Dirty War: Dirty Justice Book Two

by N. E. Henderson

  “Sir,” I start, but I’m silenced when Eric places his hand on my forearm. I turn my head, questioning him with my stare.

  “I don’t plan on being here long, Chief,” Eric tells him.

  “Alders, why do I get the feeling you’re here to fuck up my cut and dry case?” Detective Summers stands, crossing his arms over his chest, staring at Eric.

  “Nothing’s ever cut and dry, J. You know that.”

  My eyes snap up to Eric’s and then over to Detective Summers, noting the silent conversation they both seem to be having. Eric referred to him as “J” rather than Justin or addressing him formally. In the time I’ve known Drago, he too refers to those close to him by their first initial. Eric’s a lot like D when I think about it. Or at least I get that feeling. Perhaps when and if I get to know Eric more, that’ll change.

  “Fair enough,” Detective Summers says, then his eyes glide over, landing on mine. “Justin Summers.” He walks forward, then stretches his hand out toward me. “IA, but I’m going to assume you know that already.”

  “Brianna Andrews.” I slide my hand into his, squeezing. His palm is warm and gentle. Looking up, I can’t help but scrutinize his gaze. He’s doing the same to me, only it’s not my eyes he’s checking out. It’s my mouth. There’s a hint of approval behind the sparkle in his blue eyes. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but we both know it’s not.”

  A low chuckle escapes his lips as his eyes flick back to mine.

  “No. I guess it wouldn’t be if I were in your shoes.”

  “Summers,” Ramirez calls out, earning all of our attention. “You know this man? Please, fill me in then.”

  “Sir, I do,” Summers responds.

  “No need.” Eric holds up his hand to Summers then pulls out the chain from under his T-shirt, letting it fall to his chest, revealing his badge. “Special Agent Eric Alders.”

  Tom’s features visibly change; anger washes over his face.

  “What reason would the DEA be in my office and with my detective, nonetheless?”

  Eric flips the file folder up, slapping it against my arm to take, which I do and then step forward, handing it over to the deputy chief.

  Tom’s eyes watch mine the entire time. He seems reluctant to take it at first, but finally, he pulls it out of my hand.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it, sir.”

  Looking down, he flips it open, taking the sheet of paper out and then places the file on his desk. His eyes scrunch together as he reads. And when his face reddens, something inside me relaxes a margin.

  He’s buying it.

  “What the hell is this, Andrews?”

  Tom shoves the legal-size document in Summers’ direction. I watch him take it, reading it so diligently that I tilt my face, observing him. His eyes move from side to side and I’m struck with amazement for some odd reason. He’s thorough and not rushing himself to finish.

  Taking two steps back, he sits back down on the couch. Once he’s finished, he pauses, looking off to the side. He’s digesting it and then his eyes snap to mine. For several pregnant pauses, I think he’s going to call bullshit. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even speak. Just watches as I watch him—until Ramirez’s voice booms.

  “Well, fucking explain.”

  “Sir,” I say calmly. “It’s pretty self-explanatory. Alders and I have been working together for some time now, almost the start of my investigation.”

  “I approached Detective Andrews,” Eric butts in. “I had already been eyeing her as a potential candidate for the DEA. When I learned of LAPD’s interest in Acerbi, I knew it was a sign.”

  “A fucking sign?” Tom questions. “How would you have even known anything about my interests?”

  “That’s really here nor there other than I’m good at my job.”

  “You’re telling me.” Tom pierces me with his stare. “You colluding with a suspect was all an act?” He shakes his head. “Sorry, but I don’t buy that. That miscreant knocked you up, and I’m supposed to believe it was all a little act to get close to him?”

  How the hell does he know that?

  That was never discussed with anyone other than the physician, Drago, and my dad. D’s family doesn’t even know. And I can’t imagine my father divulging that piece of information after everything he told me about my mom. So how does Tom know?

  Eric’s hand comes to rest on my back, bracing me, which helps to steady my frame. In my distracted thoughts, I hadn’t realized I’d taken a step back.

  “Oftentimes, when immersed under deep cover, a cop has to do and act ways they wouldn’t normally. She was faced with blowing her cover or going along with something she normally wouldn’t. You know this, Ramirez, so what’s the real issue here? You don’t like being kept in the dark when your detective is vying for a spot with a federal agency—or is it something else? Don’t want the feds taking over your case on Acerbi?” Eric’s laugh is sardonic. “Although, it was never your case to begin with. I’ve been working Acerbi for far too long to give him to the local PD.”

  “My issue is that—”

  Summers cuts him off. “All of this is legal and binding. I’ve known Alders for a long time, Chief. He does everything by the book. Maybe off-handed, but still straight-up and by the law.” Summers stands. Taking a long step forward, he passes the document to me. “Detective Andrews, I still have to complete a full investigation of your actions. Normally, something of this nature would make Alders’ case a conflict of interest, but taking what he’s told us into consideration, I’ll sign off on you consulting with Alders on his case. You’ll remain on administrative leave until your physician has released you, though. There is no way around that, Detective.”

  “Actually, I have a follow-up tomorrow,” I tell him, remembering my discharge orders for the first time since leaving the hospital.

  “Good.” Eric claps his hands. “I submitted a request to you just this morning, Chief, asking that Andrews be allowed to continue working alongside me on this case.”

  “Get me a copy of her release and then she can consult only, Alders until my internal investigation is complete.” Summers faces me, looking down at me, but when he opens his mouth to say something, he’s cut off by Ramirez.

  “Summers, you can’t—”

  The deputy chief is cut off once again. “With all due respect, sir, I can.” His voice is firm, silently commanding acceptance. “It appears Detective Andrews is playing an important role in Special Agent Alders’ case. I will be forwarding my latest update to the Chief of Police as well.”

  Tom steels his jaw, breathing in long and hard, before releasing it all while drilling holes into me with his dark blue eyes.

  “And if I refuse to allow her?” Tom directs his question to Eric.

  “I’ll be forced to take my request to my director.” Eric lets out a dry laugh, while Summers bites his lip in order to contain his.

  “I’ll inform Detective Bristols that you’ll be on assignment with another agency for the time being,” Tom grits out. “Now get out of my office—both of you.”

  “I’ll see them both out, Chief. Until next time,” Summers remarks, before making an exit.

  Eric and I follow behind him. I have to quicken my pace to keep up with their long strides. Once at the elevator, Summers turns, facing us.

  “Earning yourself another enemy, Alders? Hell, soon you’ll have as many as I do.”

  Eric shrugs his shoulders. “All in a day’s work.” He laughs. “It’s the fun part of my job.”

  “Wish I saw it that way.” Summers’ gaze flicks down to mine. “If you’re gonna fuck a suspect, at least make him wear a rubber.” He pauses. “Tell me Ramirez was wrong and you aren’t carrying an Acerbi?”

  “What the fuck?” I burst out. “What if I were?”

  “Bri,” Eric scolds, grabbing me by my bicep.

  “Well, you either are, or you aren’t. Which is it?”

  “Drop it, J. This isn’t the place.” Eri
c pulls on my arm, practically dragging me inside the elevator. “Let’s go.” His voice takes on the authority he eluded when he pulled up to the curb earlier.

  I have to bite the inside of my cheek in order to control the tears that are climbing to the surface.

  Summers doesn’t enter the elevator, which is probably a good thing for the both of us. My emotions hit me square in the face. I wasn’t expecting them to feel like another shot to my already abused body.

  As soon as the door closes, I turn, facing Eric. “How does everyone know?” I demand.

  “Know what?” He looks puzzled.

  “What do you mean what?” I toss my arm out, stretching it to the closed elevator door. “How does my boss and IA know I was pregnant? You heard him just then.”

  “Wait, he was serious?” Eric takes a step away from me. “I didn’t know you were,” he whispers as his head tilts and his eyes flicker down. Suddenly they snap back to mine. “Was?” he questions.

  “I had a miscarriage Friday.” Fuck. The pain that lashes through me takes my breath away momentarily. Maybe my dad is right. Maybe I do need to face these feelings now rather than later.

  “Was it Drago’s?”

  “Yes,” I answer honestly, and doing so makes me realize how much I miss him.

  I lean back, bracing myself against the wall while the elevator descends, and for a minute, I wonder what D is doing right now and where he is. Is he thinking of me? Of the baby we lost? Or of the son that’s missing?

  Gabriel. I close my eyes, remembering the last moment I saw him. He was so tuckered out from the trip to the zoo. Maybe if I hadn’t taken him, I would have been home and better prepared for them. Maybe they wouldn’t have gone to my neighbor’s, tying her up and scaring her. Maybe—

  “Andrews.” My eyes pop open, seeing Eric standing halfway inside the elevator and halfway out, holding the door open.

  I push off the wall, walking out and passing him. Once outside, I pause and wait for him to catch up. He’s next to me in seconds.

  “I’ve gotta head over to my office. Why don’t I call you tomorrow after your check-up? What time is it at?”

  “Nine.”

  He nods and starts to walk off, but I spring forward, pulling on his arm, stopping him.

  “I know why I did that. Why did you? What’s in this for you?” I’m too curious not to ask.

  “Rectifying a wrong.” Without any more of an explanation, he pulls away, leaving me standing in front of the police headquarters, watching him.

  11

  Rectifying a wrong.

  I’m still wondering what the hell that even means a day later.

  I’m not sure about Special Agent Eric Alders yet. What could possibly be in this for him? Am I grateful he basically came to my rescue? Yes, of course. But I’m not sure why he did other than he says he doesn’t want local law enforcement to screw up his case.

  Something tells me that isn’t the real reason he doesn’t want LAPD involved. There’s more to why Eric feels the need to rectify a wrong.

  “Brianna Andrews?”

  I snap my head up as a tall, slender blonde, wearing a doctor’s coat walks in the room. “I’m Dr. Sanders.” She extends her hand in front of me, which I accept, shaking her hand all while wondering where my gynecologist is—because this isn’t her.

  “Yes,” I draw out, confused.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, reading the expression on my face. “No one told you Renee had a family emergency, did they?”

  “No,” I confirm. “I hope everything with Dr. Monroe is okay.”

  The way she cringe-smiles tells me it’s not. I feel bad for whatever is going on. Dr. Monroe has been my gynecologist since I moved to LA eight years ago. I hope it’s not one of her kids. She’s had three in the eight years I’ve been a patient at this clinic.

  “This is Suzanne,” she tells me when the same older woman who roomed me ten minutes ago enters the room, shutting the door behind her. “She’ll be assisting me today. So, the notes on the appointment show you are following up on a miscarriage from last week. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you took a gunshot wound to the leg as well?”

  “Yes,” I repeat.

  “You’ve been through an ordeal.” Empathy shines in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Miss Andrews. How are you feeling today?”

  “I’ve been better,” I say for the lack of knowing what else to say. My physical wounds are nothing compared to the state of my emotions. I think I’ve done a good job keeping them suppressed. The only time I’ve given in has been while showering under the spray of hot water, which is very difficult to do when you can’t get one of your legs wet. But I figure if I can’t feel the tears, then I don’t have to fully acknowledge them in my mind.

  “Can I take a look at the wound first?”

  “Of course.”

  I lay back on the exam table as she snatches a pair of latex gloves from the box attached to the wall and proceeds with the exam. She’s quick but thorough. I already like how this is going, even if she isn’t my regular gynecologist.

  “Looks good.” She releases the sheet, letting it cover the bottom half of my body again. “You’re doing an excellent job keeping your leg clean and bandaged. I don’t see any need for wound management, but do you have a primary care physician that you can follow up with to make sure it continues healing as it should?”

  “Not really. I only see Dr. Monroe for my yearly. If I’m sick, I just go to an urgent care clinic.”

  “I recommend all my patients have a routine physician like a family medicine doctor or an internist. If you would like me to refer you, I will.”

  “I’ll look into it,” I say to appease her. One yearly visit is enough for me. It’s not like I get sick that often and I can take care of my leg myself. I don’t have time to go see another doctor right now. I have other things that matter more, like finding the motherfucker that did this to me in the first place.

  “Okay.” She nods. “Let’s discuss the miscarriage. How are you doing emotionally and physically?”

  I sit back up, waiting for her to take a seat on the rolling chair positioned in front of a computer screen.

  “The cramps are a lot worse than normal periods, but the ER doctor warned me about that. Otherwise, I think I’m fine. The guy who did this though . . .” I trail off, not wanting to run my mouth. I’m a cop. I can’t just throw idle threats around. But I can’t deny the thoughts of revenge floating around in my head. They are there. They’ve taken up residence and I don’t see them leaving anytime soon. At least not until Diaz and his men are dealt with—one way or another.

  I look over at her when she doesn’t say anything. She’s facing her computer, typing in quick successions to log in. Once she’s finished, she turns on the stool, facing me.

  “Being that you miscarried so early in your pregnancy, it might not have had anything to do with the trauma you experienced. Twenty percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriages. The fetus just may not have developed normally.”

  Is this woman for real right now?

  “I know I must sound clinical. I just want you to know that what happened to you might not have been the reason why you lost the fetus. I’m sorry if the ER physician didn’t explain that to you.”

  No. What I think right now is she’s a bitch. But I keep my tongue in my mouth, not voicing that bitter thought.

  “I’ve had numerous patients enter into depression after a miscarriage. It’s quite common. And patients who find a reason to blame themselves or others have a harder time overcoming these things than women who know there wasn’t anything they could have done to stop it. Miscarriages are more common than most people think.”

  I don’t blame myself per se. I blame Sebastian Diaz and his men. Had I known I was pregnant, I might have done things differently. Then again, at the time, Gabriel’s life was at risk, and even now I know I would have done everything in my power to keep him from being taken.
But I don’t tell her any of this. It’s not a conversation I care to get into with anyone, especially not her, someone I don’t know.

  “I see in the system there is a note that you didn’t choose a D&C while at the hospital,” she goes on to say. “Is that something you want to consider now if your body hasn’t passed it?”

  “I don’t think there is a need. I’m pretty sure I passed everything over the weekend. I stopped bleeding yesterday.”

  “You mentioned your cramps were worse than normal cycle cramps. How are they now?”

  Fucking excruciating. I’m not used to heavy periods or cramping at all. I don’t have the symptoms many other women talk about. I usually bleed for three to four days and then it’s over. Other than my periods being a nuisance, I can’t really complain. This time though . . .

  “Yeah, they were, but I haven’t had any today.”

  “In that case, I’d like to do an ultrasound to confirm your uterus is clear. Otherwise, you risk infection or even hemorrhaging.”

  “Whatever gets this over with.”

  “Lie back again, please.” She stands from her stool. “Have you ever had an ultrasound before?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “Then this may be a bit uncomfortable.” She pulls out an instrument I’d forgotten about. It looks like a long dildo, but I remember it from when I went to one of my sister-in-law’s ultrasounds early in her pregnancy with Caleb. I remember thinking just that—it’s got to be uncomfortable.

  When she inserts the thing, it’s more awkward feeling than anything. When she’s finished, I relax my back onto the exam table and I’m momentarily relieved. That is until I read her face.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. Everything is fine, Miss Andrews.” I hear the “but” in her voice before her mouth opens again. “The miscarriage isn’t complete as you had originally thought. So, let’s discuss options.”

  “The ER doc said it would naturally pass.”

  She turns, handing off the wand to the nurse in the room before turning back to face me.