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“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 didn’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 of 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 on 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.
“You 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 becauseyoupeople 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.
