I step off the elevator with the day’s fifth cup of coffee clenched in my hand. I should cut back but it’s easy to lose track when you spend your days solving murders like I do.

And it’s not every day a case like this gets dropped in our laps. They don’t call us unless blood starts spilling in the streets of Boston and they really don’t call the 18th precinct unless someone up top wants it taken care of quickly and quietly.

I’d hoped I was done cleaning up after the Irish mafia in my city. Guess I was wrong.

I nod at my team as I round my desk. They stare at me with some excitement and I can’t really blame them. It is an exciting case, one with a lot of potential to advance their careers.

I set my coffee down and reach up to tighten the ponytail on my head. “Okay,” I say, gathering my thoughts. Six pairs of eyes continue staring at me, waiting for all their questions to finally be answered.

“The victim’s name is Canon McGregor—”

Half of them burst into whistles and applause while the others groan in disappointment while they reach for their wallets.

I stare them down. “Really, guys? You placed bets?”

My partner, Trevor, pockets his winnings from Dougie, another detective in our precinct, while Kendall, Dougie’s partner, counts her own stack of cash.

“It was only a matter of time before the Quinns and the McGregors went there, Silva,” Trevor says to me.

Dougie shakes his head. “I thought for sure the Quinns would draw first blood.”

“You’re also really bad at your job,” Trevor jokes. “This is no coincidence.”

“Murder is murder, folks,” I say, talking over them. “We don’t celebrate it. Doesn’t matter how much you think he might deserve it.”

They all go quiet.

I turn back to my notes. “His body was found at five-fifteen this morning by a trash man in an alley behind Hammond Street,” I say. “Uniforms are still canvassing the area for potential witnesses and a murder weapon, but so far have found neither.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Trevor jokes, picking his teeth. “Mobster drops dead in my neighborhood, I sure as hell didn’t see anything, either…”

I ignore it. “Once the medical examiner does her thing, we can dig a little deeper. Until then, keep your eyes and ears open. Talk to your informants and find out what Canon was up to last night and what’s going on in the streets. If the Irish mob families really are turning violent, this might not be the last body we find. Kendall, have we heard from Detective Wells yet?”

She shakes her head. “He hasn’t reached out, no.”

“Reach out to him,” I say. “I want to know what he knows. Let’s get to work.”

They all disperse back to their desks, except for Trevor. He sits in his desk next to mine, waiting patiently with his thumbnail still digging into his incisor.

“What?” I ask him, recognizing the face.

He shrugs. “Awful lot of resources for some two-bit thug.”

“The badge says protect and serve, Trev,” I remind him as I gather my notes. “No one’s exempt from that. Besides, everyone wins when mob-on-mob crime is solved.”

“Hey…” He stands up from his chair and throws up his hands. “I don’t disagree, I’m just saying…”

I pick up a crime scene photo and hold it closer to study it better. Canon McGregor, hunched over in a puddle of his own blood and rain with six gunshot wounds riddled up and down his back.

“Anna, do you have dinner plans tonight?”

I breathe in to speak but my desk phone rings, cutting me off. I spin away from Trevor to answer it.

“This is Silva,” I say.

“Hey, Anna. It’s Gloria-a-a,” she says, singing the final syllable.

“Whatcha got for me?” I ask.

“Come on down. You’re gonna love this. It’s — as the kids say — hot. At least, I think the kids still say that. Do they still say that? I spend a lot of time around dead people…”

I chuckle. “Be right there.”

I drop the phone back into its cradle. “Gloria has something,” I tell Trevor. “You coming with?”

He plops down into his desk. “No, thanks,” he says. “I like the way you tell it.”

I throw on my jacket. “Careful, Trev. You wouldn’t want to accidentally get some work done.”

His eyes roll as I grin. I’m only giving him shit anyway. Trevor Rhys is one of the best detectives in the 18th Precinct. Our record since we were partnered up eight months ago is nearly spotless.

I head downstairs and pause in the station entryway to throw up the hood on my jacket. Summer rain torrents down from the dark, gray sky and has been for the last week or more. I grab an umbrella from the bin by the door and ease onto the sidewalk with the other pedestrians. I’d drive but the medical examiner’s office is only about a mile from the police station. It’d be more trouble finding parking than it’s worth but I also like a nice walk in the rain every so often. It helps clear my head.

After twenty relaxing minutes, I reach the ME’s office just as the rain starts to let up. The desk clerk waves at me when I walk in and I give her a kind smile while I shake off the extra droplets onto the floor mats.

“Hey, Detective,” she says. “Gloria’s in room B.”

I close the umbrella. “Thank you.”

She hits a button behind her desk and the door unlocks for me. I head down the hall and veer left, easily navigating the halls but I’ve been here a hundred times before. Not that I enjoy it, of course. It’s just all part of the job.

I walk into room B to find Gloria hunched over a table with a naked man on it. The autopsy is long over and his chest is all stitched back up but something in his mouth has piqued her interest.

“Hey, Gloria,” I say, as I lean my umbrella by the door.

She looks up and blinds me with the small light connected to her black-rimmed glasses. “Oh. Hey, Anna,” she says, pulling down her face mask.

I chuckle. “Whatcha looking for?”

“Dropped my contact lens.”

I blink but she instantly laughs.

“I’m just kidding,” she says, flicking her light off. “This guy has one of those inner lip tattoos. Wanted to get a closer look at it.”

“What’s it say?”

“Shut up, bitch.”

I tilt my head.

“The tattoo—” she says, pointing. “It says ‘shut up, bitch.’”

I furrow my brow at him. “What a charming fellow.”

“I know, right?” She shoves the drawer back in and slams it closed.

“You said you found something?” I ask.

Gloria takes two steps back to stand at the next drawer over. “Canon McGregor,” she says, grabbing the door handle. “Found covered in blood.”

“Right.”

She pulls opens the drawer and slides the body out. There’s a sheet covering him from head-to-toe with a few spots of red seeping through the fabric.

“I haven’t had him long, but...” She folds the sheet over and pinches the corner of his red-stained denim jacket with her gloved hand. “Smell it,” she says.

“What?”

“Seriously, give her a whiff.”

I ease closer and hover a few inches above it before inhaling. My nose twitches, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of spices and sweetness.

I recoil. “That’s not blood.”

She smiles. “It’s hot sauce!”

“What kind of hot sauce?”

“No, like… the hot sauce.”

I squint in confusion and her jaw drops.

“You’ve never been to Hot Sauce?”

I take an extra step away from the table to clear my nose. “Is that a restaurant, or…?”

“It’s a taco truck,” she explains. “I go there all the time. Their sauce is legendary. The guy who runs it got the recipe from some old Mayan text or something.”

I scoff. “Really?”

“Well, that’s what people say.”

“Any ideas for why this guy was covered in it?” I ask, turning my attention back to the very dead guy lying between us.

She shrugs. “Nope. That’s your job. I just do science. My rough guesstimate is that the mix on his shirt is about sixty-percent blood and thirty-percent sweet, spicy, delicious hot sauce.”

“And the other ten-percent?”

“Rainwater, sweat, and other normal crap. Some trace amounts of chloroform in his nose and mouth so he may have put up a fight. I’ll keep you updated on what else I find.”

I nod. “Thanks, Gloria.”

“Anytime, Detective.”

I walk back to the door to grab my umbrella.

“Lucky dude,” Gloria mutters behind me. “If I could die covered in that stuff, I would, too.”

She leans over and smells him again as I slink out of the room.

“Hot Sauce,” I say as I round my desk.

Trevor looks up from his paperwork. “I mean, I prefer Stud Muffin, but I guess I’ll answer to that, too.”

I roll my eyes and drop the crime scene photo in front of him. “Gloria says the blood on his clothes isn’t all blood. Some of it is hot sauce from some taco truck called—”

“Hot Sauce?!”

“Yeah.”

I sit down and glance at the clock, feeling a jolt of guilt when I see it’s already after six.

“Mmm. That place is so good,” he says, rubbing his belly.

“Well, we need to talk to the owner,” I say as I shut down my computer. “Find out if he misplaced some of his sauce recently.”

Trevor sits up fast. “Are we going now?” he asks.

“No. In the morning,” I say, reaching for my coat. “I’m clocking off.”

He grunts in disappointment but perks up quickly. “No, you’re right. Morning is better. That way, we can bring back some of those amazing brunch burritos. Good thinking, Silva.”

I furrow my brow. “Why am I the last to know about this food truck?”

“Because you have no taste.”

“How long has it been around?” I ask.

“A few years.”

“There’s my excuse, then. I’ve been a little busy raising a child.”

He points a finger. “You should take the kid to Hot Sauce. Develop that spice palate early.”

“If I hate spicy food, then she probably will, too.”

“Does her dad like spicy food?”

“No idea,” I answer. “Never met the guy.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He laughs. “You’re a strong, independent woman who don’t need no man… except for that one time when you bought some guy’s spunk off the internet.”

I cringe. “Well, the first half was accurate.”

“I don’t know how you could do that, Silva,” he says, shaking his head. “A child needs a mother and a father.”

“A child needs a stable support system of people who love it unconditionally, which Charlotte has in spades,” I argue. “Also, do me a favor and mind your own business.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters.

Okay, that was a little more than me giving him the usual shit, but when someone questions my parenting, I can go a little mama bear. What can I say? I love my kid. I regret nothing about my daughter and I never will.

“Hey, Silva!”

Dougie waves at me from his desk.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Got a message from Detective Wells.”

“What’d he say?”

“Too hot.”

I nod. “Well, keep on him. I want to know what he knows as soon as things cool down.”

He gives me a thumbs up and goes back to his call.

I reach beneath my desk for my handbag. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Trev. Bright and early.”

He raises his fists as I make my way toward the stairwell. “Taco truck!”

“Murder investigation!” I say, raising one fist.

He drops his hands. “Killjoy.”

I throw on a smile, letting it linger until I reach the ground floor. It’s not the first time — nor the last — I’ve been labeled the resident killjoy of the 18th Precinct, but I take my job seriously.

“Running late, aren’t you, Anna?”

I pause by the front desk to talk to Sally Gilmore, the best damn cop in Boston if you want my opinion. She rises from her chair as I walk up, favoring one leg as she saunters closer. It’s horrible what just one bullet can do to a promising career but one piece of hot metal couldn’t stop Sally from serving the great city of Boston.

“A little, yeah,” I say. “But it’s all right. Vin will forgive me.”

“In that case, do you have any new pictures to show off?” she asks.

“Actually…” I pull out my phone. “She’s just discovered make-up.”

Sally grins. “Oh, god.”

“I don’t know how. I barely even wear the stuff, but…”

I swipe to a photo of my daughter with far too much blush and clown-red lipstick smeared on her face. My own mouth stretches with an instant smile as I turn the phone toward Sally.

Her jaw drops as she gasps. “Isn’t that precious?”

“The most precious thing that’s ever precious-ed,” I quip.

“She’s got your nose.”

“Yeah, poor kid.”

Sally playfully slaps my hand. “Shut up. You’re both gorgeous.” She pinches the screen and zooms. “I’ll never get used to those eyes. What’s that called again?”

I think for a second as I look at the close-up view of my daughter’s multicolored irises in the photo. Brown irises with spikes of bright blue shooting out from her pupils.

“Segmental heterochromia,” I answer. “Her doctor says it’s really rare but harmless.”

Sally hands the phone back to me. “She’s beautiful.”

“And she knows it,” I mutter, smiling. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sally.”

“Bye, Anna.”

“I’ll say hi to Vincent for you.”

She sighs. “If you must.”

I grin and snap my hood up before heading toward the stairs marked parking garage.