Dirty Blue

by N. E. Henderson

  “You’re putting your career on the line.” His words are a statement. And one I hadn’t wanted voiced.

  I lean back, looking away from him because I hadn’t wanted to voice that out loud. It’s one thing for them to roll around in my head. It’s another for it to be laid out in the open.

  “You sure you want to do that?”

  “No.”

  I’m not. I love my job. I know I’m good at it. It’s not something I’ll ever willingly walk away from. The pay sucks, but the fulfillment I get out of it is worth so much more than money. No—I’ll have to be forced to leave my role in law enforcement.

  “Then tell me to leave.”

  His words cut something inside my chest. I look back at him. His hands are no longer on me. His palms are planted on the floor, pressing into the hardwood as if he’s making himself stay in place so he doesn’t touch me. His body is rigid, bracing for my reply—my command.

  He’s giving me the chance to walk away from him. Yet his eyes have a plea in them.

  “Tell me to get out, Bri.”

  I know I’m not going to. My mouth wouldn’t cooperate even if I wanted it to. Fact is, I don’t want that.

  Why am I willing to risk so much for him? Aren’t I putting Gabriel’s life at risk by allowing him in my home, in my life, in Gabe’s life?

  “I’m giving you one more chance.” His eyes bore into mine. “Give the order, Bri, because if you don’t, you’ll never have another chance to walk away from me. From this.”

  If he’s trying to scare me, he’s doing a shit job of it. If he wants out of this, then he can be a man and leave on his own accord. I want my job and apparently, I want him just as much. And I might want Gabriel.

  I remain silent, not uttering a sound besides the breath entering and leaving my lungs. He’s still, watching me, waiting for something that’s never going to come. At least not tonight.

  “I hope it’s fucking worth it,” he mutters before grabbing me in an aggressive embrace, smashing his lips to mine, and holding me tighter than he ever has before. My soul sparks with something I’ve only ever felt when I have that baby in my arms. I haven’t a word I can assign to it yet because it’s too new. It’s so foreign that I think I’m scared to admit what I think it is.

  “So do I,” I whisper between us.

  My stomach makes another demand for food, this time louder, and D smiles against my lips.

  “Let’s eat.” He taps my butt. “It’s probably cold but . . .” He trails off as I flip around, settling between his legs.

  I’m even hungrier than I thought when I start shoveling sesame chicken into my mouth. I missed lunch today when a tip came in that a well-known drug dealer was at his mom’s house. Connie and I had been searching for over three months for his whereabouts. Today was our break. We were able to apprehend him along with his cousin that skipped bail on a drug charge last month. I call that a win-win.

  We eat relatively silent. I’m not going to push Drago, right now, to tell me the details of his business. But in the back of my mind, I know he has to give me something to bring back to the chief. I’ll take any kernel I can get at this point.

  “I gotta piss. Can I use your bathroom?” Drago asks once he’s finished his dinner, tossing a used napkin inside his container.

  He taps my hips, asking me to let him up. I’m done, so I crawl around to the side of my coffee table, getting out of his way.

  “No,” I shake my head, but a laugh bubbles out. “Of course you can. You don’t have to ask, you know.”

  Getting up, he leans over our food, snatching my lips up in a quick kiss.

  Tasty, I think when he pulls away.

  He heads down the hall, so I take the opportunity to admire his backside. He’s got a tight, high ass and just the thought of it bare has heat rising up my chest.

  Later, Bri, later.

  I wipe my mouth with a napkin, discarding it into the Styrofoam container when I finish, then I stand, taking everything to the trash. Shoving it down into the can, I pack the garbage so I don’t have to take it out until tomorrow morning. I’m tired and all I want to do is be lazy.

  I wash my hands, drying them with the hand towel I have laying next to the sink, then notice the envelope I forgot I placed on the ledge when I got home. I pick it up, flipping it over, making sure I didn’t miss any marking that would tell me who left it. After not seeing anything, I rip the flap open, pulling the contents out.

  It looks to be several letter-size photographs with a yellow sticky note on the top that reads: D doesn’t know I gave these to you. Keep it that way.

  Luca? His brother is my first thought. He’s the only other person besides myself that I know calls Drago by his first initial, but then I squash that thought remembering my neighbor said the man was black.

  I take the sticky note off, sticking it to the discarded envelope lying on the kitchen counter.

  The first photo is of Brandon Marino, carrying what I recognize as the thick envelope from the photo Chasity Carlisle presented to me. Tucking that photo to the back of the stack, I look at the next one. It’s almost the same, only this time Drago is in the picture, and from what I can tell Marino is walking toward him.

  I hear the toilet flush, so I quickly scan the rest. They’re in order of the events happening, playing out like an old-school cartoon. Marino stops in front of Drago. Then he raises his hand, stretching it out in front of Drago as if he is handing that package over.

  Drago does place his hand on it, but in this photo, Marino is still holding it too. In the next photo, it looks like Drago has taken a step away from Marino—who still has the package. Both men have scowling expressions on their faces. The last three are of Drago walking away from Marino, who remains holding the thick envelope, crushing it in his hands.

  Without thinking too long, I stuff the photos back in the container I took them out of, opening a drawer in my kitchen and stuffing it there.

  Whoever left these for me didn’t want Drago to know. I wonder why? Until I do, I decide not to share this with Drago even though it doesn’t feel right. I don’t like going against my gut, and I know somewhere deep down, I’m probably making a mistake. But then again, jumping on this until I know more could also prove a misjudgment. At least being silent buys me some time to figure out who sent them.

  It can’t be Luca, his brother, so who was here? Could Drago have been the one that had him leave it, thinking it would clear his name?

  Too many questions are swirling around in my head and I want answers to them right now.

  “You didn’t have to clean up, babe.” I look up, seeing Drago stepping into the kitchen. “I would have done it.”

  “No big deal,” I tell him, turning and leaning my hip against the drawer I stashed the photos inside of, feeling a pang of guilt by keeping this from him.

  He’s watching me again, and it feels the same as how I watch him at times when I’m waiting to see if he’s going to reveal something. Maybe he does know I have those pictures and he’s waiting for me to tell him.

  I turn, my butt pressed against the counter to face him when he nears. He lifts me off the ground, planting me on the edge so that I’m almost eye level with him. He steps between my legs as his hands softly cup my face.

  “I like you.”

  “You’ve already told me that.”

  He breathes out hard, air from his nose fanning my face with a quick laugh escaping his lips in the process.

  “I like you a lot.”

  “Good,” I say, leaning forward and placing my hands on his sides. “I like you a lot, too.”

  He smirks, liking my declaration and there is something mischievous in the depths of his eyes.

  “Well, I came for a booty call, so can I take you to bed now?”

  “Fuck you!” I half laugh, showing him a surprised expression. Shaking my head, I say, “I didn’t call you to come over here. You just showed up.”

  “Yeah, to fuck you.” His eyes light up play
fully, making my chest swoon. I pinch the flesh on his side through his T-shirt. “Ow.” He bends, moving away from my hand.

  “Take me to bed then.” I smile, not able to contain the Cheshire Cat grin I’m sure is on my face.

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.” He scoops me off the countertop and does just what he says—only I wouldn’t call the hour he spent slowly working me up only to move at an agonizing, hellish pace in and out of me for longer than I’ve ever had a man inside me, fucking. No, if I thought about it long enough, I’d call that something else. Something I’m not ready to do just yet.

  13

  The note didn’t say I couldn’t share the photos with anyone else—not that it would have mattered if it did—so here I am, sitting on the couch in Tom’s office waiting for him to get in.

  I’ve waited a lot longer than I should have to bring this evidence in. I thought I’d be able to drag something out of Drago without giving myself away, but I’ve barely seen Drago since he stayed over last Friday. He left, going out of town, again, and since we haven’t exactly discussed what we are to each other, I didn’t ask or push—no matter how much I itched to do so. And even that fact bugs me. I’m not a needy person. I consider myself independent, definitely strong, both mentally and physically, so the fact that the thought crossed my mind tells me I’m way too into him, too quick. Liking someone a lot is one thing, wanting to see them all the time and know where they are? That’s borderline psychotic, like my brother. I wonder if I should tell Alana about his tracking habits? Hell, the bitch probably knows. She should have told me!

  I flip my wrist, looking at the time on my smartwatch—eight-twenty am.

  I would probably still be trying to figure out who left the photos if Tom hadn’t requested a meeting this morning. Tomorrow marks the five-week mark since Chasity Carlisle walked into the station and I know Tom is going to expect something, but I doubt he has one inkling of what I’m about to throw in his lap.

  I just wish I knew the identity of the person that not only left me those pictures but also knows what case I’m working and where I live. I’m not sure how I feel about the latter. It couldn’t have been Drago or his brother—so who was it?

  I even went as far as talking Ms. Lincoln into getting the building manager to let me see surveillance tapes. Problem was there wasn’t any footage for the period of time my neighbor said he came by. That alone is suspicious, and without getting a technical team involved, I have no way of knowing for sure if anyone hacked into the building’s security footage, deleting anything, or if someone might have knocked the recording offline. Either way, there is no video from any camera on the property during that time frame.

  Either it’s a coincidence or someone doesn’t want me to know their identity. That doesn’t stop me from believing, without a doubt, Drago is innocent. The photos present a pretty clear picture. That thick envelope—most likely containing cash—originated from Brandon and Drago never took it from him.

  There isn’t a judge in the state that would bring charges against Drago with these surfacing, I think, gripping the photos in my hand.

  “Andrews.” Tom’s voice booms as he enters his office, kicking the door closed behind him. “You’re here early.”

  “Had an errand to run this morning and finished up sooner than I thought I would, so figured I’d c’mon by.”

  “Houston isn’t due to arrive until nine.” He sits behind his desk.

  Fucking figures, which is why I’m purposely here now rather than later. I don’t trust Lance. Never have and never will.

  That errand I said I had might’ve been a little white lie.

  “That’s okay.” I shrug like it isn’t a big deal. “He knows I’ve got this.” I have to bite my cheek to stop myself from laughing at that.

  “Well, then”—his eyebrows pull together—“give me the update on Acerbi.” He leans back in his chair.

  “Sir, I don’t believe Drago”—Tom’s eyebrow lifts, making me aware of my fuck-up by using his first name, so I scramble, trying to make it fit naturally—“Acerbi is participating in illegal activities like the girl suggested he was.”

  “Detective,” he says, in that authoritative tone he’s known for when someone hasn’t given him what he’s expecting, “I don’t give a damn what you believe. I directed you to get the evidence that would back up that photo you obtained.”

  “About that”—I start as I pull the opened envelope out of my purse—“I have evidence that backs up the opposite.”

  I stand, stepping up to Tom’s desk, pulling out the photos and lay them in front of him.

  “What’s this?” he says so slowly that I’m expecting a growl to follow.

  “Look at them.” His eyes flick up to mine, showing me his dislike for ordering him. “Sir, you’ll understand why I know Mr. Acerbi wasn’t accepting drugs or money or well, anything once you look through those.” I nod my head, looking down at the stack of photos in his hand.

  He leans forward, placing his elbows on top of his desk, and then starts riffling through the shots.

  His eyes stay neutral, but there is a tick in his jaw. I guess that’s understandable. He’s wanted to bring Drago’s family down for a long time. From my understanding, Tom, back when he was a senior detective in the field, worked eighteen months on a case that was supposed to take down Vincent Acerbi for the murder of an undercover cop. Not only did evidence disappear from the crime lab but so did a witness.

  Putting myself in Tom’s shoes, wouldn’t I want any crumb to bring down a family I believed was guilty?

  “Where did you get these?”

  I don’t want to tell him they arrived at my condo, but I can’t tell him they were left at the station either. He could easily track that in the logs.

  “They were left for me anonymously. I don’t know where they came from or who left them for me.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Maybe,” I say for lack of knowing what else to say to that. “But it still proves Acerbi didn’t make a deal of sorts with Marino.”

  “Who knows you and Houston are on this assignment?”

  “Other than Mike and Connie, I don’t think anyone else other than you, sir.”

  “Why the fuck does Connie know?”

  Why the fuck is he so angry she does is a more appropriate question, I think to myself.

  “She’s my partner. I had to tell her, Tom.” Is he serious right now? “I spend a good amount of time on the Acerbi case. She had to know why.”

  “Why? Yes. What? No.” He pushes himself back, leaning into his chair. “Those photos might show Acerbi not accepting anything from Marino, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t smuggling dope into this city.” He leans up again, picking up the photo haphazardly. “Houston know about these?”

  “No, sir.” I shake my head. “I just got them. He and I haven’t spoken.”

  “You can go, Andrews.” He lifts the stack of photos. “I’ll speak to Houston and he’ll advise you on our next move.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, shouldn’t I be involved in our next course of action? Perhaps we need to go back to the baby’s mother since I haven’t found anything to corroborate her claims. Then, if she still doesn’t want her son, I think we need to tell Acerbi about him. He may want the child.”

  “I’m not putting an innocent child in the hands of a criminal, Brianna.”

  “We don’t have any evidence he is a criminal.”

  He barks out a laugh, but it seems too forced.

  “There is no change in this investigation. And I’m not bringing the mother back in at this conjecture nor am I informing Acerbi of the kid. That would prove more harm than good. I’m not tipping him off that we’re watching him.”

  “But, sir, your contact—”

  “Detective!” I square my shoulders at the rise in his voice. “I said you could go. This discussion is over. Houston will follow up.” He pauses, and I suspect he’s waiting to see if I have more to say. I hadn�
��t meant to almost blurt out I haven’t received a call back from the captain in special ops or that I still have Gabriel.

  Drago does need to know, though. And I’m not sure how I’m going to continue to keep this a secret. It feels wrong and I know that’s because it is wrong. He should have been told. Plus, it’s a piece of the missing puzzle. If he knows about Gabriel’s existence, then does some of what Miss Carlisle said have any truth to it? Is it possible he threatened her and the baby’s life?

  I don’t know, and I want those answers. I need them. I need them to be untrue.

  Without another word, I gather my purse from his couch and then leave more ticked off than I think I’ve ever been. None of it makes sense. Something about the way Tom is handling this is as off as Gabriel’s mother’s story was.

  * * *

  When I get back to the station, Connie is nowhere to be found. Alana can’t be my sounding board on this. I need my partner’s take. Something isn’t right. My gut says something isn’t right.

  “Hey, Bri.” I glance up to see Mark swaggering toward my desk. He’s one of the friendlier, more respectful detectives working at the same precinct I do. His desk is closer to Mike’s office than mine is because he’s also part of the homicide unit Mike’s on.

  “What’s up?” I ask, leaning back in my chair as he nears.

  He leans against my desk, crossing his legs at the ankles, looking down at me with a too-serious expression for the kind, light-hearted guy I know him to be. He’s a veteran detective, having served almost the same number of years on the force as Mike. Whereas Mike is a no nonsense type of detective, Mark’s the jokester, so him giving me a look of concern has me giving him my full attention.

  “I hear you’re having to work with Houston on a case.”

  “That’s right,” I groan, realizing how unprofessional I sound. I know it’s just something I have to suck up and get over. “Mike tell you?”