Page 238 of The Consequences of Love and Vengeance

It’s still early in the day, and I could make that doctor’s appointment Drago scheduled for me this afternoon, but then Houston’s words plague my mind.The same Crown Vic has been tailing you since early this week.If someone is following me, even him, then I don’t need to go. So instead, I act like everything is normal and go to the precinct.

I’ll have to tell D about Houston’s text later when I get home. I don’t want to chance messaging him about it or even sending a screenshot. If Vincent can persuade a guilty verdict like E suspects, then he can get his hands on phone communications the same as we can. I’d rather play it safe.

I turn toward Connie. “See you back at the office?”

“I’m going to swing by my apartment and grab lunch, then I’ll be in.”

I nod, and then tell Eric bye, leaving them both in the lobby of the courthouse.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

BRIANNA

Two days after Chasity’s sentencing, I got called to the Chief’s office downtown, but before I could pull into the parking garage across the street, my phone rang. It was Mike telling me to get my ass down to south LA, specifically, to an old run-down house in a neighborhood of other run-down housing.

I had to park in front of a church down the road; only a short walk from the address Mike texted me. It’s just past eleven in the morning, and the street is filled with half a dozen patrol cars, two fire trucks, and an ambulance. Something bad happened here. There’s no doubt about that in my mind. As a cop, you tend to get a gut feeling when you show up on scene and are about to walk into something you’ll likely never forget. I got that feeling the second I read Mike’s message.

There are beat cops milling around, talking to each other, and a female police officer rolling out crime scene tape.

“Yep,” I whisper out loud. “Something bad went down here.”

But I’m on the narc and gang unit, so I guess it has something to do with that if I was called to the scene. Maybe it has something to do with a case Connie and I have been working on. It’s not outside the norm for one of our cases in the Pacific Unit to cross over into another jurisdiction. It happens quite often.

Seeing Mike entering the house through the front door, I follow suit, entering a few seconds after him.

When I enter the house, I walk directly into the small living room and stop, taking in the scene in front of me. There was a time, not that long ago, that something of this nature shocked me. It’s one of the reasons I never wanted to be part of the homicide team. Murders aren’t high on my list of crimes I wish to solve. I’d rather deal with the everyday drug deal or gang member. Sure, I still see murder, but not like this. This was personal. This was planned.

Lance Houston’s lifeless body is slumped to one side of what looks to be a dining room table chair. Wet, sticky blood coats every surface of him. Where his eyes were, there are now hollow black holes. The majority of the blood, where it’s the darkest, is down his chin and neck. If I had to guess, his tongue is missing from inside his mouth. There are stab marks along his arms, torso, and even his legs.

I glance up, seeing Tom staring down at the body. After a minute, his head lifts and our eyes lock. The solemn expression in his eyes makes the reality of this scene come into focus. Sighing, he turns away from me and steps toward the opening behind Houston. The kitchen area I presume, and follow, passing the dead body to catch up with Tom.

The kitchen is empty except for Tom, so Mike must be in another part of the house.

“It was my idea, you know.” His voice sounds grave.

“What was your idea, sir?”

He’s silent for a long beat before eventually sighing and turning to me.

“Months back when Mike called to fill me in on the situation...” My brows raise high on my forehead. “When that girl said she was beaten by your boyfriend and said she and the kid were in danger. I laid in bed that night thinking of how I could get him. I didn’t see him as the accused. I didn’t see him as a person who had a right to see his day in court. I saw what I wanted to see. I saw his father and then I saw my former lover’s lifeless body.” His brows furrow and then he scrubs his hand down his face. It’s now that I see the tired, beat look he’s allowing. Normally Deputy Chief Tom Ramirez is strong, put together, and there is no question that he’s the one in charge. Today, that isn’t the case.

“Did you know I used to work homicide back then? For years there were times I’d show up to a scene and my gut instantly told me it was a hit ordered by the one and only, Vincent Acerbi. That son of a bitch is evil; the devil himself I’m telling you.”

“I did, sir,” I admit. When I decided to seek the promotion to detective a couple of years ago, I made it a priority to find out the history of every detective and superior officer. “Do you have that gut feeling today?”

He nods and then reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out his cell phone. After bringing the screen to life, he extends his hand, holding it out toward me, and I take it.

“I got this half an hour before we found Houston’s body.” There’s a text message opened on the screen. It’s the address of the house we’re standing in and a message, but before I read it, it’s the number that catches my attention. It’s the same number Detective Houston has been messaging me from. I made a mental note to remember it even though I saved it to my contacts.

Unknown Number

You don’t have to hurry. Your present will be there when you arrive.

“Houston was an asshole, sure. Needed to be punished for his part in this mess, but no one, not even him, deserved what that monster did to him.”

“There are lacerations all over his body, front and back.” Mike’s voice cuts in, confirming what I saw. “Bruising and burns to his wrists and ankles from the rope that was knotted around them. His eyeballs were removed from their sockets, his tongue cut out and shoved down his throat.” Mike comes to stand next to me, placing his hand on my shoulder, squeezing as my mind turns over.

“He was going to talk,” I whisper. “That or Vincent thought he was,” I conclude, looking at our chief.

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