Page 39 of Shadowed Loyalty

Irritation pulled Roman’s fingers into fists. “He went out to the brewery, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, so did you. And according to your report, all he did was hand over an envelope, the contents of which you hadn’t seen, and then leave. You didn’t see him ever transport liquor—heck, you didn’t even see that there was any contraband in the place. For all we know, they could really be making that non-alcoholic swill they say they are, and it could really be owned by the ninety-year-old German whose name’s on the deed.”

The failure burned him up, but he’d sooner pull his own fingernails off than admit it. “You know, Cliff, you’re starting to sound like you’re turning. Giving up on the mission. Where are your priorities?”

Cliff stopped him with a merciless grip on his shoulder and spun him around. His aristocratic features were schooled into a granite mask of pure fury. “You wanna talk priorities, pal? I’m not the one carrying a torch for the old man’s daughter.”

“I’m not—”

“Oh, just shut up! You think I don’t know you that well? We’ve been working together for two years, I know you. You’re in too deep, you’ve lost your perspective. You’re in love with the daughter of a mafioso, and you don’t know whether you want to spite her or win her back. And until you figure it out, maybe you oughta just sit back and cool off instead of dragging me into the stinkin’ Levee at nine in the morning to interrogate a prostitute.”

Roman’s mouth cracked into a grin. “You do look a little out of place, I gotta say.”

Mumbling something incoherent, Cliff shoved his shoulder and started moving again. It didn’t take much longer for them to reach their destination. Ava’s Place was one of the better-looking buildings in the neighborhood, a pristine white against the red and brown crumbling bricks around it. It was one of those joints that offered it all: singers, dancers, food, and alcohol on the main floor, gaming in the back, entertainment of a more intimate sort upstairs. Roman had wandered in once a few months back, not realizing it was Manny’s. Had he known, he would have paid far more attention to the details and far less to the high-caliber celebrities socializing in the restaurant.

“How are we going to get in?”

Roman’s answer was to push open the door and hold out a hand to usher Cliff in first. He shut the door behind him once he had followed. The interior was dim, the scent of tobacco clinging to the brocade drapes and oriental rugs. Roman looked around for signs of life, finally spotting movement back the hall. “Excuse me.”

A spindly man poked his head out the door of what was presumably an office, his long face pulled into a frown. “Yes? I assume you know we’re not open right now.”

“That’s why I’m here. Manny said this would be the best time to copy down a few things from the books he wants for his personal records.” Roman was careful to keep his face neutral, casual.

The man’s face didn’t relax. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Tom?” came a female voice from the staircase just past Long Face. “Were you talking to me?”

“Oh. No, Ava, I was talking to…I’m sorry, who are you?”

Roman opened his mouth to answer, but his vocal chords froze when Ava stepped into view. Her hair was a rich auburn with a single streak of gray, her figure full and unabashedly displayed by a tight-cinched dressing gown. But that wasn’t what stopped him. It was her face—not the features or the grace or the beauty, but the familiarity.

He knew her. And it took only a second to figure out where he knew her from. With a quick spin away, he grabbed Cliff’s arm and dragged him the five feet back to the door. Still he heard her shout from behind him, proving she had recognized him, too. He ignored her command to wait and chugged out the door, onto the street, and down the first alley that came to hand.

Cliff cursed as he jogged beside him, obviously agitated. “What? What in the world just happened? Where are we going?”

A savage grin bloomed on Roman’s lips. “To pay a visit to the local cops. I think we just nailed Manny for murder.”

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