Dirty Blue Page 3

  “What are you thinking?” I can’t help but ask him.

  “Well, if you’re able to find evidence that points toward drug trafficking then we can probably get a judge to issue a warrant for her testimony.”

  “When does Tom return from Tahoe?”

  Thomas Ramirez is the deputy chief of investigations in charge of the detectives. With budget cuts, we’re down a sergeant, so we all report directly to Tom. Mike is in charge of our day-to-day duties, which is another reason I see him more like my boss than not.

  “Sunday night. He’ll be back in on Monday. I’ll get Sally to schedule a meeting first thing but fuck . . .” He lets out a breath of air that reaches my face; the smell of strong coffee mixed with something else is evident on his breath. I didn’t take Mike for one to drink on the job. And who am I to call him on it? Not when he’s done so much for me. I don’t get a chance anyway when he continues. “If Judy is refusing to help place that kid in a foster home, then I don’t know what we’re going to do until Tom returns.” He shakes his head. “I’m not coming down on you, but you should have kept your mouth shut on the details of the case in this circumstance.”

  I look at him as if to say, ‘really,’ but I hold my tongue.

  “Look, Bri, you’ll learn; it just takes time. Sometimes, like this one, for instance, you don’t disclose every detail, even if it’s with folks on your own team. Now we have to find an officer that’ll take the baby until Monday.”

  “I’ll do it,” I stress. He thinks I screwed up, so I’ll deal with my mess.

  “You?” He half-laughs as he belts out the question. “What do you know about kids?”

  “I have two nieces and a nephew. I’m not as foreign to babies as you might think.” Jeez, what does he take me for? I’m twenty-nine years old. Even if I hadn’t been around a baby or two, I’d like to think I would be able to figure it out. It’s only two days.

  “You sure, Andrews?”

  “Yeah, it’s nothing,” I promise.

  “Okay then. You call it a night and I’ll cover the rest of your shift. Get on out of here,” he shoos.

  “What? No. I’m not putting that on you.”

  “Bri, that baby can’t stay here all night. If you know about babies, then you realize that.”

  I take his words in, absorbing them. He’s right. Mike usually is. Dammit, I don’t like not pulling my own weight, and that’s exactly what this feels like by having him cover for me.

  “Fine,” I concede. “I’ll go, but I’ll make this up to you.”

  “There’s no need, kiddo. You’re one of the few that makes me proud as is. Just don’t change doing that and we’re good.”

  Damn. Where did that come from?

  * * *

  I ease the door to my condo shut as softly as possible, not wanting to make too much noise that could wake Gabriel. Once it’s closed, I flip the deadbolt into place, locking the door.

  The little guy is sleeping in the carrier that doubles as the car seat his no-good mother brought him into the station in. Just the thought of her boils my blood. Who abandons their child when they say their son is in danger? Her, apparently.

  When Mike said I could leave close to three hours ago, what I didn’t realize is there are two pieces to a car seat: the carriage and the base. I didn’t have the base to secure the seat in my car.

  Stupid, piece-of-crap mother.

  So, there was that ordeal.

  I was lucky, though.

  Todd, an officer working booking tonight, has a son a few months older than Gabriel. At least I’m assuming it’s a few months since I don’t know Gabriel’s date of birth—yet. Stephanie is friends with Todd’s sister and thought she remembered him having the same model car seat.

  It turns out he did. And this wasn’t his weekend with his son, so I was able to borrow it for a couple of days. Todd even installed it in my car for me.

  Complication remedied in a matter of half an hour.

  Then Gabriel shit himself like babies do, and I realized what was not packed in his diaper bag.

  Diapers!

  Or wipes or extra clothes. Not even a damn bottle.

  What was in the bag, besides what could have been a dirty baby blanket—maybe—was a fashion magazine, three of them, and a pair of flip-flops. Cute, designer flip-flops, I might add, but still something I wouldn’t have expected in a baby’s diaper bag.

  Awful mother.

  So, then there was the emergency trip to the drug store down the street from the station to get diapers, wipes, a bottle, and formula.

  That wasn’t fun.

  For all I thought I knew about babies from being around my nieces and nephew . . . my mind blanked out when I walked down the baby aisle.

  There are too many options for formula. It blew my mind. How was I to know which one to buy?

  I should have called Alana, but it was already late, and she would have had too many questions. Alana is not only my sister-in-law but my best friend too. She would’ve known what to buy for the baby, and I wouldn’t have spent so much time confused.

  Finally, I opted for a generic brand that was a little cheaper and got the rest of the essentials to last until Monday morning. At least I hope I got enough. I’m not exactly sure how many diapers are normal for a baby to go through or how much they eat. Probably should have asked Stephanie before I left the station.

  Once I’m through the door and it’s secured behind me, I place Gabriel’s car seat on the floor. Seeing that he is sound asleep, I leave him for a brief moment, taking the drug store bags to the kitchen, and then set them on the granite countertop where I’ll unload them later.

  I want to get him out of the car seat he’s been cooped up in first, and then I need to get him into bed; my bed, that is, since it’s the only one in my condo.

  I have a two-bedroom condo, but the spare room is used more like a second closet than a room one might sleep in. The space is too small to fit a full-sized bed, so I never tried.

  Walking back over to the door, I lift the car seat by the handle, and then I tote it to the coffee table in front of the couch, placing it on top. Gabriel starts to squirm then stretches as I unfasten the straps.

  The poor baby has been in this damn seat a terribly long time tonight. “Okay, little man, let’s get you out of there. How does bed sound?”

  If his reaction is any indication, he’s not very receptive to my suggestion as cries erupt upon being lifted. I bring him to my chest to cradle and rock him back and forth.

  My actions do nothing to soothe him.

  Hmmm . . .

  He’s already been changed, but maybe he could’ve peed himself since then. He could be hungry. I have no idea when his mother last fed him.

  I decide to start with a bottle of formula. At least then I’ll know he isn’t hungry if he’s still fussy.

  Not wanting to put him back in the car seat or onto the couch where he could roll off, I bring him with me into to the kitchen.

  Walking around the corner, I enter the small area that only has one entrance into my galley style kitchen. Opening the bags, I remove everything and then toss the plastic sacks into the trash. Then I stare at all the stuff wondering what to do next.

  What do I remember from when Carly was a baby? She’s my youngest niece and the one I’m closest to. The other two, Carrie and Caleb, who are fifteen and sixteen, were born when I was still a kid myself. I was thirteen when Carrie arrived, and although excited as I was to become an aunt, paying attention to baby duty wasn’t on my agenda back then.

  Am I supposed to boil the bottle in water?

  For some reason, I remember Alana doing that. I think.

  I’m a lot more clueless than I originally thought.

  Guess I could Google it.

  I pull my purse to the edge of the counter then dig through it until I locate my cell phone. I retrieve it, and after using my thumb to unlock the screen, I open the correct app. But before typing, I set the phone down and switch Gabriel
to my other side being that I’m right-handed and can type easier one-handed using that one.

  “Shh, little man. I’ll get you fed just as soon as I figure out what I’m doing, I promise.” I hope.

  I type out, “do baby bottles need to be sterilized,” then hit the search button.

  After scrolling and reading for a few minutes, I’m still unsure what the right method is. The first thing that popped up said, no. Other pages told me you have to sterilize the first time for all new bottles but not after that, and other pages agreed with the first that there was no need to sterilize bottles at all.

  “Humph.”

  Well, a lot of good that did me.

  I toss my phone on the counter, not caring where it lands. I’m not worried about damaging it. I have it thoroughly protected in a case.

  “I say better to be safe than sorry, little one. Guess it’s gonna be a bit of a longer wait on that bottle.”

  I reach over to the kitchen sink, turning on the faucet to hot, then bending, I open the cabinet door and pull out a large pot. Once the water is as hot as the sink faucet will get it, I fill the pot halfway then move it to the stove and turn the eye on high.

  I see no need to start with cold water and have to wait longer.

  While I’m waiting, I wash the one bottle I bought. The chief better reimburse me for the money I spent, too. Even though I bought the cheap stuff, it was still pretty damn expensive.

  Makes me wonder how some people afford kids unless they’re rich. Anyone on my salary, there is just no way. And I don’t have rent or a mortgage to pay for.

  Once washed, I set the bottle, nipple, and lid on the edge of the sink that connects to the counter.

  I hear the water begin to rumble as the boiling starts, but I don’t want to walk over with Gabriel. I guess I have no choice but to place him back in his seat for a bit.

  “Sorry, little man,” I say as I head out of the kitchen.

  Grabbing the car seat by the handle, I pivot then walk the few steps back toward the kitchen. I have a small eating section with a small, round table in the corner off to the side of the kitchen. That’s where I decide to place the seat on the carpeted floor.

  This section of my condo, as does the hallway and into the two bedrooms, all have carpet. The living room and kitchen both have hardwood.

  When I ease the baby back down he starts to squirm, then his face turns red. I know cries are going to follow. “Honey, I’m sorry. It’s just for a few minutes.”

  I jump up, turn and get back in the kitchen where I quickly toss the plastic bottle and attachments in the water nearly missing the hot splash.

  As I wait, I let out a tired breath of air and then look over toward Gabriel.

  His cries cause me to rub the center of my chest with my palm.

  How could anyone walk away from him?

  3

  You know I love you,” she groans. “But it’s six o’clock in the fucking morning, Bri. Jesus!”

  “I need you,” I whine into the phone.

  “Bri, what’s wrong? Where are you?” Her tone does a one-eighty, turning from scolding me for calling her too early to whose ass do I need to kick—just like Alana. She’s my best friend, big sister, and mom all wrapped into one. Alana and Jackson, my brother, are both five years older than me and both are protective as hell.

  If I weren’t as exhausted as I am, I’d make an effort to laugh.

  “At home.”

  “Home?” she shrieks. “What the hell are you doing at home?” She doesn’t allow me time to answer that question. “You’re on-call for another hour. Oh, God! Tell me you didn’t get shot or something worse.”

  “What’s worse than getting shot?” Dying. Definitely dying, but obviously I’m not dead if I’m talking.

  “Brianna Claire!” she yells, making me yank the phone away from my ear for a second. I’m still able to hear her loud mouth. “Are you okay or not?”

  “Breaking out my middle name? Really? I’m not Carrie, you know.”

  Even though she won’t admit it, me being a cop scares the shit out of Alana. She’s my biggest supporter, but deep down I know she hates it the same as my brother and father do.

  “Sometimes, you’re worse than she is. At least she has an excuse. She’s sixteen.” Her breath comes through heavily over the phone. “What’s going on? You are okay, right?”

  “Yes. No. Yes.” It’s not that easy of an answer. “Look—”

  “What does that mean? Yes no yes,” she mimics me in rapid irritation.

  “I need you, and I need you to come to LA. Today. Now! Right now. Please,” I beg.

  “Well, tell me what the fuck is going on? You haven’t said shit. Just caused me undue stress. Are you trying to give me a heart attack? I don’t need this at my age.”

  “At your age?” I laugh at that. “You’re thirty-five. Jesus, woman, when did you start thinking like a grandma?”

  She huffs, not liking my choice of words.

  “Brianna,” she bites out. She rarely calls me Brianna. In fact, she’s the one that started calling me Bri when she and my brother started dating in high school. “Are you planning on enlightening me as to why I need to drag my ass out of my comfortable bed to drive a miserable six and a half hours to LA?”

  It’s nearly an eight-hour drive from her house to mine. But Alana isn’t most people.

  “It’s . . .” I pause, glancing over at a now sleeping Gabriel. “Just too much to get into on the phone. You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t seriously need you.”

  “I know.” She sighs, then I think I hear what sounds like a door slam closed. “That’s why I’m already on my way.” There is a beeping sound that comes through the phone. I know that sound. It’s the sound of her Mercedes unlocking. “I’m getting in the car now. See ya in a few.” The line goes dead.

  Alana is my savior.

  I set my smartphone down on the nightstand then look back at the baby lying in my bed. So far so good. Maybe I have time for a quick shower. A long, hot bath would be so much better though.

  The piercing sound of a cry rips from Gabriel’s lips.

  I bend over, my forehead landing on my knee, and then I let out a sigh of my own. It looks like the shower is going to have to wait.

  I haven’t slept.

  He’s barely slept, and I’ve done everything I know to do.

  Alana will fix this. She’ll know what to do for him because everything I’ve tried has been wrong. So wrong, and I don’t know why.

  * * *

  Hearing a key being inserted into the lock on my door, I take my eyes off the re-run episode of “The Big Bang Theory” I’m watching on the TBS channel to glance at the clock on the wall.

  It has been seven hours since Alana hung up the phone on me to drive down to Los Angeles from where she and my brother live just outside of San Francisco. I’m not surprised; she hauls ass in a car except for when her kids are with her.

  She’s the only person I allow to have an extra key to my condo. It doesn’t bother me she’s letting herself in rather than knocking. We’re close like that. I let myself in when I come to her house too.

  “Traffic to LA was a bit . . . ch . . .”

  I look over from my spot on the sofa. Alana is looking from my face to where I have Gabriel laid, face down, across my chest.

  “Where’d the baby come from? You keeping a friend’s or something?”

  She knows better than to ask a question like that. I usually tell her everything over our daily calls; even some of the things I shouldn’t divulge. She knows I don’t have any friends close enough—besides her—that I’d consider babysitting for. Sure, Stephanie and I are work friends, but we’re not the kind of friends that know each other well enough for that type of favor. The thought doesn’t elude me that maybe I need to change, but I doubt Gabriel will be here long enough, so what would be the point?

  Connie, like me, is married to the job. She doesn’t have a spouse or kids. She doesn’t even h
ave a boyfriend that I know of. I’m pretty sure she’s still fuck-buddies with one of the beat cops from another precinct.

  “Or something,” I breathe out a tired breath. Alana raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Of course not,” I concede, trying to keep my voice a soft whisper.

  Gabriel begins to stir in my overly tired arms, letting out a quiet whimper. Glancing down, I check to see if he’s going to wake. So far, looks like I’m in the clear, so I gaze back over to Alana watching as she finally eases the door closed.

  “It’s a case. Sort of.” I toss the remote to the other end of the couch.

  “What kind of case would cause you to end up with what I’m guessing is a newborn?” she bluntly asks.

  Before I can answer her, I take notice of the brown stain covering her white, long-sleeve t-shirt. My eyes glide farther down, taking in the black UGGS over a pair of black leggings. It’s mid-September and much cooler in the Bay area than SoCal but this . . .

  “Let’s start with you first.” I point up and down. “What’s with the non-Alana style getup?”

  “Bit . . . ughhh,” she stops herself from calling me a bitch, but her loud dramatics causes another whimper to come out of the baby. For that, I cut my eyes at her.

  If there’s one thing I can commend Alana on, it’s not using foul language in front of children. Not even babies who have no idea what’s being said.

  “You called me, asking me to drive all the way to LA for an emergency that you’ve only given me a fraction of the details, and you’re going to call me out on my attire?”

  “Yep.” Sure am.

  “They’re Carrie’s.” She walks over to the small dining table setting her purse down before turning back to face me. “I didn’t realize I grabbed clothes from her laundry basket until I was in the car. I was half-asleep when I was on the phone with you. You’re lucky I’m here, so get off my case.” She points to the shirt she’s wearing. “This is a coffee stain. In my haste to get here, I spilled most of the café latte on me driving out of the parking lot. Good thing I always order the kids temp or I’d be at the hospital nursing burns instead of here.”