Hot Sauce

by Tabatha Kiss

  Anna laughs, her shoulders losing even more of their stiffness. “Okay, try and answer these next ones for back when you donated. Recent info isn’t really relevant.”

  “Five years ago…” I nod, thinking back. I had just moved to Boston. I cringe. “Go ahead.”

  She puts pen to paper. “Do you have, or have you ever had, an STD?” she asks.

  My lips twitch. “No.”

  She makes a quick checkmark. “Do you smoke?”

  “Not since high school.”

  Another one. “Drink?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough to keep me sane.”

  She smirks at the joke. “Do you get drunk often?” she rephrases.

  “No,” I say. “Couldn’t afford it.”

  “Any history with recreational drugs?”

  “Are you on duty, Detective?” I ask.

  She looks up and smiles. “No.”

  “A joint here and there,” I answer. “No needles, no powders.”

  “Pills?”

  “Nope.”

  She takes a few more notes. “Do you want to have more kids?”

  I pause. “With you?”

  “No,” she says, looking up quickly. “Just wondering if Charlotte will ever have a mysterious half-sibling out there somewhere.”

  “Oh…” I shake my head. “No, probably not.”

  “Okay.” Her eyes fall to the paper again. “Are you—”

  “Do you want to have more kids?” I ask over her.

  She turns her head back up. “With you?”

  “No. In general.”

  Anna leans back and thinks. “I don’t know. Maybe. Someday. Doing the single parent thing is… hard.” She exhales. “It’s wonderful, but hard. I don’t want to do it again without a partner.”

  I nod. “Makes sense.”

  “But, you know…” She looks at me and her voice lingers in the back of her throat, eventually failing completely.

  I lean forward. “What?”

  “If I change my mind and do want another baby,” she says slowly, “would you be willing to donate again?”

  I swallow. “Uh…”

  “Scrap that question.”

  “No, it’s ok—”

  She recoils. “I don’t know where that came from,” she says, briefly covering her face. “It’s not even on the paper. Please, just forget I even asked that. Never mind.”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  Anna holds her breath and takes a moment before looking up at me. “Yes?”

  “Yes,” I say again. “If you decide you want another one down the line, then sure. Couples use the same donors all the time, don’t they? Might be nice for Charlotte to have a full-blooded sibling, right?”

  She blows out slowly. “Right. Yeah.”

  I bounce my shoulders once. “Then, okay. I’ll donate again. Just let me know.”

  “I guess I’ll keep that in mind,” she says. “Thanks.”

  I glance around at the walls of the truck. They suddenly feel like they’re closing in, just seconds away from crushing us both.

  “Anyway…” Anna slides the paper back into her folder and closes it, barely looking at me. “I think that’s… all I needed.”

  I push off the counter. “Well, if you think of anything else, feel free to come back. The door for questions is always open to you — and her, if she ever needs it.”

  “I will.”

  I grab the order pad behind me and write down my cell number on the top sheet. I tear it off. “In case you think of something outside of business hours.”

  Anna takes it. “Thank you.” She looks around again. “Sorry about your truck.”

  I laugh. “It’s okay. All in the name of justice, right?”

  She smiles. “Bye, Milo.”

  I salute. “Detective.” I spot the cup of hot sauce on the counter and grab it. “Wait, Detective.”

  Anna pauses by the door and I hold it out to her. “Oh—” She rolls her eyes at herself. “Almost forgot. Thanks.”

  I nod and watch her leave, once again unable to keep my eyes above her waistline as she steps down. I force them up as she turns around and nods at me before closing the door behind her.

  I exhale. Hard.

  I have a daughter.

  “Charlotte,” I say to myself.

  Fifteen

  Anna

  The elevator doors open on the 18th precinct. I look up from my shoes, realizing that I’ve been running on auto-pilot since I left Milo’s truck. I don’t remember leaving the park and I barely remember driving back to the station but I clearly remember the last question I asked him.

  I cross the doorway, putting the question behind me. When I’m here, I have a job to do. I can’t let myself lose focus when there are still so many other questions that need answers.

  “Hey, Anna,” Trevor says from his desk. “Where you been?”

  I sit down in my chair. “Just following up on a few leads.”

  “Leads?” He looks over at me. “What leads?”

  “Uh…” I flick on my computer monitor. “I checked in with Gloria to reconfirm time of death.”

  “Yeah. This morning,” he says. “I was sitting here when you called her.”

  I stretch my neck, feeling it pop. “Just took a long lunch to clear my head, Trev.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Home.”

  He squints and lowers his pen. “How’s the kid?”

  “She’s in daycare. She’s fine.”

  “And you?”

  I look over at him. “I’m fine.”

  “You seem tense.”

  “No, not tense. Just very busy. Have we made any progress on our killer?”

  “Not since we let him go, no.”

  I ignore it and pull over a stack of my notes. “It has to be a Quinn,” I think out loud.

  Trevor turns his chair toward me and presses his fingers together beneath his chin. “How do you figure?” he asks.

  “Because of the evidence,” I say. “It was planted in Milo’s truck, so whoever planted it needed access to the truck.”

  “Right… but why would the Quinns purposefully implicate a player in their own drug ring?” he asks. “Seems counterproductive.”

  “We don’t know if he’s involved in the drug ring at all,” I point out.

  Trevor pauses and flexes his jawline before speaking again. “Anna, have you considered that maybe Milo has an accomplice?” he asks. “That maybe he’s not as innocent as you obviously want him to be?”

  I gawk at him. “What are you talking about?”

  He tilts his head, side-eying me. “Come on, Anna. One piece of evidence contradicts our perfect narrative and you let him walk out of here?”

  “He had an alibi.”

  “And nothing else.” He counts on his fingers. “He had the murder weapon. His prints were found in Martin’s apartment. The bodies were covered in his hot sauce, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Why would he do that? If he did kill them, why would he make it so obvious?”

  “Because he’s a fucking psychopath who wants attention!”

  “No, he’s not.”

  He snorts. “Are you listening to yourself right now? You don’t even know the guy and you’re his advocate?”

  I take a breath. “It doesn’t make sense, Trevor. Milo being framed is the simpler explanation. The Quinns and the McGregors have been inching toward war for years. The streets are a damn powder keg and everyone knows it. Someone is using that to their advantage.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  I stutter. “I don’t know. A distraction?”

  “From what?”

  “Something bigger. Maybe the Shanks are still pulling strings from prison. Or maybe there are some Quinns and McGregors out there working together to take down Daniel’s drug ring and split the territory amongst themselves. Daniel is notorious for not playing well with others. Maybe the famil
ies have finally had enough. Or maybe there’s a third party we haven’t even considered yet that’s playing the families against each other for their own amusement.”

  “Or maybe,” he leans forward, “we let a guilty man walk free. But please, tell me more about this simpler explanation.”

  He pushes out of his chair and storms off. I bow my head, avoiding the eyes of others in the desks around me and I pretend to stare at my notes.

  Is he right? Am I in too deep? Am I too close to this case that I can’t see the big picture anymore?

  Am I bending evidence to make Milo look innocent, not because he is, but because I want him to be?

  I reach into my pocket, feeling for the piece of paper stashed inside. I unfold it, reading Milo’s number scrawled across it. He said I could ask him anything but I can’t really trust a word he says, can I? How can I be sure everything he’s told me isn’t a cold, calculated lie?

  I crumble the paper and drop it into my trash can.

  Sixteen

  Milo

  I feel a sick day coming on.

  Or about a week’s vacation. That sounds better. No one will blame me. It’s been an interesting few days, to say the least.

  Framed for murder. Twice.

  Bullied by — not one — but two Irish mob families.

  Oh, also, I have a daughter and maybe a little crush on her mother but I’ve always been a sucker for the unattainable woman.

  I drive the taco truck through Boston toward Daniel’s lot. Somehow, the little things that usually annoy me don’t. I don’t grit my teeth at the slow-moving Boston traffic or the constant, unending rain plaguing the streets for the last two weeks.

  Instead, I feel warm. Possibly fuzzy. A little hungry. For the first time, the future feels different.

  I don’t expect to be a part of Charlotte’s life. It’s not like that. But the world looks a little brighter because she’s in it. It’s strange — and scary — but I can’t explain it better than that.

  I arrive at the lot and park the truck in its spot. I get out and count down the moments until I can go home. Go inside. Shoot the shit with Daniel for thirty seconds to see if we’re out of TBD territory yet. Leave. Hail a cab home and figure out what to do about Morgan McGregor.

  I walk into the office hub and wave hello at the vegan truck ladies sipping coffee in the corner. They smile and wave back as I pass by. One moment down. I glide down the hall toward the office. Hopefully, he’s not too chatty tonight.

  I poke my head inside. “Hey, Dan—”

  A fist slams into my face. Spots fill my vision and I lose my balance between two men in black suits.

  “What the—”

  They jerk me down to my knees and yank my arms behind my back. I feel the cold clink of handcuffs locking my wrists together as I force my eyes up.

  Daniel Quinn comes into view behind his desk as my vision returns, sucking on a thick cigarette. His other hand lays in his lap beneath the desk.

  “Evening, Milo,” he says.

  I try to push up onto my knee but one of the suits forces me back down. “Hey. So, Daniel… What’s up?”

  He takes the cigarette from his mouth. “I told Ma I’d quit,” he mutters, staring at it. “But it’s been… a rough week.”

  My eyes twitch from him to the men behind me and back again. “I understand completely.” He glares at me behind the gentle, gray wisps of smoke. “You’ve got a lot going on and I sympathize… but why am I in handcuffs? What, uh… what’s going on?”

  Daniel pushes a photo forward and it falls off his desk. It slips down to the floor in front of me and lands near my knees.

  It’s from last night. Me and Anna on her porch. It feels nice for a brief second until the horror sets in.

  “Okay, hold on,” I say.

  “After our last conversation, I figured I’d have you followed for a while,” Daniel says. “Just to be sure you were still on the up-and-up after your brief stint behind bars.”

  I deflate. “Daniel…”

  “You went from my office…” he points at the photo, “straight to her house.”

  “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  “It looks like you having an intimate, private chat with a fucking cop.”

  “Okay. Yes,” I say with a nod. “That’s exactly what it is… but it had nothing to do with you or this business. It was a private matter.”

  “About what?”

  I hesitate for a moment too long. “It’s private.”

  He slams his cigarette out on his desk, completely missing the ashtray by several inches. “I never thought you’d betray me like this, Milo. I trusted you.”

  “I didn’t betray you!” I tug at my cuffs behind me. “No betrayal. That was a betrayal-free private matter.”

  He raises his hand from beneath the desk and sets it on top, along with Beretta clutched in his fingers.

  “Ah, crap,” I mutter.

  “People under my employ don’t have betrayal-free private matters with cops,” he growls. “First Doogan. Now you.”

  “No, not me. He was a cop. I’m not a cop!”

  “When my people talk to cops, that’s crossing a line. When cops talk to my people, that’s crossing a line.” He gestures to the men behind me. “Go back to her house, drag her out onto the front lawn, and blow her brains out.”

  My chest clenches. “Wait, wait. Hey. Come on…” I say. “She has a kid. Be reasonable, man.”

  “Is that right?” He lays his palm on his chest and looks to his men again. “Kill the fucking brat, too.”

  I bite down as he laughs. The men walk out to follow their orders.

  “You know…” Daniel stands up from his chair. “I felt badly earlier, knowing what I’d have to do the next time I saw you. But then, I realized that fucks like you are a dime-a-dozen in Boston. I felt better.”

  “Cool,” I say, seething.

  He points the gun at my forehead.

  “Bye-bye, Milo,” he says.

  I blink. “You’re gonna do it in here?”

  He pauses. “Sure. Why not?”

  “In your office?” I glance back over my shoulder. “You’re gonna get blood and brain matter all over the place. A shot to the face, you’re looking at nose cartilage and teeth, maybe, too. You don’t want that kind of evidence following you around all day in your office.”

  Daniel slowly lowers the gun to his side. “I’ll have the cleaners take care of it.”

  I scoff. “Yeah, sure, if you want it to smell like ammonia in here. That shit takes forever to air out. We’re talking months. One drop on your clothes and it’s completely ruined. No—” I shake my head as I rise up off my knees. “You and me, we’ll go around back, find a nice, quiet place in the grass, and—”

  I head-butt him. Hard. The pain fires through my forehead, rattling my brain down to the stem but it probably doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as the pop I hear as I slam into his nose.

  He falls off balance long enough for me to bolt from the office. I fly past the others in the hallway with my arms lagging behind me. I send all my strength to my legs and race for the entrance.

  “Hey! Stop that rat bastard!”

  I hear Daniel behind me, along with the loud pop of gunfire. Bullets explode into the walls by me but I keep running amid the screams of other drivers taking cover in the sitting area.

  I burst through the front door to the outside. A black car rolls past the gate across the parking lot. The men from Daniel’s office. They’re going after Anna and Charlotte.

  The automatic gate starts closing. I run faster, pumping my knees to make it in time. If I get locked in here, I’m fucked. I have no arms. I can’t climb the perimeter fences without hands and the barbed wires along the top would make it instantly more difficult even if I could.

  The gate keeps rolling closed. A few more bullets bang behind me, forcing me to zigzag as I come closer to the gate. A scream echoes from the sidewalk and pedestrians run in the other direction away fro
m gunfire. My chest is ready to burst. Adrenaline breathes new life through my limbs.

  I slip through the gate with seconds to spare but I’m not done running. They’ll just open it again and race me down, this time in a car. I need to get off the street. I need to get to Anna’s before they do.

  “Taxi!” I shout, catching sight of one down the block. It lingers at a red light ahead of me and I race in its direction. “Taxi! Taxi! Taxi!”

  The light turns green but I kick the bumper to keep it stopped.

  “Taxi! Wait!”

  I turn around and grip the back door handle with my cuffed hands, my fingers fumbling at the strange angle before I successfully get it open. I jump into the backseat and fumble just as much in my foolish attempt to close the door again.

  I finally get it latched and I look forward at the driver. An older woman with bright, gray hair twists back to stare at me in disbelief, her wire-framed eyes rightly focused on the handcuffs behind me.

  “Ma’am,” I clear my throat, “I will give you a one-hundred-dollar tip if you drive really fast toward Brookline and don’t ask me any questions.”

  She turns forward and steps on the gas.

  Seventeen

  Anna

  When Charlotte was born, I made a promise to never bring my work home with again.

  Before then, I’d leave the station, come home, and sit at my kitchen table with case files sprawled out across the surface. It was easy to justify. Looking at the same set of clues from a different perspective almost always led to me seeing something I didn’t see before. Countless eureka moments have taken place at this table and I’m hoping for one more right now.

  Two murdered mobsters. One red herring in the form of a scam artist with a smile that just so happens to rattle my knees.

  I can’t believe I asked him to father another baby.

  I hang my head in my hands, feeling the hot blood rush to my cheeks. All my attention and focus keeps drifting back to that moment in his truck. Why the fuck did I say that? Why did the thought even enter my damn head?

  Why did he say yes?

  Milo made good points. Using the same donor would give Charlotte a full-blooded sibling. Couples use the same donor all the time to do just that. There’s nothing unusual about it. Nothing to be ashamed of about it. He’s got the good stuff and I might want to partake in it again in the future and — oh, god — did I just think about his good stuff?