Dirty Blue: Dirty Justice - Book One

by N. E. Henderson

  After thirty minutes of observing, I cut tail and leave, not wanting to get caught snooping around.

  Tomorrow I’ll start my research and develop a plan of action.

  I’ll get him. I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure that little boy is safe.

  * * *

  By the time the middle of the week rolls around, I’m knee-deep in researching everything and anything I can learn about Drago Acerbi—which isn’t much at all. There is more information on his father than him or his two siblings. There doesn’t seem to be a woman in his life. No pictures of him with any female. Seems odd for a twenty-eight-year-old man; a very good-looking one at that. Maybe he bats for the same team, but then I haven’t seen any photographs of him with other males besides his younger brother so . . .

  Vincent Acerbi, Drago’s father, came to the U.S. from Italy in 1988 after meeting his late wife, Anna, while she was abroad traveling through Calabria, a region in southern Italy, in the summer of ‘88. They married not long after his arrival to the States, and then Drago was born in 1990, fifteen months after I was. Drago’s brother and sister came along several years later. There is a six-year gap between him and his brother, Luca, and eight years between he and his sister, Caprice.

  Vincent’s wife died eleven years ago of a pulmonary embolism. Drago was seventeen.

  Tragic.

  I know all too well what it’s like to lose a mother, too. Mine died when I was eight.

  Glancing away from my computer screen, I picture my mom’s face in my head for the briefest of moments. Jackson and I look nothing like her. She had a fair complexion with blonde hair and misty green eyes. My brother and I favor our father remarkably. Dark hair and tan skin. Jackson says I get my short height from her though, but my devilish blues, unfortunately, match my father’s—dirty, rotten bastard that he is.

  He’s probably not as bad as I sometimes make him out to be. He just wasn’t there; he was mostly absent—at least at the important things like school functions, prom, graduation from the police academy.

  My desk phone rings, bringing me out of my thoughts from the past.

  Glancing at the caller ID, I recognize Alana’s cell phone number.

  “Hey,” I greet.

  “You hand over Gabe yet?” My jaw almost drops at her blunt question.

  “God, you make it sound like I’m dropping off clothes at the dry cleaners,” I remark. “Seriously, Alana?”

  “You know what I mean.” She pauses briefly. “So, did you?”

  “Not yet.” I sigh, then fill her in on my meeting with Tom and Lance, and the trouble I’m having getting in contact with the police captain in Special Operations.

  “Why are you having to work with douche-prick and not Connie?”

  Good question.

  I rub the back of my neck trying to release the tension that’s gathered since Tom made it clear Lance would be my partner on this case. To say I’m irritated is an understatement.

  “I don’t know really.” I pause. “Maybe because Tom has wanted to bring down the Acerbi family for years and he thinks Houston having more experience than me will ensure no mistakes are made.” I shake my head. Something in my gut tells me that isn’t it at all, but I don’t tell my friend this. I shouldn’t be telling her this much to begin with. And doing it on the office phone isn’t exactly wise. Hell, maybe I’m not as intelligent as I think I am.

  At the sound of rustling, I look up to see Ronnie setting a bag on top of his desk before plopping down into his chair.

  “Yeah, okay.” She chuckles. “This is the same sleaze I met when I did that half-marathon with you a while back. He’s going to be the one that fucks your shit up, babe.”

  “Probably,” I agree.

  “Honey, I have to run. Karla is standing in my office waving me to another meeting.”

  “Okay. Love you.” I end the call. I need to get in touch with the chief while I have a few minutes anyway.

  Not placing the receiver down, I press one of the buttons with a pre-programmed phone number stored on it and wait, hoping he’ll be in his office.

  Becky, Tom’s assistant, picks up on the second ring. “Deputy Chief Ramirez’s office, how can I help you?”

  “Hi, Becky, it’s Brianna Andrews from the Pacific station. I was hoping Tom had a minute to talk.”

  “Oh, hi, detective,” she greets me in her usual cheery voice. “He’s in his office. I’ll put you through to him, okay?”

  “That would be great. Thank you.”

  She doesn’t reply. Instead, the line rings again, only this time it’s barely a full ring before the chief’s bark comes through. “Ramirez.”

  “Tom, it’s Bri.” I let him know it’s me.

  “Do you have something already?” he sounds disbelieving.

  “Well, no, sir.”

  “Then why are you calling me, detective? I don’t have time to hold your hand. That’s what Houston is for.” I have to pause before I say something I’ll regret. No need to piss the man off even though the words are itching to come out of my mouth. I don’t need anyone, especially Lance Houston, to hold my hand.

  Apparently my silence goes on too long. “Are you planning on telling me why you are bothering me, today, or do you need to call back tomorrow to do so?”

  I’ve heard multiple officers say Thomas Ramirez has a jerk complex, but until this moment, I’ve never witnessed it.

  “No, sir, of course not. I’m not calling about Acerbi. I’m calling—” he cuts me off.

  “Then take up your issues with Houston. Call me when you have something solid on our criminal.”

  He hangs up before I can tell him I’ve been unable to reach his contact in Special Ops.

  Well, great. What on earth am I going to do about the kid?

  * * *

  As I drive into the parking lot, I glance around quickly, taking in my surroundings the best I can while still paying attention to my driving. The shipping port seems busier than when I was here a few days ago. There are vehicles sparsely parked. An eighteen-wheeler is backed up to one of the three bay doors and I see three men loading it. Another pulled in behind me but turned off toward the loading docks moments ago. I can see the tail end of a shipping boat on the backside of his buildings.

  The import of Italian wine makes up the larger quantity of the items that come in through here, I’ve learned.

  Once parked, hidden but in plain sight, I dig my cell phone out of my purse. It should be late enough in the afternoon that she’ll be where she can answer my call. Carrie has cheer practice between two and four. Her cheer coach is very laidback and relaxed that the girls, as long as they do what is expected of them, are allowed use of their electronic devices when they are on break.

  She picks up on the fourth ring.

  “Hey, Aunt Bri! What’s up?” Her voice is cheerful, which is usual for Carrie. She’s always been the happy kid. The kid that goes out of her way to make others laugh and be as happy as she is.

  “Happy birthday, sweetie,” I singsong to her.

  “Ah, thanks.”

  “So why is it we aren’t celebrating in the normal fashion we always do?” I can’t help but ask her. I am a bit disappointed that I’m not going to be a part of the celebration—even a small one.

  “Friday night is an away game, so really there is no time, plus Mom and Dad have to work this weekend. It’s no biggie though.”

  Away game. Jackson and Alana have to work. Who in the hell is going with them?

  Carrie is a varsity cheerleader and her brother, Caleb, plays football for the varsity team. They are both great kids, but they are still just that—kids. My brother and sister-in-law put too much faith in them both looking out for each other.

  “Who’s taking you both to the game?”

  “Duh, Aunt Bri. The whole team, including the cheer team and band, all ride on two buses. There will be chaperones. Stop acting like a cop and be my cool aunt, will ya?”

  I let this go, but not thinkin
g like a cop is something I doubt I’ll ever be able to do again. I’m all too familiar with the evil in this world. Since I became a cop, I’ve seen too much bad shit. This job has jaded me in a sense.

  “Okay, fine, but if either of you need anything at all, I’m just a phone call away.” I shake my head. Teenagers left to their own devices—no matter how great the kid is—don’t always make the best choices. At least I can count on the two of them sticking together. I still don’t like the idea that at least one of their parents won’t be going along.

  My phone beeps with another incoming call.

  I pull it away from my ear to look at the screen. Speaking of . . .

  “Hey, sweets, I gotta run. Your dad is calling me. I hope you have a happy birthday and don’t forget what I said. Anything at all . . . you call me. I’ll be there.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Aunt Bri. Talk to you later. Love ya.”

  I switch to the other line.

  “Want to tell me why your two oldest kids are going out of town without you or Alana, Friday?” I demand to know.

  “Hello to you too, little sister.” He sounds irritated. Tough shit.

  I wait. He huffs.

  “Caleb is perfectly capable of taking care of his sister. The boy can bench press two hundred-fifty pounds and he’s still in high school.”

  “Yeah, who’s going to take care of him?”

  “Did you not hear me?”

  “I heard what you said. He’s still a kid, Jack. Maybe you trust them a little too much?” Before he can reply I continue. “It’s not even about that. I know they are both great kids. You and Alana are very lucky in the children department. It’s the rest of the world, brother. It’s not safe for them out there alone.”

  “I don’t need parenting advice from someone that doesn’t have any kids, Brianna. They won’t be alone. And do you honestly think I don’t know where my kids are at any given moment of any day?”

  “You might be big, bad Jackson Andrews, but not even you have eyes everywhere.”

  “For a cop, I question your street smarts sometimes, but then again I did shelter you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” What the fuck? Jackson usually isn’t this blunt—not with me at least. And yes, he did shelter me from too much. Probably another reason I became a cop.

  “Every device they own has a GPS tracker on it. Both of their cars, a tracker. Carrie’s pendant that she never leaves home without is trackable. Caleb—”

  “Are you flipping serious?” I cut him off.

  “Fuck yes I’m serious. You of all people know the sick fucks out there. I’m not about to sit around and let something happen to one of them. I give them freedom—a lot of it—but unbeknown to them I still know exactly where they are. I take care of what’s mine. Always. Drop it.”

  That’s a little much. Borderline on . . .

  “Jackson?”

  “What, Bri? I didn’t call to argue with you today.”

  “Do you have a tracker on my car?”

  “Yes.” He doesn’t even deny it. There is no falter in my brother’s voice.

  “What the hell?”

  “Do I need to repeat myself? What’s mine, Bri. Got it?”

  No, I fucking do not. Oh, my God, he’s gone too far.

  I take a deep breath. Why does any of this surprise me? How did I not know this already? And I’m supposed to be the cop.

  “Is there anything else of mine that’s trackable?” He better say no.

  Silence.

  “Jack!”

  “You obviously don’t want to know the answer to that, so there is no point in answering you.”

  “I can’t believe you. This is something Dad would do, not you.”

  “Call it whatever you want. I don’t care. I love you too much.”

  “And the money that miraculously appeared in my account on Tuesday? What’s that about?”

  “I suppose people love you.”

  “I’m going to kick your ass.”

  Laughter erupts from the other side of the phone.

  “Look, I just pulled into the high school. I’m here to pick up Carrie.” He chuckles. “I called to make sure you’re still alive. And to tell you, you should quit your job and move back home. I know you won’t, but it has to be said anyway.”

  “So then I won’t give you a reply. I’m mad at you.”

  “Fine, be mad, but tell me you love me so I can hang up.”

  “I love you, asshole.”

  “I love you too, Belle.” Oh, he thinks using my childhood nickname is going to earn him points.

  Click.

  I don’t think so.

  Jackson started calling me Belle when I was four or five. I was obsessed—really obsessed—with a movie about a girl that saw something different in a beast that everyone else feared. Most days I would only wear that costume I’d gotten one Halloween.

  I’m going to find all his little tracking devices and then I’m going to shove them all up his crazy ass—well maybe I’ll make Alana do it for me.

  She better not know about this. I’ll murder her so help me—

  I jump in my seat, startled at the tap on my driver’s side window. When I turn, I come face-to-face with the man I’ve only seen in pictures, and from afar.

  Drago Acerbi.

  Damn . . .

  Jesus H. Christ. I have to force myself to stop breathing in order not to gasp. He’s a lot hotter up close. Pictures certainly do not do him justice.

  My door opens before I can react. Thanks automatic doors that unlock when I turn the ignition off.

  “Is there a reason LAPD is scoping out my parking lot?”

  How does he know I’m law enforcement?

  “You look confused? What’s the confusion about?” He smiles, but it’s wicked. “Is it that I know you’re a cop or that I caught you here in the first place?”

  I remain silent. Mainly, I’m not sure what to say yet. How does he know either? I thought hiding in plain sight was a smart idea.

  “Your car doesn’t belong here. Not today or when you were here two days ago. I ran your plates, Detective Brianna Andrews.” He smirks. And although he’s attractive in looks—too attractive—it pisses me off. “You aren’t too bright. How did you manage to become a detective or is this your first day on the job? I walked right up to your car and you never once saw me.”

  Distraction. Nice fucking job, Brianna.

  I was distracted by my phone call with Carrie, and then Jackson. I shouldn’t have been on the phone to begin with—at least not here. Not while I’m supposed to go unnoticed. You can’t stay undercover when the suspect knows where and who you are.

  Fuck.

  “I wasn’t hiding.”

  He gives me a look that says I’m full of shit.

  “Well, then”—he displays that devilish smile again—“let me invite you inside—to my office.” He holds out his hand, palm facing up for me to take. I don’t.

  Placing one leg outside of my car, I watch him as I step out and onto the concrete ground. I have to grab a hold of the door or otherwise, I’m afraid I might stumble right into his chest. Jesus, those eyes.

  He finally takes a step back, then he moves his hand in the direction of the building that’s about a hundred yards from where we are now, wanting me to walk while he follows.

  That’s not going to happen.

  “Lead the way, Mr. Acerbi.”

  This earns me a chuckle. “Ladies first, detective.” His mischievous eyes cascade downward then slowly ascends back up to my eyes once more. “Please.” He sighs. “I’d like to think I was raised with some manners.”

  I stare up at him for a moment, weighing my options. Walking in front of him puts my back to him. It’s not ideal at all, but neither is him reporting me here and it getting back to my police chief, or worse, Lance.

  Turning away from him, I make the decision to lead. It gives me an uneasy feeling. I was trained to never leave my back open, and in most situations, some
one is always there to have my back.

  We walk in silence the short distance to his building. There isn’t anything fancy about it. It’s a large metal building with three bay doors along the front and one walk-in door at the corner of the building near a parked, sleek, black Bugatti. I know that’s Drago’s car from my research earlier this week. What anyone needs with a car priced at over two and a half million dollars is beyond my comprehension. Let’s not forget, LA traffic is horrendous, so why on earth would you drive a car that can go approximately two hundred-sixty-seven miles per hour on the four-o-five?

  Hell, what someone would need to bank just to rationalize that price blows my mind.

  My brother and Alana both have good paying jobs, and together, they’re wealthy. They have a large family home outside the San Francisco city limits, a condo near the financial district, along with a loft in New York City for frequent business trips. But neither of them have a vehicle that comes close to comparing to Drago’s sexy black bear of a car.

  My father is a wealthy man too, but this is ridiculous.

  Judgmental much?

  Maybe . . . But what exactly does he do to make that much money?

  I eye the sign that covers a large portion of the top of the building. It hangs above the bay doors. Acerbi Imports. Just what all does he import?

  “To your left, detective,” his smooth voice says directly behind me as his palm cups my hip and lightly veers me toward one of the open bay doors. I stiffen momentarily, making me aware that I was once again distracted, not even realizing how close Acerbi had gotten. I immediately start cursing myself for not being more aware of my surroundings.

  So dumb, Bri. Stop being awestruck.

  When I enter the metal structure, it’s exactly what you’d typically find in a warehouse. Pallets piled high with boxes of merchandise tightly wrapped with plastic wrap. Particles of dust tickles my nose as I take in the rest of the place. There are at least twenty men milling around. Before Drago presses me to move toward the front corner, I catch a glimpse of a woman toward the back. She’s talking with several of the workers.

  “This way.” He pats my hip then steps around me. My eyes following him before I do. He’s heading toward a set of stairs. When I look up, I see an office that overlooks the warehouse. From where I stand, it looks small and it’s the only contained space I see up there. The rest of the space is open, overlooking everything below it.