Page 13

“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?”