Page 6 of Romancing the Rumrunner
“This isn’t really a choice, Solomon.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. He had a feeling it’d be like that. Jameson wouldn’t have come on his own accord. And if his bosses wanted Tony to do a job, it had to be because their own agents were too incompetent to do it.
That had been one of the reasons Tony had been interested in becoming an agent himself—he knew he’d be better at the job than any of the agents he’d come across. Jameson, himself a former detective who’d made the transition to the Bureau, had been assigned to make sure Tony was “Bureau” material. He had been, too. Until he’d gotten a little too cocky and a stupid mistake on a routine job had cost a good cop his life. Tony had been “allowed” to retire early. Any dreams of joining the Bureau had died along with his career.
“When did you decide to transfer to the Bureau of Prohibition?” Tony asked, stalling for a little time while his mind furiously spun.
Jameson’s eyes narrowed. “A year ago. So, what’s it going to be, Solomon? It’s a good offer and you know it. You won’t get another one like this if you pass this up. I know you tried to get back into law enforcement when you came back to town. And I know that none of the agencies would touch you. Not even the local police department of that podunk town you crawled out of when you sobered up. You didn’t start this P.I. firm because you wanted to. You didn’t have a choice. Well, now I’m offering you one. Don’t throw this away.”
Tony focused his attention out the window until he could control the urge to sock Jameson in his ugly mug. It was one thing to hate his job. It was another to have someone like Jameson point out how worthless it was. He’d like nothing more than to throw the man out of his office on his butt-kissing ass, but with Tony already on shaky ground with law enforcement agencies, he couldn’t really afford to get on their wrong side. Worse than he was, anyway, not if he ever wanted to get out of this stinking office and salvage his career.
“What is it exactly that you arerequestingI do?”
“There’s a certain someone we need a little more information on.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed further, and he hated that he was a little intrigued. “And who is this certain someone?”
Jameson smiled. “Our little friend at the butcher shop. We need you to get a bit more…cozywith her. She’s not really your type, but then,” he looked around the office, “maybe you’re ready for a change of pace, eh?”
The mention of the intriguing Miss Harlan made Tony’s hand clench in an urge to slug Jameson.
“Just spill it and get the hell out of my office, Jameson. I already did your little favor and asked about the fish. What exactly is going on? She looked at me like I was crazy. And then stuck me with a fillet of trout, which I hate, and I had topayfor it.”
“The fish is code, we believe, for when The Red Phoenix will be open. We thought we had the right phrasing nailed down. Apparently not.”
“You honestly think that dame is involved with some speakeasy?”
Jameson dropped a file on Tony’s desk and leaned back in his chair while Tony flipped it open with a knot in his stomach. He didn’t know why he cared. She had seemed nice, though. Different. A female butcher? Making her way in the world alone? He admired her. And the way her cheeks had flushed every time he’d looked at her made him want to explore every inch of her deliciously rosy skin.
Jessie’s picture stared up at him from the file. Her face was in profile, her thick hair blowing in the wind, though the black and white photo didn’t do justice to its actual rich chestnut color. She was speaking to a gentleman whose face was obscured by the corner of a building. She obviously wasn’t aware she’d been photographed. They’d had her under surveillance.
More pictures showed her with the same gentleman, though there was never a clear shot of his face. Tony’s gut knotted at how obviously familiar the man was to Jessie. One picture showed him with his arm draped around her shoulder; another, opening a car door for her outside a restaurant. Another was shadowy, blurry, obviously taken through the shop window, but it looked like the man and Jessie were wrapped in an embrace, passionately kissing.
Tony tossed the pictures back on the desk, gritting his teeth against the rush of disappointment and anger the pictures dredged up. The file contained only a few other papers with almost no information. Her name—Jessica Harlan. Her age—twenty-five. Her address—an apartment above the butcher shop.
Tony arched an eyebrow. “Doesn’t seem like much here. What makes you think this dame is involved in anything illegal?”
Jameson tapped his finger on the pictures. “That man.”
Tony bit his tongue against responding to Jameson’s condescending tone and looked more carefully at the pictures. He brought the clearest photo up to his face.
“You can’t see him clearly enough to make him out. Who is he?”
“We think he’s Mario Russo.”
“Willie the Weasel’s Mario Russo?”
“Live and in person,” Jameson said, leaning back and folding his hands across his chest. “Or so we believe. Hard to tell from the pictures, but the scuttlebutt at the time was that it was none other than Russo. Which means our little Miss Harlan spent several months running around town with one of the highest ranking members of Willie’s organization. Not looking so innocent now, is she?”
Tony’s swallowed, his stomach dropping a notch or two. “And now?”
“They had some sort of falling out—”
“Maybe she figured out who he was and cut ties.”
Jameson’s eyebrow rose at the interruption. “Maybe. But word on the street is that she found herself a bigger fish.”
Tony didn’t want to know who that might be. The thought of her being some gangster’s moll ruined the shiny picture he’d had of her in his head. He glanced back at the thin file. “You don’t seem to have any information on any other man. What makes you think she’s involved with anyone? Especially someone who runs in Russo’s circles?”
