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.

Trevor 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.

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.