Dirty Blue Page 2

  She closes her eyes, pulling in a long stream of air before blowing it out through her mouth. When she opens her brown eyes, I’m met with what I perceive as aggravation. Why? I’m not sure.

  “I was just a one-night stand. When I told him about the baby, he became . . . angry. Grabbed me and said, ‘you’ll regret getting pregnant by me, bitch.’ Because, yeah, I’m the one that got knocked up all by myself.” She rolls her eyes. “Then he told me to bring the baby to him. When I asked why, he shoved me against a wall and said, ‘Do what you’re fucking told and learn not ask any questions if you valued your life.’”

  Sounds like a real charmer.

  Why any woman would sleep with a man like that is beyond me.

  “Do you have any bruising?”

  “Huh?” Her perfectly made-up face looks confused.

  “Bruises,” I say again, thinking maybe she didn’t hear me clearly, but when she still doesn’t seem to understand, I try again. “Marks on your body from where he grabbed you and from where he shoved you against a wall. If we have something . . . anything to photograph, it’ll go a long way in corroborating your story.”

  “My story?” She pulls back. “You don’t believe me?” she spits outs in shock.

  “Miss Carlisle,” I call her name out as calmly as possible. “I didn’t say that. Besides, it doesn’t matter what I believe. It matters what a jury believes.”

  “A jury!” Her voice rises to an almost shout. Or maybe it’s panic. “What do you mean a jury?”

  I take a moment to look at her before speaking. Honestly, I’m trying to keep my mouth under control.

  I lick my lips, buying myself more time.

  “Are you not planning on pressing charges against Mr. Acerbi for assault? Don’t you want a restraining order?”

  “Are you kidding?” She doesn’t wait for my response. “Hell no!”

  I shake my head. Now I think I’m the one confused.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Duh . . . So you can take him down for dealing drugs and—”

  “You never mentioned he was dealing drugs.” I shouldn’t have cut her off. Pouncing and being too eager has never served any officer well. “Do you have proof?”

  “Well . . .” She looks down towards her lap. After she pulls her cell phone out from under her legs, she looks back up and flashes the black screen at me then turns it back to face her as her fingers roam the screen. “I followed him last night—Drago that is. And I took a photo of him doing a deal. Is that proof enough for you?” She flips it back around, only this time it’s a photo displayed on the screen.

  “Can I see your phone?”

  “Sure.” Chasity hands it over to me.

  It’s a close-up shot of two men. One I recognize as Brandon Marino. He’s Sebastian Diaz’s—a dangerous criminal in the business of trafficking drugs—second in command. Marino is just as bad as his boss.

  The other man in the photo I assume must be Drago Acerbi. I’ve never seen him in person or a picture of him before.

  “Can you tell me who the men in the photograph are?” I glance up as I flip the phone around to show her.

  “You don’t know?” Her tone turns condescending.

  “It doesn’t matter whether I know or not. That’s not the reason I’m asking. I need you to identify them for me.” This woman is a piece of work. Sadly, woman isn’t the right word to describe her. Girl fits her much better.

  She huffs out air then looks at the photo on the phone I’m holding up.

  “The one on the right is Drago. The other . . .” She pauses and then glances away. “I don’t know who he is,” she finishes in rapid succession.

  She’s lying.

  But why lie about knowing who Marino is I wonder?

  “Are you sure? Maybe take another peek to be certain.”

  She turns her head to face me. “I’m certain. I took the picture after all.” Cold, flat eyes bore into mine.

  “Okay then.”

  I flip the phone back around to look at the photograph once more. I can’t tell if Acerbi is handing Marino a thick envelope or if it’s the other way around. Hmm . . .

  “Do you have any other photos of them or from this night?”

  “Um . . . no.”

  Who snaps just one fucking picture after going through all the double to follow him?

  As I analyze the photo, I conclude that Marino, who I know is half-Hispanic and half-Caucasian, looks pissed as he stares at Acerbi. Acerbi, on the other hand, looks calm.

  The resolution of the photo this close-up makes me question if it was taken using a cell phone camera or another type of camera. The cameras on phones these days have sound quality, but from a distance, I don’t think they’re this good. I can see the sweat on Marino’s temple for Christ’s sake.

  I make a note on my pad to ask one of the techs in forensics if they can tell what type of camera was used.

  Looking at Drago Acerbi, I think about what I know of the Acerbis, which isn’t much. His father is Italian; born in Italy. And from the photo, I see Drago takes on the dark features of an Italian with his olive skin. He has brown hair that’s cut short; almost to the scalp, and the way his dark brown eyes are peering down at Marino makes him look like the dangerous one.

  Then again, with the name Acerbi, maybe he lives up to his family legend.

  Cruel.

  Heartless.

  Vile.

  “And did you take this photo with this phone?” I finally ask her.

  “Duh.”

  “Can you email it to me?” I reach out, handing the phone back over.

  “I guess.” She doesn’t sound so sure, as if she doesn’t want to do it.

  “That would be great. Can you do it now, from your phone? I can give you my email address.” Better to get her to do it right this moment, because if I write my email address down and ask her to do it later, the chances are high that she’ll never send it.

  “O . . . kay.”

  “Great.” I force a pleasant smile. “Go ahead and pull up an email and tell me when you’re ready.”

  She chews on the side of her lip as her fingers roam the screen.

  “Go . . . go ahead.”

  “It’s B C Andrews at pacific dot lapd dot com. I appreciate you sending it so quickly, Miss Carlisle.”

  “It’s . . . sent, but what do you need it for? I’m not testifying or anything. That’s not the reason I’m here.”

  “Okay, let us get back to that. You said you aren’t going to press charges, but you are here because you believe he’s dealing and smuggling drugs into LA. The photo may help us establish a case but having a witness would be better.” I pause, hoping that might have changed her mind. When she doesn’t speak, I ask another question. “Do you know what was inside that envelope?”

  “What envelope?” She shakes her head as if she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

  “The one in the photo; the envelope either Acerbi or the other man was receiving.”

  How does she not know what I’m referring to? The girl can’t be this dumb.

  “Oh.” She scrunches her face. “How the hell would I know that?”

  “Okay, then can you tell me who accepted the envelope?”

  She has to know that much at least, but when her eyes go wide, I’m confident she doesn’t.

  “I . . . I don’t remember.”

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me?” Or not tell me.

  “Yeah, actually there is.” She sits up straighter. “So like, I read online that you can’t arrest someone if they leave their baby at a police station or a hospital, right?”

  No, she is not . . .

  2

  Oh, but she did.

  Poking my head inside Mike’s door, his pale blue eyes skirt over from where he looked deep in thought, connecting with mine.

  Being the Senior Detective in the unit, he gets an office while the rest of us get a desk in a large, open room down the hall from hi
s office. The bullpen as it’s known.

  “Hey, Mike, I need you,” I admit unashamedly. What happened fifteen minutes ago was a first for me in all my nine years on the force. “Got a situation. A woman left her infant kid up front. Claims the baby is Drago Acerbi’s and she’s scared for the boy’s safety.”

  I don’t believe that for a minute.

  Not about Acerbi being the child’s father—I can’t be sure of that without DNA proof. No, I’m referring to the mother’s claims she wanted to give her rights up because she can’t keep him safe.

  Bull-fucking-shit.

  Oh, the show she put on . . .

  I’ll give her this—she may have a calling in the world of acting. Too bad for her I’m well versed in liars. I can spot them a mile away. Thank you, Daddy.

  “Give me five, Bri. I have a case to wrap-up.” He sighs heavily. That’s when I take notice of his disheveled hair and loose tie. In all honesty, Mike looks like hell. “Then I’ll handle what you have, okay?”

  “Sure, boss,” I reply, hesitantly

  Mike isn’t my boss, technically, but he is my superior, and I do think of him as a boss. I look up to him like a boss. He’s my mentor.

  I’m sure the case he’s referring to is the one of the Honorable James Lewis, a Los Angeles County judge, who was murdered three months ago. Mike has been working it hot and heavy ever since. Something about this case is different, though. Mike is different. And it has me worried about him.

  The problem is, he can’t talk to me about it. I train with Nikki Lockhart, the victim’s daughter, and I workout in the MMA gym she owns and operates. Since I’m personally connected, in any way, I can’t be a part of the case, but it would be nice to lend an ear to Mike like he so often is for me.

  It sucks too, because I can’t be there for him like he is for me so frequently.

  I want to say something, but I don’t. Instead, I push off the doorframe, heading back up front where I left Gabriel with Stephanie after Miss Carlisle finished writing her statement down on paper.

  She didn’t stick around longer than she had to. If anything, she was pretty eager to run out of the station.

  As I near Stephanie’s desk, all I hear is the sound of baby talk. Other than Mike being here after-hours, she and I are the only ones in this part of the building.

  Stephanie works dispatch on the nightshift at the station, and this happens to be my week to serve on-call duty from seven p.m. to seven a.m.

  There are twelve detectives housed at the Pacific station. All of us take turns, weekly, from Saturday night through the following Saturday morning when it’s our rotation. That means I’m on-call every three months. It’s not fun, and I don’t know one of us that like it, but four times a year isn’t too bad.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, amused as I approach Steph’s desk. She has the baby reclined onto her forearms with his head cradled in her palms that are lying on top of her desk. Her chin is tucked down as she makes silly sounds looking at the baby. As I near, I'm able to see the smile on the little guy's face. It’s obvious Steph knows what she’s doing, because this is the first time I’ve seen him happy tonight. And since she has a three-year-old of her own, I guess she should.

  “He is the best baby, ever!” she tells me enthusiastically. “Carson was never this good.”

  “Yeah?” I question, not quite believing her. “What makes you say that?”

  She turns, her hazel eyes giving me a puzzled looked. “Look at him. He’s so good. Isn’t fussy. He’s a happy little thing.”

  Hmm . . . I don’t think she and I met the same baby.

  “Oh!” she exclaims. Stephanie is always chipper. She has a personality that gets along with anyone. I’ve yet to witness a frown on her face. “Judy from child protective services is on line three for you. Crap! I totally forgot while I was playing with him.” She lets out a quick laugh.

  “Okay, thanks. I’m going to grab it at my desk. Are you all right with him for a few more minutes?” I ask, hoping she won’t mind looking after him a little longer.

  “Pleeease,” she draws out. “He’s an angel. You go. I’ve got this one. He’s making this slow night a breeze.”

  “Tell Mike where I am if he comes looking for me,” I add, and then I turn around, heading toward my desk after I walk behind the floor to ceiling frosted glass directly behind Stephanie’s desk to enter the detective space.

  As I round my desk, I press line three on the phone, picking up the receiver and bringing it to my ear as I plop down into my chair. “This is Brianna Andrews.”

  “Detective,” a soothing voice answers. “This is Judy Hearn. I received a message to call you.”

  “Yes,” I reply back. “Thank you for calling me back so quickly.” Sometimes it can be hours before someone from CPS calls the station back.

  “It’s not a problem at all,” she assures me. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well . . .” I start, not exactly sure where to begin explaining the odd events that happened tonight. “We have a small child, a baby boy, here at the station whose mother has decided to relinquish her rights to the child. There were safety reasons, or so she claimed. And I need your assistance and expertise in placing the baby.”

  There is a beat of silence a bit too long, but before I ask her if she heard me, she speaks. “When you say”—she pauses for a brief second, but I immediately pick up on her guarded tone—“‘safety issues,’ can you elaborate what you mean exactly?”

  “Sure.” I lean forward, planting my elbows on my desk. “She accused the child’s father of wanting to harm her and their baby. The mother claims he isn’t happy about the child’s existence. I’ll be speaking to my superior after this call, but we will be investigating her claims as well as some others she made.”

  Silence.

  “Mrs. Hearn, are you there?”

  “Yes, Detective, I’m here. My apologies. I was processing what you told me. And . . .” Again, she pauses, which gives me an uneasy feeling. I’m about to ask her when she proceeds. “Based on the information you’ve given me, I can’t place the child with a foster family. Not knowing what I know now.” She sighs. “If there is danger involved, I can’t put someone else or other children in harm’s way. I hope you understand this.”

  She sounds sincere, but what does that mean for Gabriel? Where is he supposed to go now?

  “Okay,” I say for the lack of not knowing what else to say. “Mrs. Hearn, if Child Services cannot take him, then what am I supposed to do with him?”

  He can’t stay here.

  “My suggestion would be to do as you mentioned, speak to your superior. Protective custody sounds like it would be better suited for the child in this circumstance.”

  I allow her advice to sink in. Protective custody. He’s young and parentless. I’m not sure I agree with her on this. Gabriel needs a loving family to care for him.

  “Are you positive you don’t have anyone that can take him? Even if it is just over the weekend? I’m not convinced, at this time, protective custody is the right call for this little boy. He’s an infant and—”

  “Ahem.”

  I jerk my head toward that sound.

  Mike is propped against Connie’s—a fellow detective and my partner—desk. Her workstation is directly across from mine, so I’m surprised I didn’t hear Mike walk up.

  He shakes his head. I take it to mean he wants me to stop what I’m saying, so I do.

  “Mrs. Hearn—” I start as I continue to look at Mike, but she decides to cut in.

  “Detective, please understand. If there weren’t safety issues involved this wouldn’t be a problem.” She lets out what sounds to be a tired sigh.

  “Yes, of course. And I appreciate your call. I will do as you’ve suggested and speak to my superior right now. Have a good night.” I rush to end the call, not waiting for her to say goodbye.

  Once I place the receiver on the holder, I wait a few seconds for Mike to speak but he doesn’t. It’s ev
ident to me I’ve made an error in his opinion, I’m just not sure what exactly.

  “How much did you hear?” my curious mind inquires.

  “A good bit, but why don’t you start from the beginning. Tell me about the woman and the baby that’s now up front with Stephanie,” Mike says, his southern accent thicker tonight in his tired state than it usually is. I rarely remember he’s not a native Californian like I am, being from Mississippi.

  I catch Mike up to speed and tell him exactly what happened and even hand over my notepad where she hand wrote a small paragraph that’s supposed to be her statement.

  “This sounds like a complete box of shit.”

  I laugh at his statement.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” I tell him.

  “And she refuses to press charges or even get a restraining order, yet she says she’s scared for her life?” Mike glances away.

  “Yep.” I nod my head. “She’s lying about something.”

  He looks back at me. “Maybe. But that’s not your call to make. Not yet. Your job was to take a statement, and you did. Your job was to try to get her to press charges, and from what you told me, you did. You can’t make her. I agree the story doesn’t sound right hearing it from your point of view. Where’s the photo you mentioned?”

  I turn around in my chair to face the computer screen, and with a few clicks, I’m logged in, and pull up my email. With two more clicks, I have the photo I practically made Miss Carlisle send me pulled up on the twenty-two-inch screen.

  I glance over at Mike, jerking my head toward my shoulder in a quick motion. “Walk around.”

  Mike hunches over me from behind.

  “That’s Brandon Marino on the left,” he states even though I already know it is.

  “Yeah, and Acerbi is the one on the right.” At least that’s what Miss Carlisle claimed. I haven’t verified it yet, but Mike nods, making me think he knows it is, in fact, Drago Acerbi.

  “We know what’s in the package?”

  “No. And this is the only photograph. I have no way of knowing which one is receiving or which is giving the package.”

  He lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s weak at best. Your girl claims Acerbi is smuggling drugs, yet she won’t testify. The photo has a small chance to create probable cause since we know Marino is a known associate of Sebastian Diaz. If we can get the deputy chief’s buy-in to start an investigation . . .” Mike pauses, and I glance behind me. He’s scrutinizing the photo.