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“Yeah.” I squint. “He’s the guy who owns the lot I park my truck in.”

“He’s also the head of a very dangerous Irish crime family.”

I throw up my hands. “I’m sorry, Detective,” I say, playing dumb. “I wasn’t raised in this area. I don’t know that kind of stuff. I had a truck, I shopped around for a legal place to park it, I got a good deal from Daniel, and our business arrangement has been solid ever since.”

She tilts her head and I can practically hear the bullshit detector rattling between her ears. “Did you ever meet an associate of his named Doogan?” she asks.

I look up, pretending to think. “Yes,” I say with a short nod. “I saw him once or twice around the lot. Why?”

“Once or twice?”

“Yeah, once or twice.”

“So, you’ve never been to his place of residence?”

I shrug. This is an easy one. I don’t even have to lie. “No,” I answer.

“Then can you tell me how your fingerprints ended up on his doorknob?”

I blink. “My prints were where?”

She slides a photo out of her folder and lays it down in front of me. My guts jolt, fueling my instinct to look away from the blood and gore in front of me, but I lean in an inch as I catch his face. Doogan.

That’s a shame. I kind of liked that guy.

I glance up at Anna. She frowns so deeply, her brow casts shadows over her soft eyes.

“Wait a minute—” I shake my head. “You think I did this, too?”

“This is the second body in two days we’ve found covered in your hot sauce, Mr. Murray.”

My mouth sags. “How is that⁠—”

“But, unlike Canon McGregor yesterday, this man wasn’t part of a mob family.” She points a stiff finger at the picture. “You know him as Doogan, but we know him as Detective Martin Wells. You killed a cop, Mr. Murray.”

Well, that explains why they sent half the police station to pick me up. Boston doesn’t fuck around with cop-killers.

“I didn’t kill anybody,” I say, swallowing hard.

“You work for Daniel Quinn. You killed Canon because he wandered into your boss’ turf. You found out Doogan was a cop investigating the food truck drug route and you shot him before he could turn you in⁠—”

“I didn’t kill anybody.”

Anna pulls out another photo, this one of a large, silver handgun. I nearly flinch as she slams it down on the table between us.

“We searched your truck and found this taped to the back of your refrigerator,” she says. “How much you want to bet the bullets found in Canon McGregor and Detective Wells are a match?”

I dip forward, blinking at it in disbelief. “That’s not mine,” I say.

She smirks. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Please, Anna⁠—”

“Detective.”

“Detective Anna, please,” I say, making her raise a brow. “I’ve done some shady shit, I’ll admit, but I don’t kill people, and I sure as hell didn’t kill a cop.”

“Then, who did?”