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Martin’s notes don’t paint a pretty picture of the Quinn family.

Every family has their metaphorical skeletons, but when it comes to a mafia family, those skeletons are often literal. Drugs, murder, mayhem. There’s enough here to easily take down several individuals in the family, but Martin was thinking big. He didn’t want to arrest just one Quinn.

He wanted all of them in one fell swoop. The main family. Every confidant. Even their wives.

Rest in peace, my friend. We’ll take it from here.

I sit back in my desk chair to take a breath. If I don’t pull myself out of these notes every few minutes, I might go mad.

“Hey, Silva.”

I rub the bridge of my nose to suppress a yawn as Trevor lays a steaming coffee mug down in front of me and slides into his desk. “Thank you,” I say. “So very much.”

He flashes a wink as he sips his own. “So, we looked into that parking lot.”

“Parking lot…” I repeat, letting my eyes fall to the notes scattered along my desk.

“The one Martin named as part of the⁠—”

“The Quinn family’s new drug route,” I recall. “Yes. Go ahead.” I stare at him over the rim of my mug.

“It houses thirty food trucks in the Boston area,” he says, his smile growing. “And guess who parks his little taco truck there overnight?”

I don’t even have to say it. “So, he’s not just an idiot.”

Trevor raises his mug. “He’s an idiot who works for the mob.”

“Allegedly,” I say. “Did Martin specify which trucks were involved?”

“No.”

“Then, we’ll have to go through one-by-one and figured that out for ourselves,” I say. “But if Milo is involved, that gives us a connection. Just need motive and opportunity to build a solid case for murder.”

“The hot sauce places him at both scenes,” he points out.

“It’s far from a smoking gun,” I argue.

“How? Only he has access to it. Said so himself.”

“Yeah, him and the twenty-nine other truck drivers who park there, along with the Quinns who own the lot. It’s a dead end. Purely circumstantial.”

His desk phone rings. “Okay, then we need a murder weapon. Did you frisk him?”

“No, I did not frisk him.”

He raises a brow. “But you wanted to, right?”

I recoil. “No.”

“One of these days, Silva, I’m going to prove you’re human.” He sets his mug down and turns to answer his phone. “This is Rhys. … Perfect timing. Send it over.”

I bounce my foot impatiently. “What is it?”

Trevor falls into his desk chair. “The prints I pulled off the doorknob belong to a man named Jacob Tyler,” he says. “Mugshot is coming in right… now.”

I push against the floor and slide over in my chair to look over his shoulder. Trevor double-clicks the file in his email and the mugshot opens.

“Whoa…” I say.