Dirty Blue: Dirty Justice - Book One

by N. E. Henderson

  Just as I near the steps a man calls out to Drago. “Hey, boss, wait up.” Drago stops just as one foot lands on the metal stair. Turning his head toward me, he peers over my shoulder. The irritation in his dark eyes quickly fade. My head twists, looking in the same direction as a tall, lanky man jogs past me. He stops in front of Drago, holding a clipboard in his arm. “Miss De Luca asked me to get your sign off on these.” He hands the clipboard over, followed by taking a pen from his shirt pocket and passing it over too.

  He turns his body so that his back isn’t facing me any longer. Instead, I see his profile.

  After Drago takes the pen, he begins looking over the documents attentively as if he’s scrutinizing everything on the pages.

  His employee glances my way with a warm smile. That smile vanishes when he lowers his eyes, catching the badge that I have clipped to my slacks. His eyes widen, then he quickly looks back to Drago with a forced blank face.

  He’s not doing a good job hiding his nerves. I step closer so that I’m within touching distance. He tenses up almost immediately.

  “Sir, I can see you’re busy and Miss Barr—” He’s cut off.

  “Tell Rebecca to be in my office in twenty minutes. I want the driver’s logs as well as a print out from our security company showing all GPS coordinates and stops.” Acerbi leaves no room for argument, but his employee doesn’t see it that way.

  “I don’t understand, sir.” He scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. “You need all that because one of the guys misplaced a pallet? I can assure you, Mr. Acerbi, we’re searching for it now. If it’s not here, we’ll check with the other drivers. It was probably loaded onto the wrong truck. The customer will get their whole order in no time.” He steps away from me, taking a step closer to his boss.

  “You don’t have to understand.” Drago hands the clipboard and pen back over without signing. “Rebecca should have caught the arrival weight and the departure weight. Both are the same. All the customer’s merchandise left on the truck together. Twenty minutes,” he barks with a firm look then moves his eyes to me. “Come. Looks like you only have my time for a few minutes, detective.”

  With that, he proceeds up the stairs, leaving me to walk around his employee in order to follow him up. By the time I enter his office, he’s rounding his desk. I close the door as he sits, then I look around. It is larger than it looked from below. There are waist-to-ceiling high windows on two out of the four walls looking out into the warehouse.

  “Please. Sit,” he tells me, so I do, crossing my legs as we both stare at each other. His eyes are brown, and I can’t tell if he’s pissed or amused by my presence. “So, detective, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

  “You asked me to come to your office, Mr. Acerbi.”

  “Call me, Drago, please. Mr. Acerbi is my father. I’m not my father, detective.” He smiles, making me think he’s toying with me. “Now, about why you’re here.” He leans forward, laying his forearms on his desk, and as he does his eyes begin to harden.

  I’m not scared of him. Maybe I should be, though. He certainly wants me to be frightened.

  Either way, I’m not showing him any emotion.

  “Tell me, Drago, what type of relationship do you have with Sebastian Diaz?”

  I don’t see a need to play games. The deputy police chief wants evidence that the Acerbi family is indeed smuggling illegal drugs into the United States. If they are, I’ll find it. If not, I won’t. No need to drag this out. The sooner I wrap this up, the sooner I can get out from under Houston’s thumb.

  “I don’t”—he breathes heavily—“have a relationship with Diaz, detective.”

  “I think you do. I think you have a business relationship with him.” I raise my eyebrow. “An illegal business relationship.”

  His jaw ticks as his eyes bore into mine.

  “Don’t you cops have enough crime in the city to clean up instead of looking for things to pin on my family? You have nothing on me. We both know that. If you did, we wouldn’t be sitting in my office. I’d be in handcuffs and this conversation would be reversed.” He laughs, but it’s the dark, sinister kind. “But if handcuff play is something that turns you on, detective, I’m not opposed to that. It just won’t be me wearing them.”

  “I wouldn’t be sitting here if what I said didn’t have merit.” I purposely ignore his inappropriate remark.

  “By all means.” He raises his hands, gesturing toward me. “Please share this merit you have.”

  This is where my job gets tricky. Do I tell him about Gabe’s mother or just the sighting with him and Marino? Whether I believe Miss Carlisle or not, I don’t want to risk Gabriel’s safety—or my own—more than necessary.

  No, I think I want to stay hush-hush about the boy for now.

  I pull my smartphone out of my suit jacket pocket. Once I locate the photograph, I lean forward, placing the phone, screen up, onto his desk in front of him. “Care to explain this?”

  He glances down. His face is an unreadable mask. For a moment, I don’t think he’s bothered by the photo showing him with Sebastian Diaz’s right-hand man, until the index finger on his hand starts tapping on the wooden surface of his desk. The moment my gaze flicks down he stops the tapping by fisting his hand and then sits back in his chair. Crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes move away from my phone, meeting mine.

  “What’s that supposed to prove, detective?”

  “Just that you do in fact know Diaz.” It doesn’t. I know this and I’m sure he does too, but it’s all I have. I wasn’t prepared for this confrontation, so I don’t have any type of strategy. Very dumb on my part.

  “That’s not Sebastian.” He shakes his head. “Hell, if I hadn’t done a thorough background on you I’d think this was day one of you being a cop. But nine years, detective Andrews, I’d expect better.”

  I’m not falling into that trap. I’m well aware who the other man in the picture is. And although I’m used to dealing with not-so-bright drug dealers, Acerbi won’t outsmart me.

  I ignore his jab at my law enforcement experience and knowledge.

  “It’s you and Brandon Marino,” I chime, and then wait for his reply.

  “Okay.” His shoulders rise then fall, as if I’m boring him.

  “That’s how you want to play this?”

  “I’m not playing shit.” His voice rises. “I’m waiting for you to tell me what credible evidence you have that I’m conducting illegal business with Sebastian Diaz.” He leans forward again, resting his forearms back onto the desk. “You have a photo of me and some kid that knows Diaz. That’s all.”

  He’s correct. And apparently not enough for any judge to issue a search warrant simply because my department thinks Acerbi is accepting payment from a Mexican drug lord.

  “What was in the envelope in that photo, Mr. Acerbi?” The stress I give on his last name is a reward when he locks his jaw. Something tells me he doesn’t enjoy being associated with his father. Interesting. Very interesting.

  “I don’t know.” His demeanor relaxes. The honesty in his voice catches me off guard and causes me to pause, running scenarios over in my head.

  “You expect me to believe that?” The only two ways I can fathom he wouldn’t know the contents is if he was given that envelope by someone such as his father to hand off to Marino. Or he didn’t accept the envelope from Marino. Hmm.

  “I don’t care what you believe.” He rises from his desk, planting his palms face down on the hard surface. “So, your snooping is a waste of your time . . . and a waste of my tax dollars, detective. Find someone else to harass.” He leans up and crosses his arms over his chest once again. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbow and the top two buttons are undone, showing me a small dusting of dark hair.

  Why do I have to have a thing for men with chest hair?

  “That’s what all criminals say.”

  His jaw ticks again as I lean forward, grabbing my phone.

  “Y
ou know, if cops stopped assuming before they had all the facts, fewer people would be accused of wrongdoing and this city would probably be a safer place, because you people would spend more time going after real bad guys.”

  “So, you’re saying your family is innocent of all the alleged wrongdoings you’ve been accused of?”

  “Alleged being the keyword, detective. In other words, no proof.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Whether it’s illegal drugs you’re bringing into LA or something else—I’ll be watching you. I’ll find out and then I’ll take you down.” I pause only for the briefest of seconds before finishing. “Eventually you’ll screw up, and I’ll be there when you do. Now are you following me, Mr. Acerbi?”

  There is a knock on the door before he responds. Seconds tick by without any words spoken. The person on the other side of the door knocks again, but doesn’t wait for anyone to answer.

  “Drag . . . Oh, am I interrupting?” she asks.

  Looking up and to my right side, I see the same woman from earlier, glance down at me. Her shoulder length blonde hair swings with the movement her head makes when she looks back at Acerbi. She’s dressed to the nines in a soft pink pencil skirt with a matching snug jacket. Her four-inch, chain-embellished leather pumps tap on the concrete floor as she walks through the door. Even if I didn’t have the exact same pair, I’d recognize them. My love affair with shoes almost matches my obsession with lingerie.

  I stand, knowing I’ve worn out my welcome.

  “No, Rebecca. The cop was just leaving.” His eyes bore into mine as his lip curls into a snarl as if confirming his distaste for law enforcement.

  “I’ll be in touch, Acerbi.”

  I leave, more determined than before to get the evidence my boss is dead set on obtaining.

  6

  On Friday morning, I push through the door, exiting the female locker room at Knocked Out heading toward the front where the mats are located.

  In less than a minute I spot Nikki watching two women rolling. One of them I recognize as Nikki’s newest trainer, Harley. The other must be a newbie by the looks of it. She taps out every time Harley takes her to the ground. I remember a time I was the same way when I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.

  I come to stand a few feet away from Nikki, waiting for her to finish her observation.

  As if feeling someone near, Nikki twists her head to look over her shoulder. When she sees it’s me, a scowl graces her face. She quickly turns, facing me. “Where the fuck have you been all week?”

  Not at Knocked Out, that’s for damn sure. I don’t know how parents do it. Babies are a workout in themselves. I’ve never been more exhausted in my life. And I spend every weekday morning getting the crap beat out of me by Nikki Lockhart.

  Her dark, nearly black hair is pulled into a ponytail and her red tank top with the word KNOCKED OUT across the chest is already drenched in sweat. Even dirty and pissed off she’s gorgeous. She has an array of colorful ink dotting both of her arms from her shoulder down to her wrist.

  “It’s a long story,” I groan, passing her to walk onto the red mat and away from Harley and her trainee.

  “Bitch,” she calls after me. “That isn’t a good enough excuse.” I turn, facing her when my bare feet land on the cool surface of the soft plastic material of the mat. Her taped hands go to her hips. “Explain yourself or get the fuck out of my gym.”

  Nikki is a lot to take when you first meet her. She’s loud, quick-mouthed, and doesn’t take shit from anyone. I’ve watched her around this gym. The only ones not afraid of her seems to be her boyfriend and her brother. She has a few inches on me, then again, most adults do, and she’s in tip-top shape. Has a right hook that’ll put you on the ground before you realize she has even hit you and cusses worse than any man I know.

  “I only have so much time to workout this morning. I’m already here thirty minutes later than I normally am.” I start to walk backward on the mat toward the center, “so let’s talk while I kick your ass.”

  “Oh, you’re so cute.” She stalks toward me. “Now be realistic. Where have you been? All I got were vague text messages.”

  “I can’t say a lot but . . .” I pause reaching for the right words as I stretch my neck from side to side. “I’ve been taking care of a baby all week.”

  Her eyebrows staunch together. “I know you have nieces and a nephew but aren’t they all teenagers?”

  “Yeah, mostly.” Carly is only nine but I see no point in getting into the details. “The baby isn’t related to me. He’s a . . . case?”

  Why did I pose that as a question? From the look on her face, she’s wondering the same.

  “It’s complicated.” I raise one of my legs and Nikki grabs my heel with one hand and steps forward so the bottom of my foot is planted into her stomach, assisting me in doing a standing hamstring stretch. “I’ve been too exhausted to drag myself here.” I bend my other knee and dip my ass. The stretch feels so good I moan.

  “I charge more for orgasms, hoe.”

  A quick laugh breaks from my lips as my foot falls to the floor. I throw my other leg up and repeat the stretch. Another moan climbs up my throat, but I suppress it before it reaches my lips.

  “I can barely afford you as it is,” I whine. “You’re going deny a girl the only pleasure she’s had in . . .” I pause, giving it actual thought. Nikki cocks her head and raises her eyebrow. “Hell,” I snort out, as she drops my foot. “I don’t even know how long it’s been.”

  Besides my shopping addiction, this is the only other thing I splurge on consistently. For me, it’s not really about being fit and healthy. I pay Nikki to be my personal trainer because I want to physically be strong. In my line of work, I have to be able to take down men three times my size to the ground. I also never want to be weak or let anyone ever get the upper hand on me.

  In today’s world, people are evil. You never know what you’ll face tomorrow, the day after, or even next year.

  “That’s sad.” I drop down to the mat, sitting on my butt to stretch out more before we begin. “Do you know how fucking sad that is?” She sits across from me, positioning the bottom of her feet against mine and then leans forward reaching for my hands.

  “I’m well aware, but thanks for pointing it out.”

  Pulling me toward her, my upper body stretches in another pleasurable way.

  “It’s a cry for help is what it is. We gotta get you laid.”

  The way it comes out makes me look at her a second longer. Nikki is dead serious; there was no humor or an ounce of playfulness in her tone.

  I pull backward, and keeping our hands encased, I stretch her the same as she did me.

  “I’d say you could come have fun with Jase and me, but I’m pretty sure after last weekend I need to give fun a break. Besides,” she releases my hands, then jumps into a squat, “I don’t see you as the threesome type of girl.”

  “Why not?” I urge as if objecting to her assumption. She raises an eyebrow and I push myself up, off the mat. “Okay,” I draw out. “I’m not but—”

  “Oh, no ‘buts,’ babe. We’re getting you laid.” A smile ghosts her lips. “And we’re getting you laid tonight.”

  “Yeah, good luck on that.”

  With a baby on my hands, that’s highly unlikely.

  * * *

  I guess there’s always the power of persuasion. And I really do need a night of fun—a break.

  It’s been awhile since I’ve hung out with people for the sake of fun. My job is hard and demanding. And I actually love that, but with Alana and Jackson living upstate, I haven’t allowed myself to make that many friends.

  When I made it into work this morning, I ran into Steph as she was leaving from pulling the night and graveyard shifts. We chatted in the lady’s room for a bit—more like she listened to me whine about my week with Gabe.

  He’s a great baby as far as babies go, I guess. I really don’t have anything to compare it to. This is completely different
from any of my interactions with my brother’s three kids. This is so much more, and I was not prepared for it. I constantly feel like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me, and I question every single thing I do when it comes to him.

  He’s put on a good bit of weight just in the week he’s been with me so that’s a good thing. I think he sleeps relatively well aside from that first night.

  After work yesterday, I took him to an after-hours pediatric clinic that Ms. Lincoln’s daughter works at to be checked out. I should have done it earlier in the week but honestly, I didn’t think of doing that.

  My neighbor’s daughter, Megan, is a nurse practitioner. The shocking thing is, Gabe is actually three months old—something I really should have known before last night. He was born on June twenty-eighth of this year. According to his medical records, he was slightly underweight when Miss Carlisle delivered. I shouldn’t be shocked, but I am.

  Thinking about that boy’s mother irks me, so I try not to.

  I still haven’t reached the Police Captain with the Special Ops unit and I’m starting to think I never will. Tom is being an ass about this case, so I haven’t gotten the chance to talk to him about what to do with Gabriel. And maybe I’m not trying as hard as I could.

  If it weren’t for Stephanie insisting I let her keep Gabe tonight so I could meet Nikki at Club Blue, I wouldn’t be walking in now. Tonight is her night off and I didn’t want to ruin that or her time with her son, but apparently, there’s a consensus that I need to “get some” tonight.

  That’s doubtful, but letting loose for a few hours will be welcomed. What isn’t welcomed is my eyes landing on him when I step up to the second floor of the club—the VIP section.

  I watch him when I should be heading in the opposite direction to find Nikki and her friends. It’s strange how my body both sags in frustration and hums from when I think about my encounter with him a few days ago. He’s a looker, that’s for sure. Tall, dark, and dangerous should be tattooed on his chest the way he eludes it.