Page 258 of Don’t Say Mafia

“I’d also like to note the three half-full takeout containers next to the sandwich, all different cuisines, none of which should ever meet.”

“Diversity,” commented Cruz.

“Decay,” I corrected. “And—” I froze.

On the corner of the desk sat a small pile of condoms, some still glistening with lube and semen, their edges curled and crusted where the latex had dried. A few had burst open at the tips, the thin film sagging like used skin, the insides smeared and leaking onto the wood in sticky little puddles that had already started to congeal.

They weren’t even hidden—just left there like cigarette butts in an ashtray, proof that someone had fucked on this desk and hadn’t bothered to clean up afterward.

“Oh, for the love of⁠—”

“What?” Cruz asked eagerly.

“He fucks in here.”

“Why exactly are you surprised by that?”

“Because I can’t imagine a woman willingly approaching his dick,” I answered. “And by the used condoms he left on his desk . . . it’s happening frequently!”

Cruz made a choking sound. “Used condoms?”

“There’s also lube and a sock in here,” I said. “I don’t know why the sock is here. Scratch that . . . I don’t want to know why it’s here. But everything is sticky, and I hate it.”

“You could’ve been a lawyer,” Cruz offered.

“I still could be,” I shot back. “My opening statement would simply be, ‘Your Honor, Exhibit A is the crusted condom graveyard. I rest my case.’”

“I’m sure that would work well,” he answered helpfully.

I moved around the room, careful where I stepped, cataloging the damage like an investigator who’d reached the end of times. The couch against the wall looked as if it had seen things. The leather was cracked and stained, and I was 90 percent sure something was growing in the crease.

“Remind me again that we really want this casino so we can tear it down, expand one of ours, and make billions,” I muttered. “Oh, and keep it away from the Irish.”

“You’re not allowed to lose your nerve, Thatcher,” Cruz said. “You’ve already made it past the used condoms. You’re practically in the homestretch.”

“I still have to touch something,” I griped.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out the folder Lawson had prepared. It was filled with photos and bank statements . . . and contracts that would look very ugly in the hands of the right authorities. All I had to do was plant them where they’d be found, and Gage would make sure the police and the Bureau handled the rest.

Simple, in theory. In practice, every surface was contaminated, so I had to weigh what I wanted to touch. I scanned the room and landed on a decorative end table shoved against the wall that was ornate, unnecessary, and, notably, coated in a visible layer of dust.

Paulie clearly hadn’t sullied that one lately.

I exhaled, braced myself, and yanked the drawer open. It was just as bad. Inside were more wrappers, a bottle of pills that definitely wasn’t prescribed to him, and a gun I knew for a fact wasn’t registered.

“Well,” I said, “that’s convenient.”

“Everything you need?” Cruz asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “This man is a stack of charges waiting to happen.”

I slipped the documents into a file folder already in the drawer, rearranged the contents just enough to look natural, and shut it quickly before I caught something.

As I straightened, my earpiece crackled. “You done yet?” Cruz asked.

I walked toward the door and paused, taking one last look at the crime scene masquerading as an office. “I just need to wipe my memory now,” I muttered.

Cruz snorted in my ear. “You say that like this is worse than you murdering someone less than twenty-four hours ago. You’re really selling your performance.”