  “Well, saddle-up, Daddy,” I joke. “Number two’s a-coming. How far along is she?”

  “Sixteen weeks.”

  “Sixteen?! And she didn’t know until now?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about the morning sickness?”

  “She didn’t get it this time!”

  “Wow...” I flash back to all the horrible days I spent attached to a toilet during my pregnancy. “What a bitch.”

  He laughs. “Anyway, that’s where the scope came from. We took Zach with us to the appointment yesterday and he walked out with that thing. He’s already bored with it, so if Charlotte wants it...”

  I nod. “Should keep her entertained for a few days.” His eyes flash with excited fear and I smile. “Congrats, little brother.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are Mommy and baby healthy?”

  “Very,” he answers.

  “Did you have an ultrasound?”

  He flips up a stack of papers and pulls out the printed photo stashed on the bottom.

  I take it from him, my lips curling in delight at the black and gray shape of my new niece. Or nephew. I’m feeling niece, though.

  “Well, that’s unfortunate,” I say.

  “What?” he asks.

  “We’re never gonna live down this nose, are we?”

  He laughs and snatches it out of my hand. “Anything new going on with you?”

  “Oh, yeah. You know me. Party every night,” I quip. “Got a date later this evening, as a matter of fact. I’m gonna get all pretty, hang up my ankle holster, and have a good time.”

  He smirks. “New bath bomb come in?”

  I point a finger and wink. “It’s gonna be off-the-hook!”

  “How’s work?”

  “Eh, you know Boston,” I say, slurring. “Another day, another body.”

  “Anyone I know?” he asks.

  “Not unless you know Canon McGregor.”

  He nods slowly. “I’ve heard the name.”

  “The Shanks were the big dogs of Boston for a long time,” I say. “The McGregors and the Quinns were happy to linger in the wings until they went down. When they finally did, the bickering over who got the old Shank territory began but it hasn’t gotten violent until now.”

  Vincent shows some concern in his face. “Be careful,” he says.

  “I will. Sally says hi, by the way.”

  His face lights up. “I knew she’d miss me eventually.”

  I roll my eyes and stand up. “Gonna take the kid home. Is Evey at the bar?”

  “Yeah — but don’t tell her I told you that stuff before,” he says quickly. “She wanted to tell you at dinner tomorrow night.”

  I scoff in annoyance. “Vin...”

  He shrugs.

  Before Charlotte, I never really had an off-switch.

  I was Anna Silva. The top homicide detective in Boston. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I had my head in the game. I was only as good as my next closed case. I dedicated every moment to keeping the innocent people of Boston safe.

  Then, I had her.

  My head is still in the game. Don’t get me wrong. Someday, I’ll make Captain. I still wake up with the drive to protect and serve. That dream isn’t over but another urge grew in me, one that I couldn’t ignore.

  I suck at relationships. I never had the time to get them right, so… I found a donor. Tall, dark, handsome. A Harvard Law graduate from Chicago. Super smart, impeccably healthy, and he loved dogs. Donor #7134-C. On paper, he was the perfect father to start a family with. Nine months later, my life changed.

  Now, I have no issue flicking that off-switch in the evenings, even if it means just watching her eat a ham and cheese sandwich for an hour.

  She’s my world.

  Charlotte sits in her chair beside me at the kitchen table with that darn stethoscope in her ears. She holds a corner of her sandwich in one hand and the scope pressed against her neck in the other, listening intently to all the little inner noises her body makes as she swallows. Exploration. Science. I had a curiosity for it at her age, too.

  “What’s that?” she says, mostly to herself.

  “What’s what?” I ask.

  She drops her sandwich and taps her hand against the table. Thump thump. Thump thump.

  I smile. “That’s your heart, honey.” I lean over and take the scope, placing against my chest. “See? Mine does it, too.”

  She listens closely, her eyes growing wide. “It’s loud.”

  “I’m bigger than you, it’s supposed to be louder,” I say. “It’s pumping blood throughout my body. That’s hard work.”

  “Blood?”

  “It’s the red stuff in your body that...” I hesitate, searching for an answer that doesn’t get too gory. “Okay, you know how Mommy has to stop at the gas station every so often to fill up the car? Or else it won’t run anymore?” She nods. “Well, blood is like that, except it’s inside your body. It’s the stuff that keeps you running.”

  Her curious eyes flick up and down. “Do I have to fill up, too?”

  “No. Your body creates more of it on its own.” I lay my hand on my heart and thump twice. “Your heart is like a battery — you know those little silver things that power your toys?” She nods. “Well, as long as your heart keeps beating and your blood keeps pumping, you keep running. We help our hearts stay strong with a good diet and lots of exercise.”

  Charlotte lays the scope against her own heart again and listens for a few seconds. “It’s faster...” she says, looking worried.

  “That’s normal. Your heart rate can go up or down depending on a lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like... if you run from one end of the house to the other. Or when you’re excited or scared... or in love.”

  She giggles. “Are you in love, Mommy?”

  “Yes.” I poke her nose. “With you. Now, put the scope down and finish your dinner for me, will ya?”

  She obeys, sliding the thing off and laying it on the table. I pick it up and place one earpiece in my ear as I lay the scope on my chest.

  Thump thump.

  Four

  Milo

  I pick up my ladle and scoop a healthy portion of hot sauce out of its container to dump it on top of the burrito. It spills out and slowly spreads to the edge of the plate. My own tongue bursts with hungry need but I still have at least forty-five minutes left until I can break for lunch.

  I drop the plate in the window. “Order 23!” I shout out.

  A woman instantly shoots up from the bench about ten feet from the truck to claim it and I move on to the next order in line. Chicken tacos. That’s an easy one.

  I zone out completely. I’ll admit, I never expected to ever work in a food truck, but I’ve grown to enjoy it. Mob bullshit only saunters through a few minutes a day. The rest is up to me and I take a little pride in being the Hot Sauce guy.

  I lay another few plates out. “Who’s next?” I shout into the air.

  I lock eyes with a woman in a jet-black suit outside the window. Her brown hair is locked behind her head in a tight ponytail. A single strand has managed to break free and falls down over her forehead. She looks at me with deep, brown eyes and I instantly slide over to talk to her.

  “Excuse me. Are you Milo Murray?” she asks.

  I flash a smile. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. How can I help you, madam?” I ask.

  She opens the right side of her jacket, revealing the golden badge clipped to her belt. “Mr. Murray, I’m Detective Silva. Boston PD. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Oh.

  “Oh,” I say. “Right now?”

  “Yes,” she says stiffly.

  I scan the thinning crowd. “Well...”

  “It won’t take long. Step outside for me, please.”

  I harden my face to kill the desperate expression begging to take over.

  What do they know?

  Have the cops caught on to the Quinns’ new
food truck scam? Do they know I’m part of it? If they do, could I claim I’ve acted under fear of my own safety?

  Until I know for sure, it’s plausible deniability. I don’t know anything, Detective.

  Keep the mouth shut.

  I close the window and stick an on-break sign on it before stepping outside. She greets me there, along with some other cop in a dark suit and smug grin.

  “This is my partner, Detective Rhys. Do you mind if he takes a look around while we talk?” she asks me.

  Act innocent.

  I look at her partner, instantly recognizing him. A regular. I point at him. “Steak burrito. Extra hot sauce, on the side,” I say, recalling his order.

  He smiles. “Good memory.”

  I shrug and shift to the left. “Go ahead.”

  He slaps my shoulder as he passes around me and hops up into the truck. Thank god the dealers called a TBD on us. There’s no money in my freezer today. Just ice and food.

  I turn back to the detective in front of me. Silva, she said her name was. She stands tall, just a few inches shorter than me. I casually glance down at her shoes. No heels. No boots.

  “You’re not in any trouble, Mr. Murray,” she says, turning toward a nearby table. “I just want to ask you about a possible customer of yours.”

  I follow her. “Okay…”

  She sits down and I take the seat across from her. A light breeze makes that strand of hair bounce along the bridge of her nose. My gaze travels down over her eyes and cheekbones. Thin, tight lips just waiting to be stretched.

  She lays out the folder in front of her and slides a photo out. “Do you recognize this man?” she asks, her voice calm and hard.

  I pull my eyes away from her pink lips to look at the photo. A mugshot, technically. Some middle-aged man with balding black hair and a deep scar down his mouth.

  I shrug. “No.”

  “Do you mind looking again for me?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t recognize him.”

  “He’s never eaten here before?”

  “Not that I know of, but...” I glance over my shoulder as something slams in my truck. That bastard is going through my cabinets. There’s nothing in there for him to find, unless he likes four different kinds of cheese.

  Act innocent.

  “I get a lot of customers and I’m not great with faces.”

  She slides the photo back in and grabs another one. “His name is Canon McGregor. Does that help?”

  I blink, but probably shouldn’t have. “No, I’m sorry.”

  “He was found dead yesterday morning,” she continues, studying me.

  “Sucks to be him. What does this have to do with me?”

  “Because his body was covered in your signature hot sauce, Mr. Murray.”

  I shift. “Wait, really?”

  She hands me the second photo. I look at it and cringe at the image of a very dead, very red-covered, body.

  “That’s not blood?” I ask, laying it down.

  “Some of it is.” She slides it back into her folder. “Can you tell me where you were the night before last between seven and eight?”

  I try and think back but I draw a blank. “In my truck?”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “In my truck,” I say again.

  She closes her folder and leans over it as she stares back at me. “Do you make your sauce on-site, Mr. Murray?”

  “Uh... yeah. Sometimes, I’ll do a batch at home and bring it in.”

  “So, this is a specific recipe?” she asks. “Not something you buy from a store?”

  “I make every ounce of it, Detective. It’s my bread and butter.”

  “Do you ever sell your sauce? Bottles or jars of it?”

  “No, never.”

  She tilts her head. “Then, can you tell me how this man, who you’ve never seen before, ended up dead covered with nearly a half-gallon of your hot sauce, that only you have access to?”

  I open my mouth to speak but my vocal cords tighten. “Uh...”

  “Hey there, stranger.”

  We break eye contact and I follow the new voice upward to see that tight blonde from last night standing over the table. She brought a friend with her, a girl just as tight as she is but a little more brunette.

  “Hi,” I say.

  She nudges her friend’s arm. “This is the guy I told you about,” she says. “The one with the cursed eyes.”

  I force a laugh, grimacing between them and the unamused detective sitting across from me. “I, uh...”

  “See the different colors?”

  The brunette leans over. “Let me see.”

  The detective rolls her eyes. “Cursed?”

  “Yeah,” the blonde says. “He angered some old lady and she cursed him, so now he stops to talk to every beautiful woman he passes by or else she’ll come back. Isn’t that what you told me?”

  I look across the table into her glaring eyes. “Well, I...” I clear my throat, trying to play it cool. “You know, I’d love to tell it again. How about you two meet me back here tonight and the three of us—”

  “It’s heterochromia.”

  I deflate.

  The brunette wrinkles her nose. “Hetero-what?”

  “Heterochromia.” The detective chuckles. “He’s not cursed. It’s a birth defect. He only told you that to get in your pants.”

  The girls slink back in disgust. “Oh...”

  “Go home, ladies,” she says.

  They titter and snort as they walk away, bolting for The Smoothie Zone across the street.

  “And, for god’s sake, stay in school,” she adds.

  My lips twitch. I should be more offended. I crash and burned last night but this was round two. I could easily have taken home a double prize. But suddenly, that stiff, tight-lipped woman across from me relaxed her shoulders, cracked a joke, and I don’t care about anything else.

  “Heterochromia,” I repeat.

  “My daughter has it.” She picks up her folder. “Guess I don’t find it as cute when it’s used to nail jailbait.”

  I swallow. “Fair enough.”

  She stands up and drops a business card onto the table in front of me. “Mr. Murray, I’ll be in touch with you if I have more questions. In the meantime, don’t leave town.”

  “Oh, I won’t, Detective.”

  I turn to watch as she leaves, letting my eyes travel from that high ponytail all the way down to her strong legs, feeling a little whiplashed by the whole encounter. She stopped just short of accusing me of murder and cockblocked me. I should be furious but I can’t keep myself from picturing those pink lips again.

  She pauses by the truck and knocks on the window to get the other detective’s attention.

  He stomps out of my truck carrying a half-eaten burrito in his hands and holds it up at me. “You don’t mind, do you, slick?” he asks, his mouth full.

  I wave. “Knock yourself out, Detective.”

  He smiles and they walk off together.

  I sit back, pushing every primal urge I have to the back of my head so I can think through what just happened.

  Canon is dead. I knew that but I didn’t know that I’m officially a suspect. If that information gets back to Daniel Quinn, I’m in deep shit. I can only imagine how he’d react to finding out that someone on his payroll was responsible for sparking a mob war.

  I pick up the business card in front of me. Boston Police Department. Anna Silva. Pretty name to go with the face. I wonder how she’d look with her hair down and bent over with my hands in cuffs because I’m a murder suspect and that’s probably all she wants to do to me. Period.

  Priorities, man.

  I pocket the card and stand up to get back to work.

  Five

  Anna

  “So, whatcha think?”

  I stare at the file in my lap, flicking through the crime scene photos again. “He comes off more like an idiot than a murderer,” I answer.

  Tr
evor chuckles from the driver’s seat with one hand on the wheel and another clutching that burrito about ready to fall apart. I insisted on driving if he was going to eat but he’s a little territorial when it comes to his car. I keep my left hand ready just in case I have to grab the wheel to stop us from dying.

  “Did you find anything in the truck?” I ask him.

  “Nah,” he says, chewing. “Surprisingly spotless, though.”

  “Can’t fault him for staying ahead of the health inspector.”

  “No, but it’s creepy.”

  I roll my eyes and turn my attention back to my notes.

  “Hey — I’m getting a phone call,” he says.

  “So, answer it.”

  “I’m driving.”

  I look from him to the burrito and back again. “Seriously?”

  “It’s in my jacket pocket. Grab it.”

  I reach across him to fish into his breast pocket.

  “Not that one.” He gestures down with a smirk.

  I tilt my head. “And you think Milo Murray is creepy?”

  I grab the edge of his jacket and pull it up to get at his phone. It vibrates in my hand. “It’s Dougie,” I read as I swipe. “Silva and Rhys here.”

  “You know, Silva, every time you answer Rhys’ phone, the rumor mill goes ape-shit.”

  “Trust me, Dougie, the only person with a little meat in their mouth right now is Trevor.”

  Trevor looks at me. “Hey—”

  “What do you need?” I ask.

  “We found a body,” Dougie says. “You two want to get down here.”

  I almost hesitate. “Why? Who is it?”

  He sighs. “It’s Detective Wells.”

  It stabs deep. “They made him?”

  “It looks like it.”

  “Text the address. We’re on our way.”

  I hang up and wait for the message.

  “What’s going on?” Trevor asks.

  “The Quinns made Martin,” I answer. “He’s dead.”

  He deflates. “First Canon McGregor, now Wells? Coincidence?”

  I shake my head. “No such thing.”

  Martin Wells. Two years undercover in the Quinn family, gaining their trust, learning their trade, and waiting for just the right evidence to fall so we can take them all down.