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 crime 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.