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“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, butI 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 tellsme. “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 nod 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.”
* * *
Takecare of that todayhe 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 second floor my condo is on.
Ms. Lincoln, my neighbor whom 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.”
