“Because you refused to take bribes from them to look the other way when some of their men got arrested for trafficking and shit.”
“I refuse to take bribes from anyone,” I assure her. “Every defendant brought before the judges in my court are all treated the exact same under the law.”
“Well, just so you know, my father refused to agree to kill you. Now, he’s dead.”
Dammit. That doesn’t bode well for me.
“Look, I know Weston wasn’t a good man, but he would never kill an innocent woman,” she asserts. “He lived by a set of principles, rules he taught to my brother and me. There was more to my father than his…profession. And someone took him from me.”
I know from the fact that she’s here, fighting to find her father’s killer, that Serafina loved Weston Bertelli very much. Despite being adopted, and regardless of who and what the man was, she still loved him. And that’s something I envy.
I never felt that kind of love for my own parents, who would never hurt a fly. God, just the thought of facing my constantly nagging mother and never-impressed father stresses me out. Iwas never hugged as a child. Or as an adult. I received criticism and an array of tutors, hired to ensure I excelled at everything I did so I wouldn’t embarrass them.
Rather than ask how many men her father is responsible for killing, leaving families without closure, I go the sympathetic route. There’s enough heat on me with the mob. I don’t need to make another enemy.
“Serafina, I’m sorry you lost your father in such an unexpected way, without having a chance to say goodbye to him. I can’t imagine how tough that must have been. But murder cases take years to solve when they’re done the right way. And just because you don’t hear any updates from the police, doesn’t mean that they aren’t working hard on the case.”
Two security guards, thankfully, appear in my doorway, and I almost roll my eyes. Did Vera really think just two, out-of-shape, retired police officers would be enough to throw a known assassin from my office?
“I see that my time is up,” Serafina remarks when she also notices the men in uniform.
“You’ll be the first person I call if there’s an arrest,” I promise her.
As soon as she exits the office, I grab my laptop and leather portfolio from my briefcase, then stride toward the largest conference room in the building. That’s where twenty-four assistant district attorneys in cheap, stuffy suits are not so patiently waiting for me around the length of the long, wooden table. “I apologize for the delay. There was an assassin in my office which took priority.”
That finally has some of the frowns changing into shocked surprise.
“Has Vera provided you with the new case assignments?” I ask.
A few heads nod.
“Great. Well, I don’t want to stand here and listen to an hour of bellyaching. If you can’t stomach a case, then find someone to trade with you. Only once they’ve agreed on the trade in writing will I officially reassign it. Is there any other business?”
“Not to sound like a broken record, but we desperately need more private investigators,” Janice Bowers, one of the older veterans, declares. Since she is mainly assigned to our homicides, I understand where she’s coming from. “All of ours are working overtime, unable to keep up with all of our cases. And you know the cops are stretched too thin as well.”
I nod in agreement. “I would love to give you all the PIs you could dream of, Janice, but I’ll have to look at our budget to see if we can hire one or two more. I’ll try to give you an answer by the end of the week. Anyone else?”
“I still wasn’t assigned any felonies,” Tyler Boyd complains.
“You’re not ready for felonies,” I tell him, causing some of the other guys to snicker. “You’re too soft on DWIs. So, until I feel that you’re ready to handle the burden of a felony conviction without a bleeding heart, you’re stuck with misdemeanors. No more DWIs either.”
“But —”
“Intoxicated drivers have the highest recidivism rate of all crimes,” I remind him. “And they usually don’t receive any consequences until someone dies. I would prefer to keep them off the streets and avoid those unnecessary deaths.”
“The office’s policy for first offenders before you came along was a hundred hours of community service, loss of license for a year, and weekly AA meetings, with a deferred dismissal as soon as all those requirements are met,” Dylan Rhodes, one of the frat bros and Tyler’s mentor, chimes in his two cents.
“Yes, well, my policy is to not be so lenient. The traffic in the city is bad enough as it is without drunks on the streets.” I hold up my palm before he can protest further. “Consider this, Dylan.How many times do you think someone drives drunk before they’re ever pulled over by an officer?”
He shuts his mouth and looks away, thankfully, dropping the topic.
“Anyone else?”
“Are you still planning on starting the Ferraro trials next month?” Chris Walker, a bald man a few years older than me, asks. He hates taking orders from a woman more than the others, since he had seniority in this office before I was elected.
“Yes. Why?” I reply through gritted teeth.
“No reason. It’s your funeral.” He grins. “What kind of flowers should we leave on your grave?”
