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-between a murdered-out Chevy 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 will 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 obvious unless I had strapped on a bulletproof vest that says 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 just to watch, not long, but I wanted to get a feel of this place before I plan out how Lance and I will surveillance Acerbi. I’ve never worked undercover before, but I know several officers and detectives that 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 time the 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 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 so . . .

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 he 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?”

Good question.

I rub the back of my neck trying to release the tension that’s gathered since Tom made it clear Lance would be my partner on this case. To say I’m irritated is an understatement.

“I don’t know really.” I pause. “Maybe because Tom has wanted to bring down the Acerbi family for years and he thinks Houston having more experience than me will ensure no mistakes are made.” I shake my head. Something in my gut tells me that isn’t it at all, but I don’t tell my friend this. I shouldn’t be telling her this much to begin with. And doing it on the office phone isn’t exactly wise. Hell, maybe I’m not as intelligent as I think I am.

At the sound of rustling, I look up to see Ronnie setting a bag on top of his desk before plopping down into his chair.

“Yeah, okay.” She chuckles. “This is the same sleaze I met when I did that half-marathon with you a while back. He’s going to be the one that fucks your shit up, babe.”

“Probably,” I agree.

“Honey, I have to run. Karla is standing in my office waving me to another meeting.”

“Okay. Love you.” I end the call. I need to get in touch with the chief while I have a few minutes anyway.

Not placing the receiver down, I press one of the buttons with a pre-programmed phone number stored on it and wait, hoping he’ll be in his office.

Becky, Tom’s assistant, picks up on the second ring. “Deputy Chief Ramirez’s office, how can I help you?”

“Hi, Becky, it’s Brianna Andrews from the Pacific station. I was hoping Tom had a minute to talk.”

“Oh, hi, detective,” she greets me in her usual cheery voice. “He’s in his office. I’ll put you through to him, okay?”

“That would be great. Thank you.”

She doesn’t reply. Instead, the line rings again, only this time it’s barely a full ring before the chief’s bark comes through. “Ramirez.”

“Tom, it’s Bri.” I let him know it’s me.

“Do you have something already?” he sounds disbelieving.

“Well, no, sir.”

“Then why are you calling me, detective? I don’t have time to hold your hand. That’s what Houston is for.” I have to pause before I say something I’ll regret. No need to piss the man off even though the words are itching to come out of my mouth. I don’t need anyone, especially Lance Houston, to hold my hand.

Apparently my silence goes on too long. “Are you planning on telling me why you are bothering me, today, or do you need to call back tomorrow to do so?”

I’ve heard multiple officers say Thomas Ramirez has a jerk complex, but until this moment, I’ve never witnessed it.

“No, sir, of course not. I’m not calling about Acerbi. I’m calling—” he cuts me off.

“Then take up your issues with Houston. Call me when you have something solid on our criminal.”

He hangs up before I can tell him I’ve been unable to reach his contact in Special Ops.

Well, great. What on earth am I going to do about the kid?

---

As I drive into the parking lot, I glance around quickly, taking in my surroundings the best I can while still paying attention to my driving. The shipping port seems busier than when I was here a few days ago. There are vehicles sparsely parked. An eighteen-wheeler is backed up to one of the three bay doors and I see three men loading it. Another pulled in behind me but turned off toward the loading docks moments ago. I can see the tail end of a shipping boat on the backside of his buildings.

The import of Italian wine makes up the larger quantity of the items that come in through here, I’ve learned.

Once parked, hidden but in plain sight, I dig my cell phone out of my purse. It should be late enough in the afternoon that she’ll be where she can answer my call. Carrie has cheer practice between two and four. Her cheer coach is very laidback and relaxed that the girls, as long as they do what is expected of them, are allowed use of their electronic devices when they are on break.

She picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hey, Aunt Bri! What’s up?” Her voice is cheerful, which is usual for Carrie. She’s always been the happy kid. The kid that goes out of her way to make others laugh and be as happy as she is.

“Happy birthday, sweetie,” I singsong to her.

“Ah, thanks.”

“So why is it we aren’t celebrating in the normal fashion we always do?” I can’t help but ask her. I am a bit disappointed that I’m not going to be a part of the celebration—even a small one.

“Friday night is an away game, so really there is no time, plus Mom and Dad have to work this weekend. It’s no biggie though.”

Away game. Jackson and Alana have to work. Who in the hell is going with them?

Carrie is a varsity cheerleader and her brother, Caleb, plays football for the varsity team. They are both great kids, but they are still just that—kids. My brother and sister-in-law put too much faith in them both looking out for each other.

“Who’s taking you both to the game?”

“Duh, Aunt Bri. The whole team, including the cheer team and band, all ride on two buses. There will be chaperones. Stop acting like a cop and be my cool aunt, will ya?”

I let this go, but not thinking like a cop is something I doubt I’ll ever be able to do again. I’m all too familiar with the evil in this world. Since I became a cop, I’ve seen too much bad shit. This job has jaded me in a sense.

“Okay, fine, but if either of you need anything at all, I’m just a phone call away.” I shake my head. Teenagers left to their own devices—no matter how great the kid is—don’t always make the best choices. At least I can count on the two of them sticking together. I still don’t like the idea that at least one of their parents won’t be going along.

My phone beeps with another incoming call.

I pull it away from my ear to look at the screen. Speaking of . . .

“Hey, sweets, I gotta run. Your dad is calling me. I hope you have a happy birthday and don’t forget what I said. Anything at all . . . you call me. I’ll be there.”

“Yeah, yeah, Aunt Bri. Talk to you later. Love ya.”

I switch to the other line.

“Want to tell me why your two oldest kids are going out of town without you or Alana, Friday?” I demand to know.

“Hello to you too, little sister.” He sounds irritated. Tough shit.

I wait. He huffs.

“Caleb is perfectly capable of taking care of his sister. The boy can bench press two hundred-fifty pounds and he’s still in high school.”

“Yeah, who’s going to take care of him?”

“Did you not hear me?”

“I heard what you said. He’s still a kid, Jack. Maybe you trust them a little too much?” Before he can reply I continue. “It’s not even about that. I know they are both great kids. You and Alana are very lucky in the children department. It’s the rest of the world, brother. It’s not safe for them out there alone.”

“I don’t need parenting advice from someone that doesn’t have any kids, Brianna. They won’t be alone. And do you honestly think I don’t know where my kids are at any given moment of any day?”

“You might be big, bad Jackson Andrews, but not even you have eyes everywhere.”

“For a cop, I question your street smarts sometimes, but then again I did shelter you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” What the fuck? Jackson usually isn’t this blunt—not with me at least. And yes, he did shelter me from too much. Probably another reason I became a cop.

“Every device they own has a GPS tracker on it. Both of their cars, a tracker. Carrie’s pendant that she never leaves home without is trackable. Caleb—”

“Are you flipping serious?” I cut him off.

“Fuck yes I’m serious. You of all people know the sick fucks out there. I’m not about to sit around and let something happen to one of them. I give them freedom—a lot of it—but unbeknown to them I still know exactly where they are. I take care of what’s mine. Always. Drop it.”

That’s a little much. Borderline on . . .

“Jackson?”

“What, Bri? I didn’t call to argue with you today.”

“Do you have a tracker on my car?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t even deny it. There is no falter in my brother’s voice.

“What the hell?”

“Do I need to repeat myself? What’s mine, Bri. Got it?”

No, I fucking do not. Oh, my God, he’s gone too far.

I take a deep breath. Why does any of this surprise me? How did I not know this already? And I’m supposed to be the cop.

“Is there anything else of mine that’s trackable?” He better say no.

Silence.

“Jack!”

“You obviously don’t want to know the answer to that, so there is no point in answering you.”

“I can’t believe you. This is something Dad would do, not you.”

“Call it whatever you want. I don’t care. I love you too much.”

“And the money that miraculously appeared in my account on Tuesday? What’s that about?”

“I suppose people love you.”

“I’m going to kick your ass.”

Laughter erupts from the other side of the phone.

“Look, I just pulled into the high school. I’m here to pick up Carrie.” He chuckles. “I called to make sure you’re still alive. And to tell you, you should quit your job and move back home. I know you won’t, but it has to be said anyway.”

“So then I won’t give you a reply. I’m mad at you.”

“Fine, be mad, but tell me you love me so I can hang up.”

“I love you, asshole.”

“I love you too, Belle.” Oh, he thinks using my childhood nickname is going to earn him points.

Click.

I don’t think so.

Jackson started calling me Belle when I was four or five. I was obsessed—really obsessed—with a movie about a girl that saw something different in a beast that everyone else feared. Most days I would only wear that costume I’d gotten one Halloween.

I’m going to find all his little tracking devices and then I’m going to shove them all up his crazy ass—well maybe I’ll make Alana do it for me.

She better not know about this. I’ll murder her so help me—

I jump in my seat, startled at the tap on my driver’s side window. When I turn, I come face-to-face with the man I’ve only seen in pictures, and from afar.

Drago Acerbi.

Damn . . .

Jesus H. Christ. I have to force myself to stop breathing in order not to gasp. He’s a lot hotter up close. Pictures certainly do not do him justice.

My door opens before I can react. Thanks automatic doors that unlock when I turn the ignition off.

“Is there a reason LAPD is scoping out my parking lot?”

How does he know I’m law enforcement?

“You look confused? What’s the confusion about?” He smiles, but it’s wicked. “Is it that I know you’re a cop or that I caught you here in the first place?”

I remain silent. Mainly, I’m not sure what to say yet. How does he know either? I thought hiding in plain sight was a smart idea.

“Your car doesn’t belong here. Not today or when you were here two days ago. I ran your plates, Detective Brianna Andrews.” He smirks. And although he’s attractive in looks—too attractive—it pisses me off. “You aren’t too bright. How did you manage to become a detective or is this your first day on the job? I walked right up to your car and you never once saw me.”

Distraction. Nice fucking job, Brianna.

I was distracted by my phone call with Carrie, and then Jackson. I shouldn’t have been on the phone to begin with—at least not here. Not while I’m supposed to go unnoticed. You can’t stay undercover when the suspect knows where and who you are.

Fuck.

“I wasn’t hiding.”

He gives me a look that says I’m full of shit.

“Well, then”—he displays that devilish smile again—“let me invite you inside—to my office.” He holds out his hand, palm facing up for me to take. I don’t.

Placing one leg outside of my car, I watch him as I step out and onto the concrete ground. I have to grab a hold of the door or otherwise, I’m afraid I might stumble right into his chest. Jesus, those eyes.

He finally takes a step back, then he moves his hand in the direction of the building that’s about a hundred yards from where we are now, wanting me to walk while he follows.

That’s not going to happen.

“Lead the way, Mr. Acerbi.”

This earns me a chuckle. “Ladies first, detective.” His mischievous eyes cascade downward then slowly ascends back up to my eyes once more. “Please.” He sighs. “I’d like to think I was raised with some manners.”

I stare up at him for a moment, weighing my options. Walking in front of him puts my back to him. It’s not ideal at all, but neither is him reporting me here and it getting back to my police chief, or worse, Lance.

Turning away from him, I make the decision to lead. It gives me an uneasy feeling. I was trained to never leave my back open, and in most situations, someone is always there to have my back.

We walk in silence the short distance to his building. There isn’t anything fancy about it. It’s a large metal building with three bay doors along the front and one walk-in door at the corner of the building near a parked, sleek, black Bugatti. I know that’s Drago’s car from my research earlier this week. What anyone needs with a car priced at over two and a half million dollars is beyond my comprehension. Let’s not forget, LA traffic is horrendous, so why on earth would you drive a car that can go approximately two hundred-sixty-seven miles per hour on the four-o-five?

Hell, what someone would need to bank just to rationalize that price blows my mind.

My brother and Alana both have good paying jobs, and together, they’re wealthy. They have a large family home outside the San Francisco city limits, a condo near the financial district, along with a loft in New York City for frequent business trips. But neither of them have a vehicle that comes close to comparing to Drago’s sexy black bear of a car.

My father is a wealthy man too, but this is ridiculous.

Judgmental much?

Maybe . . . But what exactly does he do to make that much money?

I eye the sign that covers a large portion of the top of the building. It hangs above the bay doors. Acerbi Imports. Just what all does he import?

“To your left, detective,” his smooth voice says directly behind me as his palm cups my hip and lightly veers me toward one of the open bay doors. I stiffen momentarily, making me aware that I was once again distracted, not even realizing how close Acerbi had gotten. I immediately start cursing myself for not being more aware of my surroundings.

So dumb, Bri. Stop being awestruck.

When I enter the metal structure, it’s exactly what you’d typically find in a warehouse. Pallets piled high with boxes of merchandise tightly wrapped with plastic wrap. Particles of dust tickles my nose as I take in the rest of the place. There are at least twenty men milling around. Before Drago presses me to move toward the front corner, I catch a glimpse of a woman toward the back. She’s talking with several of the workers.

“This way.” He pats my hip then steps around me. My eyes following him before I do. He’s heading toward a set of stairs. When I look up, I see an office that overlooks the warehouse. From where I stand, it looks small and it’s the only contained space I see up there. The rest of the space is open, overlooking everything below it.

Just as I near the steps a man calls out to Drago. “Hey, boss, wait up.” Drago stops just as one foot lands on the metal stair. Turning his head toward me, he peers over my shoulder. The irritation in his dark eyes quickly fade. My head twists, looking in the same direction as a tall, lanky man jogs past me. He stops in front of Drago, holding a clipboard in his arm. “Miss De Luca asked me to get your sign off on these.” He hands the clipboard over, followed by taking a pen from his shirt pocket and passing it over too.

He turns his body so that his back isn’t facing me any longer. Instead, I see his profile.

After Drago takes the pen, he begins looking over the documents attentively as if he’s scrutinizing everything on the pages.

His employee glances my way with a warm smile. That smile vanishes when he lowers his eyes, catching the badge that I have clipped to my slacks. His eyes widen, then he quickly looks back to Drago with a forced blank face.

He’s not doing a good job hiding his nerves. I step closer so that I’m within touching distance. He tenses up almost immediately.

“Sir, I can see you’re busy and Miss Barr—” He’s cut off.

“Tell Rebecca to be in my office in twenty minutes. I want the driver’s logs as well as a print out from our security company showing all GPS coordinates and stops.” Acerbi leaves no room for argument, but his employee doesn’t see it that way.

“I don’t understand, sir.” He scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. “You need all that because one of the guys misplaced a pallet? I can assure you, Mr. Acerbi, we’re searching for it now. If it’s not here, we’ll check with the other drivers. It was probably loaded onto the wrong truck. The customer will get their whole order in no time.” He steps away from me, taking a step closer to his boss.

“You don’t have to understand.” Drago hands the clipboard and pen back over without signing. “Rebecca should have caught the arrival weight and the departure weight. Both are the same. All the customer’s merchandise left on the truck together. Twenty minutes,” he barks with a firm look then moves his eyes to me. “Come. Looks like you only have my time for a few minutes, detective.”

With that, he proceeds up the stairs, leaving me to walk around his employee in order to follow him up. By the time I enter his office, he’s rounding his desk. I close the door as he sits, then I look around. It is larger than it looked from below. There are waist-to-ceiling high windows on two out of the four walls looking out into the warehouse.

“Please. Sit,” he tells me, so I do, crossing my legs as we both stare at each other. His eyes are brown, and I can’t tell if he’s pissed or amused by my presence. “So, detective, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“You asked me to come to your office, Mr. Acerbi.”

“Call me, Drago, please. Mr. Acerbi is my father. I’m not my father, detective.” He smiles, making me think he’s toying with me. “Now, about why you’re here.” He leans forward, laying his forearms on his desk, and as he does his eyes begin to harden.

I’m not scared of him. Maybe I should be, though. He certainly wants me to be frightened.

Either way, I’m not showing him any emotion.

“Tell me, Drago, what type of relationship do you have with Sebastian Diaz?”

I don’t see a need to play games. The deputy police chief wants evidence that the Acerbi family is indeed smuggling illegal drugs into the United States. If they are, I’ll find it. If not, I won’t. No need to drag this out. The sooner I wrap this up, the sooner I can get out from under Houston’s thumb.

“I don’t”—he breathes heavily—“have a relationship with Diaz, detective.”

“I think you do. I think you have a business relationship with him.” I raise my eyebrow. “An illegal business relationship.”

His jaw ticks as his eyes bore into mine.

“Don’t you cops have enough crime in the city to clean up instead of looking for things to pin on my family? You have nothing on me. We both know that. If you did, we wouldn’t be sitting in my office. I’d be in handcuffs and this conversation would be reversed.” He laughs, but it’s the dark, sinister kind. “But if handcuff play is something that turns you on, detective, I’m not opposed to that. It just won’t be me wearing them.”

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if what I said didn’t have merit.” I purposely ignore his inappropriate remark.

“By all means.” He raises his hands, gesturing toward me. “Please share this merit you have.”

 This is where my job gets tricky. Do I tell him about Gabe’s mother or just the sighting with him and Marino? Whether I believe Miss Carlisle or not, I don’t want to risk Gabriel’s safety—or my own—more than necessary.

No, I think I want to stay hush-hush about the boy for now.

I pull my smartphone out of my suit jacket pocket. Once I locate the photograph, I lean forward, placing the phone, screen up, onto his desk in front of him. “Care to explain this?”

He glances down. His face is an unreadable mask. For a moment, I don’t think he’s bothered by the photo showing him with Sebastian Diaz’s right-hand man, until the index finger on his hand starts tapping on the wooden surface of his desk. The moment my gaze flicks down he stops the tapping by fisting his hand and then sits back in his chair. Crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes move away from my phone, meeting mine.

“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 don’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 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 onto 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, because you people 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. She’s dressed to the nines in a soft pink pencil skirt with a matching snug jacket. Her four-inch, chain-embellished leather pumps tap on the concrete floor as she walks through the door. Even if I didn’t have the exact same pair, I’d recognize them. My love affair with shoes almost matches my obsession with lingerie.

I stand, knowing I’ve worn out my welcome.

“No, Rebecca. The cop was just leaving.” His eyes bore into mine as his lip curls into a snarl as if confirming his distaste for law enforcement.

“I’ll be in touch, Acerbi.”

I leave, more determined than before to get the evidence my boss is dead set on obtaining.