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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 tear 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.

CHAPTER 6

MILO

Am I capable of murder? I guess everyone wonders about it once or twice. I know I’ve thought about it, but I also flipped off the fence onto a defiant no. I’m not a killer. A thief, yes. An asshole, definitely. But a killer? I don’t have the stomach for it.

I need help.

It’s not something I’ve ever been comfortable asking for but desperate times call for extreme, often nonsensical, actions that I will probably regret in about ten minutes time.