Oh, but she did.

Poking my head inside Mike’s door, his pale blue eyes skirt over from where he looked deep in thought, connecting with mine.

Being the Senior Detective in the unit, he gets an office while the rest of us get a desk in a large, open room down the hall from his office. The bullpen as it’s known.

“Hey, Mike, I need you,” I admit unashamedly. What happened fifteen minutes ago was a first for me in all my nine years on the force. “Got a situation. A woman left her infant kid up front. Claims the baby is Drago Acerbi’s and she’s scared for the boy’s safety.”

I don’t believe that for a minute.

Not about Acerbi being the child’s father—I can’t be sure of that without DNA proof. No, I’m referring to the mother’s claims she wanted to give her rights up because she can’t keep him safe.

Bull-fucking-shit.

Oh, the show she put on . . .

I’ll give her this—she may have a calling in the world of acting. Too bad for her I’m well versed in liars. I can spot them a mile away. Thank you, Daddy.

“Give me five, Bri. I have a case to wrap-up.” He sighs heavily. That’s when I take notice of his disheveled hair and loose tie. In all honesty, Mike looks like hell. “Then I’ll handle what you have, okay?”

“Sure, boss,” I reply, hesitantly

Mike isn’t my boss, technically, but he is my superior, and I do think of him as a boss. I look up to him like a boss. He’s my mentor.

I’m sure the case he’s referring to is the one of the Honorable James Lewis, a Los Angeles County judge, who was murdered three months ago. Mike has been working it hot and heavy ever since. Something about this case is different, though. Mike is different. And it has me worried about him.

The problem is, he can’t talk to me about it. I train with Nikki Lockhart, the victim’s daughter, and I workout in the MMA gym she owns and operates. Since I’m personally connected, in any way, I can’t be a part of the case, but it would be nice to lend an ear to Mike like he so often is for me.

It sucks too, because I can’t be there for him like he is for me so frequently.

I want to say something, but I don’t. Instead, I push off the doorframe, heading back up front where I left Gabriel with Stephanie after Miss Carlisle finished writing her statement down on paper.

She didn’t stick around longer than she had to. If anything, she was pretty eager to run out of the station.

As I near Stephanie’s desk, all I hear is the sound of baby talk. Other than Mike being here after-hours, she and I are the only ones in this part of the building.

Stephanie works dispatch on the nightshift at the station, and this happens to be my week to serve on-call duty from seven p.m. to seven a.m.

There are twelve detectives housed at the Pacific station. All of us take turns, weekly, from Saturday night through the following Saturday morning when it’s our rotation. That means I’m on-call every three months. It’s not fun, and I don’t know one of us that like it, but four times a year isn’t too bad.

“What’s going on?” I ask, amused as I approach Steph’s desk. She has the baby reclined onto her forearms with his head cradled in her palms that are lying on top of her desk. Her chin is tucked down as she makes silly sounds looking at the baby. As I near, I'm able to see the smile on the little guy's face. It’s obvious Steph knows what she’s doing, because this is the first time I’ve seen him happy tonight. And since she has a three-year-old of her own, I guess she should.

“He is the best baby, ever!” she tells me enthusiastically. “Carson was never this good.”

“Yeah?” I question, not quite believing her. “What makes you say that?”

She turns, her hazel eyes giving me a puzzled looked. “Look at him. He’s so good. Isn’t fussy. He’s a happy little thing.”

Hmm . . . I don’t think she and I met the same baby.

“Oh!” she exclaims. Stephanie is always chipper. She has a personality that gets along with anyone. I’ve yet to witness a frown on her face. “Judy from child protective services is on line three for you. Crap! I totally forgot while I was playing with him.” She lets out a quick laugh.

“Okay, thanks. I’m going to grab it at my desk. Are you all right with him for a few more minutes?” I ask, hoping she won’t mind looking after him a little longer.

“Pleeease,” she draws out. “He’s an angel. You go. I’ve got this one. He’s making this slow night a breeze.”

“Tell Mike where I am if he comes looking for me,” I add, and then I turn around, heading toward my desk after I walk behind the floor to ceiling frosted glass directly behind Stephanie’s desk to enter the detective space.

As I round my desk, I press line three on the phone, picking up the receiver and bringing it to my ear as I plop down into my chair. “This is Brianna Andrews.”

“Detective,” a soothing voice answers. “This is Judy Hearn. I received a message to call you.”

“Yes,” I reply back. “Thank you for calling me back so quickly.” Sometimes it can be hours before someone from CPS calls the station back.

“It’s not a problem at all,” she assures me. “What can I do for you?”

“Well . . .” I start, not exactly sure where to begin explaining the odd events that happened tonight. “We have a small child, a baby boy, here at the station whose mother has decided to relinquish her rights to the child. There were safety reasons, or so she claimed. And I need your assistance and expertise in placing the baby.”

There is a beat of silence a bit too long, but before I ask her if she heard me, she speaks. “When you say”—she pauses for a brief second, but I immediately pick up on her guarded tone—“‘safety issues,’ can you elaborate what you mean exactly?”

“Sure.” I lean forward, planting my elbows on my desk. “She accused the child’s father of wanting to harm her and their baby. The mother claims he isn’t happy about the child’s existence. I’ll be speaking to my superior after this call, but we will be investigating her claims as well as some others she made.”

Silence.

“Mrs. Hearn, are you there?”

“Yes, Detective, I’m here. My apologies. I was processing what you told me. And . . .” Again, she pauses, which gives me an uneasy feeling. I’m about to ask her when she proceeds. “Based on the information you’ve given me, I can’t place the child with a foster family. Not knowing what I know now.” She sighs. “If there is danger involved, I can’t put someone else or other children in harm’s way. I hope you understand this.”

She sounds sincere, but what does that mean for Gabriel? Where is he supposed to go now?

“Okay,” I say for the lack of not knowing what else to say. “Mrs. Hearn, if Child Services cannot take him, then what am I supposed to do with him?”

He can’t stay here.

“My suggestion would be to do as you mentioned, speak to your superior. Protective custody sounds like it would be better suited for the child in this circumstance.”

I allow her advice to sink in. Protective custody. He’s young and parentless. I’m not sure I agree with her on this. Gabriel needs a loving family to care for him.

“Are you positive you don’t have anyone that can take him? Even if it is just over the weekend? I’m not convinced, at this time, protective custody is the right call for this little boy. He’s an infant and—”

“Ahem.”

I jerk my head toward that sound.

Mike is propped against Connie’s—a fellow detective and my partner—desk. Her workstation is directly across from mine, so I’m surprised I didn’t hear Mike walk up.

He shakes his head. I take it to mean he wants me to stop what I’m saying, so I do.

“Mrs. Hearn—” I start as I continue to look at Mike, but she decides to cut in.

“Detective, please understand. If there weren’t safety issues involved this wouldn’t be a problem.” She lets out what sounds to be a tired sigh.

“Yes, of course. And I appreciate your call. I will do as you’ve suggested and speak to my superior right now. Have a good night.” I rush to end the call, not waiting for her to say goodbye.

Once I place the receiver on the holder, I wait a few seconds for Mike to speak but he doesn’t. It’s evident to me I’ve made an error in his opinion, I’m just not sure what exactly.

“How much did you hear?” my curious mind inquires.

“A good bit, but why don’t you start from the beginning. Tell me about the woman and the baby that’s now up front with Stephanie,” Mike says, his southern accent thicker tonight in his tired state than it usually is. I rarely remember he’s not a native Californian like I am, being from Mississippi.

I catch Mike up to speed and tell him exactly what happened and even hand over my notepad where she hand wrote a small paragraph that’s supposed to be her statement.

“This sounds like a complete box of shit.”

I laugh at his statement.

“I was thinking the same thing,” I tell him.

“And she refuses to press charges or even get a restraining order, yet she says she’s scared for her life?” Mike glances away.

“Yep.” I nod my head. “She’s lying about something.”

He looks back at me. “Maybe. But that’s not your call to make. Not yet. Your job was to take a statement, and you did. Your job was to try to get her to press charges, and from what you told me, you did. You can’t make her. I agree the story doesn’t sound right hearing it from your point of view. Where’s the photo you mentioned?”

I turn around in my chair to face the computer screen, and with a few clicks, I’m logged in, and pull up my email. With two more clicks, I have the photo I practically made Miss Carlisle send me pulled up on the twenty-two-inch screen.

I glance over at Mike, jerking my head toward my shoulder in a quick motion. “Walk around.”

Mike hunches over me from behind.

“That’s Brandon Marino on the left,” he states even though I already know it is.

“Yeah, and Acerbi is the one on the right.” At least that’s what Miss Carlisle claimed. I haven’t verified it yet, but Mike nods, making me think he knows it is, in fact, Drago Acerbi.

“We know what’s in the package?”

“No. And this is the only photograph. I have no way of knowing which one is receiving or which is giving the package.”

He lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s weak at best. Your girl claims Acerbi is smuggling drugs, yet she won’t testify. The photo has a small chance to create probable cause since we know Marino is a known associate of Sebastian Diaz. If we can get the deputy chief’s buy-in to start an investigation . . .” Mike pauses, and I glance behind me. He’s scrutinizing the photo.

“What are you thinking?” I can’t help but ask him.

“Well, if you’re able to find evidence that points toward drug trafficking then we can probably get a judge to issue a warrant for her testimony.”

“When does Tom return from Tahoe?”

Thomas Ramirez is the deputy chief of investigations in charge of the detectives. With budget cuts, we’re down a sergeant, so we all report directly to Tom. Mike is in charge of our day-to-day duties, which is another reason I see him more like my boss than not.

“Sunday night. He’ll be back in on Monday. I’ll get Sally to schedule a meeting first thing but fuck . . .” He lets out a breath of air that reaches my face; the smell of strong coffee mixed with something else is evident on his breath. I didn’t take Mike for one to drink on the job. And who am I to call him on it? Not when he’s done so much for me. I don’t get a chance anyway when he continues. “If Judy is refusing to help place that kid in a foster home, then I don’t know what we’re going to do until Tom returns.” He shakes his head. “I’m not coming down on you, but you should have kept your mouth shut on the details of the case in this circumstance.”

I look at him as if to say, ‘really,’ but I hold my tongue.

“Look, Bri, you’ll learn; it just takes time. Sometimes, like this one, for instance, you don’t disclose every detail, even if it’s with folks on your own team. Now we have to find an officer that’ll take the baby until Monday.”

“I’ll do it,” I stress. He thinks I screwed up, so I’ll deal with my mess.

“You?” He half-laughs as he belts out the question. “What do you know about kids?”

“I have two nieces and a nephew. I’m not as foreign to babies as you might think.” Jeez, what does he take me for? I’m twenty-nine years old. Even if I hadn’t been around a baby or two, I’d like to think I would be able to figure it out. It’s only two days.

“You sure, Andrews?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” I promise.

“Okay then. You call it a night and I’ll cover the rest of your shift. Get on out of here,” he shoos.

“What? No. I’m not putting that on you.”

“Bri, that baby can’t stay here all night. If you know about babies, then you realize that.”

I take his words in, absorbing them. He’s right. Mike usually is. Dammit, I don’t like not pulling my own weight, and that’s exactly what this feels like by having him cover for me.

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll go, but I’ll make this up to you.”

“There’s no need, kiddo. You’re one of the few that makes me proud as is. Just don’t change doing that and we’re good.”

Damn. Where did that come from?

---

I ease the door to my condo shut as softly as possible, not wanting to make too much noise that could wake Gabriel. Once it’s closed, I flip the deadbolt into place, locking the door.

The little guy is sleeping in the carrier that doubles as the car seat his no-good mother brought him into the station in. Just the thought of her boils my blood. Who abandons their child when they say their son is in danger? Her, apparently.

When Mike said I could leave close to three hours ago, what I didn’t realize is there are two pieces to a car seat: the carriage and the base. I didn’t have the base to secure the seat in my car.

Stupid, piece-of-crap mother.

So, there was that ordeal.

I was lucky, though.

Todd, an officer working booking tonight, has a son a few months older than Gabriel. At least I’m assuming it’s a few months since I don’t know Gabriel’s date of birth—yet. Stephanie is friends with Todd’s sister and thought she remembered him having the same model car seat.

It turns out he did. And this wasn’t his weekend with his son, so I was able to borrow it for a couple of days. Todd even installed it in my car for me.

Complication remedied in a matter of half an hour.

Then Gabriel shit himself like babies do, and I realized what was not packed in his diaper bag.

Diapers!

Or wipes or extra clothes. Not even a damn bottle.

What was in the bag, besides what could have been a dirty baby blanket—maybe—was a fashion magazine, three of them, and a pair of flip-flops. Cute, designer flip-flops, I might add, but still something I wouldn’t have expected in a baby’s diaper bag.

Awful mother.

So, then there was the emergency trip to the drug store down the street from the station to get diapers, wipes, a bottle, and formula.

That wasn’t fun.

For all I thought I knew about babies from being around my nieces and nephew . . . my mind blanked out when I walked down the baby aisle.

There are too many options for formula. It blew my mind. How was I to know which one to buy?

I should have called Alana, but it was already late, and she would have had too many questions. Alana is not only my sister-in-law but my best friend too. She would’ve known what to buy for the baby, and I wouldn’t have spent so much time confused.

Finally, I opted for a generic brand that was a little cheaper and got the rest of the essentials to last until Monday morning. At least I hope I got enough. I’m not exactly sure how many diapers are normal for a baby to go through or how much they eat. Probably should have asked Stephanie before I left the station.

Once I’m through the door and it’s secured behind me, I place Gabriel’s car seat on the floor. Seeing that he is sound asleep, I leave him for a brief moment, taking the drug store bags to the kitchen, and then set them on the granite countertop where I’ll unload them later.

I want to get him out of the car seat he’s been cooped up in first, and then I need to get him into bed; my bed, that is, since it’s the only one in my condo.

I have a two-bedroom condo, but the spare room is used more like a second closet than a room one might sleep in. The space is too small to fit a full-sized bed, so I never tried.

Walking back over to the door, I lift the car seat by the handle, and then I tote it to the coffee table in front of the couch, placing it on top. Gabriel starts to squirm then stretches as I unfasten the straps.

The poor baby has been in this damn seat a terribly long time tonight. “Okay, little man, let’s get you out of there. How does bed sound?”

If his reaction is any indication, he’s not very receptive to my suggestion as cries erupt upon being lifted. I bring him to my chest to cradle and rock him back and forth.

My actions do nothing to soothe him.

Hmmm . . .

He’s already been changed, but maybe he could’ve peed himself since then. He could be hungry. I have no idea when his mother last fed him.

I decide to start with a bottle of formula. At least then I’ll know he isn’t hungry if he’s still fussy.

Not wanting to put him back in the car seat or onto the couch where he could roll off, I bring him with me into to the kitchen.

Walking around the corner, I enter the small area that only has one entrance into my galley style kitchen. Opening the bags, I remove everything and then toss the plastic sacks into the trash. Then I stare at all the stuff wondering what to do next.

What do I remember from when Carly was a baby? She’s my youngest niece and the one I’m closest to. The other two, Carrie and Caleb, who are fifteen and sixteen, were born when I was still a kid myself. I was thirteen when Carrie arrived, and although excited as I was to become an aunt, paying attention to baby duty wasn’t on my agenda back then.

Am I supposed to boil the bottle in water?

For some reason, I remember Alana doing that. I think.

I’m a lot more clueless than I originally thought.

Guess I could Google it.

I pull my purse to the edge of the counter then dig through it until I locate my cell phone. I retrieve it, and after using my thumb to unlock the screen, I open the correct app. But before typing, I set the phone down and switch Gabriel to my other side being that I’m right-handed and can type easier one-handed using that one.

“Shh, little man. I’ll get you fed just as soon as I figure out what I’m doing, I promise.” I hope.

I type out, “do baby bottles need to be sterilized,” then hit the search button.

After scrolling and reading for a few minutes, I’m still unsure what the right method is. The first thing that popped up said, no. Other pages told me you have to sterilize the first time for all new bottles but not after that, and other pages agreed with the first that there was no need to sterilize bottles at all.

“Humph.”

Well, a lot of good that did me.

I toss my phone on the counter, not caring where it lands. I’m not worried about damaging it. I have it thoroughly protected in a case.

“I say better to be safe than sorry, little one. Guess it’s gonna be a bit of a longer wait on that bottle.”

I reach over to the kitchen sink, turning on the faucet to hot, then bending, I open the cabinet door and pull out a large pot. Once the water is as hot as the sink faucet will get it, I fill the pot halfway then move it to the stove and turn the eye on high.

I see no need to start with cold water and have to wait longer.

While I’m waiting, I wash the one bottle I bought. The chief better reimburse me for the money I spent, too. Even though I bought the cheap stuff, it was still pretty damn expensive.

Makes me wonder how some people afford kids unless they’re rich. Anyone on my salary, there is just no way. And I don’t have rent or a mortgage to pay for.

Once washed, I set the bottle, nipple, and lid on the edge of the sink that connects to the counter.

I hear the water begin to rumble as the boiling starts, but I don’t want to walk over with Gabriel. I guess I have no choice but to place him back in his seat for a bit.

“Sorry, little man,” I say as I head out of the kitchen.

Grabbing the car seat by the handle, I pivot then walk the few steps back toward the kitchen. I have a small eating section with a small, round table in the corner off to the side of the kitchen. That’s where I decide to place the seat on the carpeted floor.

This section of my condo, as does the hallway and into the two bedrooms, all have carpet. The living room and kitchen both have hardwood.

When I ease the baby back down he starts to squirm, then his face turns red. I know cries are going to follow. “Honey, I’m sorry. It’s just for a few minutes.”

I jump up, turn and get back in the kitchen where I quickly toss the plastic bottle and attachments in the water nearly missing the hot splash.

As I wait, I let out a tired breath of air and then look over toward Gabriel.

His cries cause me to rub the center of my chest with my palm.

How could anyone walk away from him?