Dirty Blue: Dirty Justice - Book One

by N. E. Henderson

  Yes, he’s “Gabe” now, courtesy of Alana. She started calling him that on Saturday and by nightfall so was I. It’s cute. I like it. It fits him.

  What I didn’t like, but had no say in, was all the crap Alana bought for him. The formula I was cool with. She got several different types, and I think I’ve finally narrowed it down to the gentle one. He doesn’t puke nearly as much as he was doing a few nights ago. Thank God!

  The clothes, more bottles, two blankets, a new diaper bag, baby toys, and a brand-new car seat were overkill in my opinion. Alana disagreed and wasn’t going to let Gabe remain being toted around in the carrier his mother brought him into the station in.

  The trip to the store two days ago was ridiculous. Especially since I won’t have him after today. I reckon when he goes into protective custody they’ll have all they need for him. My mind can rest somewhat knowing he won’t need any materialistic things.

  My chest tightens a little at the thought of him leaving my care, but I quickly shove it away.

  It’s my day off, but I’m here in Deputy Chief Ramirez’s office waiting for him to arrive on Monday morning. I’m only off today because I was on-call last week. My typical work schedule is Monday through Friday.

  Bringing Gabe here with me wasn’t ideal, but I didn’t have anyone to leave him with and there wouldn’t have been any reason to even if I had. I’ll need to make arrangements to hand him off to the right people once I talk to Tom.

  Taking out my phone from inside my purse, I make the screen light up so I can see what time it is; eight twenty-three. I’ve been waiting for thirteen minutes, although it seems longer.

  As I’m tossing it back into my red, patent leather satchel, I hear the door creak open, followed by voices. My head turns in that direction to see the door partially open.

  “You won’t be saying that on the golf course come Thursday, Morris,” he chuckles as the door fully opens. “Andrews,” Tom calls out my last name as he walks in dressed in his usual; a button-up dress shirt sans a jacket or tie, and dark slacks with his badge clipped to the side of his pants. “Becky said you were waiting for me.” Becky is Tom’s administrative assistant.

  Since Tom doesn’t work out of the Pacific station like I do, I’m downtown where traffic was a bitch and parking was even worse.

  “Thank you for seeing me, sir.” I shift, making the leather underneath me crinkle.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Gabe as he stops gnawing on his fist to look at me. A smile breaks past my lips, and not wanting him to start throwing a fit, I pick up the little green and blue bear Alana bought for him, tucking it into the crook of his arm before turning my attention back to Tom as he sits behind his desk.

  “I asked Houston to join us.” Tom flexes his wrist, looking at his watch. About the time an annoyed look crosses his face, there are several loud, hard raps on the door. “This should be him. Come in,” he voices louder.

  “Sorry I’m late, boss.” There’s no conviction in Lance’s voice, telling me he isn’t sorry at all. When I glance over at Tom, I get the feeling he has come to the same conclusion.

  “Sit.” Tom’s voice is firm. “Andrews,” he looks back at me, “Why do you have a baby in my office?”

  I’m caught off guard. I thought Mike had spoken to him and filled him in on everything, but it appears that isn’t the case.

  “Mike didn’t mention the mother leaving her baby at the station Friday night?”

  “What?” It’s Lance that speaks, sounding as if he’s shocked by this news.

  Cutting my gaze to him, I see his eyebrows are scrunched together as he looks down at the car seat Gabriel is tucked inside of with a fire blazing behind his eyes.

  “Yes,” I confirm. “The girl you left me with the other night decided it wasn’t safe for her or the baby if he remained with her. She’s convinced Drago Acerbi, who she claims is the child’s father, wants to kill them.”

  Lance snaps his head toward Tom. I watch as both men exchange a look I can’t quite decipher. Maybe they’re as shocked as I was a few nights ago. I’m still boggled by the events. Shouldn’t a mother be determined to protect her child, and by doing so, be there making sure he is, in fact, safe?

  “So, Mike didn’t tell you any of this?” I was sure he was going to fill the chief in.

  “He didn’t get a chance to.” Tom faces me. “When I called him back last night he was in the middle of a homicide that occurred hours earlier. He didn’t have much time to talk other than to say we may have minor evidence Acerbi does have dealings with Diaz. He mentioned a photo of Marino—Diaz’s main guy—and Acerbi swapping a package but said you would have to fill me in on the rest.” He looks at the car seat sitting on the couch next to me. I’m impressed. Gabriel hasn’t made a sound. He might as well be a whole other baby from the one I met Friday evening. “So spill it, Andrews. Tell us the rest.” He nods his head toward Gabe.

  Before I answer him, something is nagging at me. Lance. Why is he here? What purpose is he serving? As I think this, Houston takes a seat in one of the two chairs in front of Tom’s desk.

  “What are you doing here, Houston?” I ask nonchalantly. I recall Ramirez saying he asked him to join us, but I want to know why. I can’t think of a reason.

  Lance gives me a look that makes me want to wipe it off his face. He doesn’t respect me. I know this. I don’t care. I don’t respect him either.

  “I asked him to be here,” Tom answers instead. “Once I discovered this involved an Acerbi and possibly Diaz too, I wanted someone with a little more experience to help you, should you need it. With Manning on another big case, Houston was the next viable option.”

  I don’t like this. Mike, or even another detective, sure. Hell, I have a partner, and we work well together, but not Lance. Maybe I dislike him for reasons I shouldn’t—personal ones—he’s an asshole and makes stupid remarks that piss me off.

  I don’t say that. It’s better to keep your mouth shut and not go against the deputy chief’s wishes.

  “So, what’s the plan? Do you think the photo is enough to get a judge to issue a warrant to search Acerbi’s business? Doesn’t he have an importing business down at the Port? What about his residence?”

  “His father, Vincent Acerbi, owns Acerbi Imports. Drago, his eldest son, runs the day-to-day operations and oversees everything from what we know. Vincent is currently back in Italy. It’s not known for how long, but I imagine Vincent has left the reins to Drago after seeing the photo.”

  Mike must have sent him a copy of the photo I showed him Friday night. He’s the only other person I sent it to. I want to have forensics take a look at it too. See if they can tell what type of camera was used to capture the picture.

  “So,” Lance interjects himself. “We aren’t asking for a warrant at this time.”

  “Why?” I inquire.

  “We need solid evidence, Bri,” Tom tells me. “No one has ever been able to bring the Acerbis down nor capture Diaz and his men. We want to do both. We need more than what’s in that picture the woman produced.”

  “How do you want to accomplish this, Chief?”

  “You’re going to get it for us.” A slow smile spreads across Lance’s face, making my insides turn over. Every aspect of this man is disgusting, and I don’t want to work with him on this case, or any other case, for that matter. I’d much prefer my partner, detective Connie Bristol, than a chauvinist pig.

  “And just how do I go about doing that without a judge’s warrant granting me authority?”

  “You’re going undercover, detective,” Tom enlightens me. “We need probable cause, and that photo isn’t going to cut it. Sure, it tells us they’re up to something. I need you and Lance to figure out what that something is. Put Acerbi under surveillance and see what turns up. I want to know how the drugs are getting here. Specifically, I want to know what port they are being delivered to, and how and who the drugs are being distributed to.”

  “What about him?” I no
d to my left, indicating the baby beside me.

  Tom grits his teeth, but after a few beats he grabs a pen from a holder on his desk then looks down as he scribbles something on a sticky note. When he’s done, he pulls it from the pad then extends his arm, holding it out for me to take.

  “Here.” He passes me the piece of paper and I take it. “Call this number.”

  Looking at it, it’s only seven digits—a phone number. “Captain Roy Williams over at Special Ops. He heads the custody services division and deals with these types of things. You can make arrangements with him for someone to take the child.”

  “Sure thing, Tom.” I tuck the piece of paper in the inside pocket of my purse so I won’t lose it.

  “Try to take care of that today, Andrews. Tomorrow I want you focused on this case.” I glance up to see Tom’s firm brown eyes boring into mine.

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  * * *

  Take care of that today he said. Apparently, that’s easier said than done.

  Since leaving headquarters downtown over an hour ago, I’ve tried the telephone number Tom supplied me with four times. I’ve received a generic automated voice message each time and only left a message on the second attempt.

  I let out a tired breath of air as I land on the last step of the third floor my condo is on.

  Ms. Lincoln, my neighbor who I often grocery shop for, sent me a text asking if I would bring her a carton of eggs and a gallon of milk when I came home today, so that’s what I’m doing now. I guess I should say, what we’re doing now, since I still have Gabe in tow.

  I place the car seat on the concrete floor then knock on her door.

  She lives directly across the hall from my place. Ms. Lincoln is in her late sixties, but that doesn’t keep her down. Although she doesn’t drive anymore, she’s still very active. She has a small little group of friends—two—that all meet up at a nearby coffee shop every Saturday morning for tea. She’s a big reader too and when she isn’t devouring a book, she is gardening around our complex. You’d think she owns the building as well as she cares for all the greenery around this place.

  A click of the lock turns followed by the door opening seconds later.

  “Hello, dear. Come in; I have tea made.”

  She opens the door wider before turning to walk away from me. It’s not a question, and I’m not going to argue. I don’t even like tea, but I have never told her this—and never will. I’ll choke that shit down every time.

  Reaching down, I grip the handle, lifting Gabe up, and then I walk inside. With my elbow, I push the door closed then follow her toward the kitchen. Instead of walking in with her I veer right then place the sack of groceries on the open entry that peers out from the kitchen into the living room. Her condo is a replica of my own.

  “Thank you, Bri,” she tells me as she reaches for the plastic bag.

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Lincoln.”

  Turning, I head over toward the couch and take a seat.

  As I’m removing Gabe from his car seat, I glance up, seeing she’s entering the room toting a mug in each hand.

  “Who is this little fellow?” she asks as I place him in my lap then slide to the back of the soft couch.

  “Gabe . . . actually, it’s Gabriel, but Gabe for short.”

  With the baby secure in my lap, I take one hand away from him to take the mug of tea she’s holding out for me. “Thanks,” I say followed by a smile.

  “Of course, dear. Is he a friend’s or family member’s baby?” The nosy, curiosity is evident in her voice. “I saw you and your sister-in-law—Alana isn’t it—with him this past weekend and was wondering if she’s had another.”

  “Yes, Alana is her name, but no, I think my brother and sister-in-law are done. Their three are practically grown. Carrie turns seventeen in a few days, Caleb is sixteen, and my youngest niece will be ten later this year.”

  There is a big enough gap between Caleb and Carly as is. Carly hates it, and I know exactly how she feels. Whereas Carrie and Caleb are inseparable and more so best friends than brother and sister, Caleb is five years older than Carly—same as Jackson and me. Caleb feels this sense of brotherly over-protectiveness when it comes to Car.

  Poor girl doesn’t understand it’ll never change.

  I couldn’t imagine them starting over again with another baby. That would be crazy.

  “Then who does this little guy belong to?” She outstretches her arms, silently asking to hold him.

  After placing the mug down, I lift him and then place him into her gentle arms. She smiles down at him and I can already tell she is smitten. I’ve quickly come to the realization he has a way with people—first Steph, and then Alana and me and now Ms. Lincoln. It’s impossible not to like this innocent little man.

  “Well,” I start trying to quickly think of a way to best tell her something without telling her the whole truth. “I guess you could say I’m fostering him for a short period of time. It has to do with a case, so I can’t go into details.” I lie only when I have to—when it’s for my job—but generally speaking, I don’t like or enjoy lying to people. I like to think I’m upfront and honest for the most part.

  “Oh, dear, that doesn’t sound pleasant.” She shakes her head. “Not the fostering part, but the part where this innocent little fellow is part of some case you’re working on.” Her eyes are concerned. She’s fully aware I’m part of the gang and narcotics detective division on the force.

  Which makes me question why Tom would assign Lance and me to work together when he’s a part of the homicide unit—same as Mike. Doesn’t make sense for him to be part of a drug-related case. And more experienced? Please . . .

  “How long do you expect to have him in your care if it’s okay for me to ask?”

  “I can’t honestly say, because I don’t know.” And that fact grates on my nerves, I think. “I haven’t been able to reach the special unit I was instructed to call.” I let out a puff of air showing my frustration of the situation. “I have to reach someone today, or else I’m not sure what I’m going to do with him tomorrow while I work.”

  Her face lights up, why I don’t know. There isn’t anything bright about my situation. Like Mike said, I should have kept my mouth shut, and Gabriel would be in the care of a foster parent who knows what they’re doing—instead of me.

  “I would be happy to watch him for you. I don’t mind.”

  I can’t do that. It’s so sweet of her to offer. She is kind, too kind to make that much of an offer.

  “No, ma’am. I cannot ask that of you.”

  “Nonsense, Brianna.” She’s never called me by my full, first name. “You do things for me all the time. It’s the least I can do to return the favor.”

  “Ms. Lincoln, picking up an item or two for you on the way home does not even compare to you offering to watch a baby for hours. And you know I often get called out into the field and can be gone more than a normal eight to five shift.”

  No, I can’t do it. It’s not right.

  She looks at me like older ladies often do when they aren’t going to take no for an answer.

  “No. I cannot ask that.”

  “No, dearie, you did not ask. I offered. There is a difference, ya know?” the sweet lady politely points out.

  I should have just saved my breath.

  5

  There was no talking my neighbor out of it.

  And who was I to tell her she shouldn’t be caring for an infant when she was being so persistent? Is she well out of the raising babies stage of her life? Well yes, but she’s more capable than people I’ve seen much younger than her.

  I push the nagging thought that this child’s father is possibly a man some say rivals his own father’s devious reputation to the back of my mind. And as I pull my car into a parking lot only yards from two known warehouses belonging to Vincent Acerbi, Drago’s father, I ignore my conscience screaming that I should have handed over Gabriel to protective custody already.
r />   I parallel park my car in-between a murdered-out Chevy Tahoe at my rear and a silver 4-door Mercedes-Benz coupe in front of me. I drove my personal car today instead of one of the unmarked sedans. They are way too easily pegged as “cop cars.” After a breath, I shut off the engine knowing leaving it running will only draw attention my way—attention I don’t want. Which is the very reason I’m not driving one of the automobiles designated to use for work outside the precinct.

  Had I done so, I wouldn’t have been more obvious unless I had strapped on a bulletproof vest that says LAPD across the chest.

  I peer out the window toward the loading docks roughly twenty yards from where I am now. Seems pretty convenient his warehouses are located just feet from where cargo shipments enter LA via water. I doubt these are all the warehouses he owns, but I don’t have any proof of that—yet.

  Reaching over to the passenger seat I grab my legal pad that already has a few notes jotted down.

  Looking down, I study the license plate numbers to the three vehicles Drago owns. Flicking my eyes up, I look at the one on the car in front of me. It shouldn’t match seeing how he doesn’t own a Mercedes. It doesn’t. I then grab my pen and write the numbers down. I’ll check it out later.

  It’s quiet for a Monday afternoon. I wonder if this is a light shipping day.

  Making a note, I jot down a reminder to find out what Acerbi Imports’ schedule is, along with the other two companies located at this end of the shipping port.

  My plan is just to watch, not long, but I wanted to get a feel of this place before I plan out how Lance and I will surveillance Acerbi. I’ve never worked undercover before, but I know several officers and detectives that have. The quickest way would be to infiltrate some part of Drago’s life. Plant someone into his work or personal life. That can be tricky and would need someone with a large amount of undercover experience—not me, in other words.