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There was no talking my neighbor out of it.
And who was I to tell her she shouldn’t be caring for an infant when she was being so persistent? Is she well out of the raising babies stage of her life? Well yes, but she’s more capable than people I’ve seen much younger than her.
I push the nagging thought that this child’s father is possibly a man some say rivals his own father’s devious reputation to the back of my mind. And as I pull my car into a parking lot only yards from two known warehouses belonging to Vincent Acerbi, Drago’s father, I ignore my conscience screaming that I should have handed over Gabriel to protective custody already.
I parallel park my car in betweenablackChevy Tahoe at my rear and a silver 4-door Mercedes-Benz coupe in front of me. I drove my personal car today instead of one of the unmarked sedans. They are way too easily pegged as “cop cars.” After a breath, I shut off the engine knowing leaving it running would only draw attention my way—attention I don’t want. Which is the very reason I’m not driving one of the automobiles designated to use for work outside the precinct.
Had I done so, I wouldn’t have been more obviousunless I had strapped on a bulletproof vest that said LAPD across the chest.
I peer out the window toward the loading docks roughly twenty yards from where I am now. Seems pretty convenient his warehouses are located just feet from where cargo shipments enter LA via water. I doubt these are all the warehouses he owns, but I don’t have any proof of that—yet.
Reaching over to the passenger seat I grab my legal pad that already has a few notes jotted down.
Looking down, I study the license plate numbers to the three vehicles Drago owns. Flicking my eyes up, I look at the one on the car in front of me. It shouldn’t match seeing how he doesn’t own a Mercedes. It doesn’t. I then grab my pen and write the numbers down. I’ll check it out later.
It’s quiet for a Monday afternoon. I wonder if this is a light shipping day.
Making a note, I jot down a reminder to find out what Acerbi Imports’ schedule is, along with the other two companies located at this end of the shipping port.
My plan is to watch, not too long, but I wanted to get a feel of this place before I plan how Lance and I will surveillance Acerbi. I’ve never worked undercover before, but I know several officers and detectives who have. The quickest way would be to infiltrate some part of Drago’s life. Plant someone into his work or personal life. That can be tricky and would need someone with a large amount of undercover experience—not me, in other words.
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 timethe 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 on 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 either.
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 him 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?”
