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After grabbing my belongings from the bottom drawer of my desk, I head out, needing a breath of fresh air to clear the steam mounting inside my head.
I riffle through my purse, searching for my cell phone as I push out of the side door, exiting the police station. Connie isn’t here, at least not that I could tell, so I might as well call her to find out where she is. I can meet up with her and discuss this shit with a sane person. If I stay here any longer, I’m going to hurt that motherfucker, and losing my job isn’t worth it.
It’s not fucking worth it, I silently chant that mantra.
It’s my word against Houston’s, and no matter if it’s right or not, if I took this to Mike or human resources, at least half of the people on the force would take his side. They’d probably know I was telling the truth, but side with him since he has seniority over me; plus, he has more friends in this department than I do.
Hell, even our chief leans on him more than me for some reason. We may both share the same title—detective 2—but that doesn’t mean jack shit when he’s been here longer than me.
Point is, I think it’s in my best interest not to bring to light what happened in the break room, even if it is what I should do.
No, I need to deal with Houston with caution. I can’t prove Drago is innocent if I get myself suspended.
Before I call Connie, I glance up to make sure I’m not about to run into anything or anyone. I’ve stumbled over concrete parking spot curbs more times than I care to admit because I’m too focused on other things.
Once I realize I’m good, I continue down the sidewalk and start to bring Connie’s contact information up when I hear the source of my anger, stopping me in my tracks.
“Get in the fucking car.” Lance’s voice booms across the lot, earning my attention in his direction.
He’s standing between his door and the inside of his police-issued cruiser talking to someone on the other side. My eyes naturally cut over to see who he’s bitching at. When I realize who it is, I’m taken by surprise.
What’s she doing here?And with him?
Chasity Carlisle is standing in front of his car with her arms crossed over a mint and black peplum dress.
I scoot closer to the edge of the building, keeping out of their line of sight. I don’t want them to see me spying on them.
Eventually, she loses whatever battle they’re having between them because she throws up her hands just before going to the passenger side of his car, getting inside.
Once she’s in the car, he looks around the parking lot before ducking in himself, seconds later, taking off.
Without too much thought, I hightail it to my personal car with the intent of trying to catch up to them. He never mentioned having a personal relationship with her, and if he does, he can’t be a part of this case. He knows this, of course.
The thought occurs—does the chief know? Surely not. There is no way he would have put him on it with me.
When I pull out of the lot, I grab my sunglasses from the visor compartment, putting them on in hopes if he notices someone following him, he won’t know it’s me. I doubt he knows what type of car I drive anyway.
I easily spot Houston five cars ahead of me. With late afternoon LA traffic, I don’t want to stay too far back, chancing to lose him in the throes of too many vehicles weaving from lane to lane.
Once I manage to get in front of a couple of people driving slower than I need, I decide to stay three cars behind.
My mind doesn’t stop racing with why she’s with him. Instinct tells me this has dirty written all over it. Could it be Lance who wants to find something on Drago and not the chief? But why? There wasn’t any connection between the Acerbi family and my colleague. If something had popped up during my research, it would have stuck out.
So why are they together?
Ishetrying to dig up more dirt on Drago than she originally gave me?
That thought goes straight out the window, and not because Tom said I couldn’t reach back out to her. No, the interaction between Lance and Miss Carlisle was personal. He knows her more than a cop knows a witness. He knows her on another level.
But what and how?
Jumping on the four-o-five, I follow his car for nearly fifteen minutes when he exits the interstate, going into Brentwood.
For the life of me, I can’t figure out where he’s going, then it hits me. She had a Brentwood mailing address on the information I took from her.
Could he have just been giving her a lift home? Maybe she really was at the station giving more details, or could she regret giving up her son? But their interaction was definitely personal and not at all professional.
Perhaps it’s possible I’m blowing this up more than I should. Or it could be possible I want Houston to be involved in something he shouldn’t because I want Drago to be innocent. I still think D is, but there is that one ounce—that kernel—telling me he’s not being fully honest.
