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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 needyouto 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.
“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 trouble 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 cool and collective. Smug even.
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. From the photo, I see Drago has rich, dark 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.
