The Deception (31 page)

The sliver of moon provided little assistance as he picked his way over the rough ground, but it also made it easier for him to stay hidden. Ducking behind some shrubbery overhanging the fence that adjoined the brothel, he discovered a narrow pathway that ran between the two buildings.

He trod carefully and did his best to minimize the crunching sound of the gravel and rocks beneath his boots. He halted and listened for the guards. He heard nothing but the sound of his own intermittent breathing and the adrenaline-charged pumping of his heart.

Rounding the end of the building, he found himself in a medium-sized backyard. Apart from a single tiny patch of dirt directly beneath the solitary tree, the ground had been concreted right up to the high wooden fence that completely surrounded the property.

One way to save on mowing.

In the meager moonlight, and with assistance from a light that glowed above the back door, he made out an old rotary clothesline that stood in the cracked concrete about thirty feet from the back door.

A large blue dumpster sat in the far corner, deep in the shadows. He took a quick look around to make sure the way was clear and then jogged over to it.

At first, he thought it was empty, but when the moon came out from behind a cloud, he noticed a bundle of old newspapers caught on the bottom. Leaning over the rusted metal side of the dumpster, he grabbed hold of the thin nylon rope that tied them together and hauled them out.

The first thing he noticed was the rectangular-shaped piece that was missing from the middle. The lines of the cut were clean and had been made with a sharp instrument—more than likely a box cutter. The rectangular hole measured about the size of a tissue box and had been cut right through the entire bundle of papers.

Holding them up to the faint moonlight, he saw it was the
Daily Mirror
. The date on the top page was January twentieth—a few days ago. He flicked through the bundle, pulling pages randomly from the thin nylon that bound them.

Same thing. Each one was a copy of the
Daily Mirror
. Each one was dated January twentieth.

Having nowhere to stow the bundle, he carefully tore off the front page from one of the papers and folded it until it fit inside his shirt pocket and then scanned the back fence for an opening. The rocky path he’d traversed between the buildings was far too narrow to allow for a garbage truck, or any vehicle for that matter. There had to be a gate in the fence somewhere.

Voices coming from the direction of the brothel caught his attention. He cast around for somewhere to hide. With nothing but the dumpster to conceal him, he scooted back to it and crouched low in the shadows.

He raised himself until he could see above the heavy rusted metal. A pair of security guards rounded the building. With flashlights in their hands, it was obvious they were doing a routine patrol.

Will waited until they’d disappeared and then stepped out from behind the dumpster and walked stealthily behind them. It was risky, but as long as he was quiet, it wasn’t likely they would turn and retrace their steps. More likely was the chance that another patrol was close behind the first. Tonight, for whatever reason, Vince wanted the building secure.

The investigation was on the verge of a breakthrough. The last thing Will needed was to be discovered and forced to answer awkward questions about why he was loitering at the back of the building. The search for a gate in the back fence would have to wait, along with his search for the cellar.

Making it safely back onto the street and knowing he’d been away longer than anyone would expect his supposed errand to take, he quickly formulated an excuse. Pulling out the cell phone that had been in his pants pocket all along, he dialed Savannah’s number just as he came within earshot of the bouncers. He couldn’t help the genuine smile that tugged at his lips when she answered.

“Hi, babe. How are you? I’m at the Club. I’ll be home in an hour or two.”

She reassured him she was fine. When she added that she missed him, he wanted nothing more than to head over to her condominium and leave Maranoa and the investigation far behind him.

Instead, he told her he loved her and ended the call. The bouncer grinned and opened the front door for him, a knowing glint in his eye.

“Got to keep the missus happy,” Will quipped. He dropped the phone back into his pocket and made his way inside.

* * *

Savannah ended the call, relieved that she’d had the foresight to turn her phone to vibrate before she’d left home. She strained to make out the uneven path ahead of her. It was almost ten o’clock. Will was already inside. He thought she was home, packing boxes.

A shard of guilt sliced through her. She hated to deceive him, but he hadn’t given her a choice. She simply had to know if her brother was involved. And if so, she had to help him get out of this scrape before he totally ruined his life.

Deep down, she knew it had been Dylan she’d seen and heard during her previous visit. What was more, she had a sinking feeling he was the man Malee and Angel had referred to as “Billy.”

Despite her earlier confidence, she didn’t really have a plan on how to get into the brothel if the back door was locked, other than to once again prevail upon the stupidity of the security guards and hope like hell they weren’t the same two she’d spoken to during her last attempt.

Fear at the possibility she might come face to face with Maranoa again threatened to choke her. Will said Maranoa wanted to have sex with her. He was a dangerous criminal, a murderer—or at the very least, a man who condoned it. Her discovery at the brothel could result in consequences too awful to contemplate, but she could hardly walk away without knowing the truth. If Dylan was involved with Maranoa, she had to get him away from the place and talk sense into him, before he was discovered by the police. There would be no leniency from the judge this time around.

She thought about Will and bit her lip. He’d be furious when he discovered she was here—and rightly so. The dangers were indisputable and he’d made it clear he didn’t want her anywhere near the place.

The sound of the back door opening interrupted her thoughts. A security guard strode through the doorway and down the steps. She stifled a gasp of alarm and plastered herself against the wall, silently cursing the light that spilled across the concrete, reaching out for her.

The man walked across the backyard and disappeared into the shadows. A moment later, she heard him sigh and seconds after that, the unmistakable sound of him urinating.

Her heart pounded. The guard hadn’t stopped to close the door. If she hurried, she could sneak inside before he noticed. It was a stroke of luck she wasn’t about to let pass her by.

As quickly as she could, she dashed across the last few feet that separated her from the back door of the brothel. Stepping through the opening, she breathed a sigh of relief.

She was in. Again.

She’d taken the time to dress in dark clothing, hoping to remain as inconspicuous as possible. She’d teamed the short, black leather skirt she’d worn the last time with a tight, black T-shirt. The fishnet stockings were also back, as were the five-inch heels.

Her black wig looked a little worse for wear, but she’d done her best to smooth it down. Even so, it was more of a “just climbed out of bed” look which she supposed would fit in just fine. She had no intention of ending up out on the stage again, but she didn’t want to look conspicuous to the casual observer and that meant dressing the part.

Malee had told Savannah during her first visit that it wasn’t unusual for the girls to wander around the main part of the club before a show, offering drinks and engaging in small talk with the patrons. It was all part of the service and a way to entice the men to spend more intimate time with them behind closed doors, where the real money was made.

Her plan was to pretend to be one of the girls working the floor. She’d do her best to use her time to seek out any place her brother might be. She’d seen him in the main room the last time. It was possible, if he worked for Maranoa, he might be there again.

She only hoped she wouldn’t run into the boss. According to Will’s intelligence, something big was going down. The last thing she wanted was to get caught up in the middle of it, but knowing arrests might be imminent only increased the pressure to find her brother—before the police did.

* * *

Will’s drink sat untouched on the bar. Regaining his seat, he thought of Savannah and frowned. She’d sounded strained, but he guessed she was still a little annoyed that he’d refused to allow her to accompany him.

As if he would ever willingly put her in danger like that again? It was ludicrous to even suggest it, but he’d have to tread carefully. She was used to making her own decisions and her stubborn independence was one of the things he admired about her. She would also have to realize there were certain things he was not prepared to negotiate. Hanging out in a brothel owned by a dangerous criminal while pretending to be a prostitute the drug lord had already expressed an interest in was definitely number one on his list.

Will picked up his glass of scotch and took a healthy swallow. The room was still a long way from crowded, although there were a few more girls circulating and another small group of men had taken up a position at a table in the far corner of the room. His gaze swept over them again and he tensed when he realized one of the men was Vince Maranoa.

In an effort to catch a glimpse of Maranoa’s companions, Will slid off the stool and leaned back against the bar. He caught a flash of wild gray hair and suddenly knew the identity of at least one of them.

Max O’Connor
. An interesting coincidence. Too bad for Max, Will didn’t believe in coincidences. He turned back toward the bar to avoid being recognized by the editor and noticed the bartender standing uncomfortably close. Knowing that the man had probably caught him staring at Maranoa and his companions, he decided to play it straight.

“That’s Vince Maranoa over there, isn’t it?” He flicked his head nonchalantly in the direction of their table. The barman nodded.

“I’ve heard so much about him. What’s he like to work for?”

The man shrugged noncommittally. Using a cloth he’d slung over his shoulder, he picked up glasses from a rack nearby and began to dry them. Will took another sip from his drink and tried again.

“Been working here long?”

“Three years, give or take a month or two. Every day’s the same after awhile.”

Will grinned with forced camaraderie. “Yeah. I know what you mean. Same shit, different day, right?”

The barman offered the tiniest of smiles and continued drying.

“You must see a fair number of people pass through here?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“What about the blokes talking to Vince? You ever see them here before?”

The barman moved slightly away until he had a better view of the men at the back of the room. He gave Will a slight nod.

“Yeah, they’re both regulars. The young one’s Billy—Billy the Kid, Vince calls him. He’s Vince’s right hand man—or so the brat brags to anyone who’ll listen. I don’t know how he got so thick with Vince in such a short time. He’s only been here five minutes. Georgie reckons the Kid reminds Vince of himself when he was younger.”

“And the other man?”

“Yeah, the older bloke’s a mate of Vince’s. He’s known him forever.”

Will’s heart pounded.
Could the barman’s information be right?
Could Max O’Connor and Vince Maranoa have a history? If that was true, it was another coincidence in a string of them that were making Will very uneasy. And what of Billy?

Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw Max stand and shake Vince’s hand. The editor would have to pass right by the bar to reach the exit. Will muttered a curse under his breath, thinking fast. Standing abruptly, he headed for the men’s restroom in the opposite direction. Despite Max’s knowledge of Will’s tendency to frequent the Black Opal, he had no desire to remind the man of his connection to it.

Shouldering open the door to the bathroom, he went into a stall and shut the door behind him. As he closed the lid on the toilet and sat down, a tumult of thoughts raced through in his head.

O’Connor was living beyond his means. Will had found recent, strangely altered copies of the editor’s newspaper in the brothel’s dumpster. If the bartender could be believed, Maranoa and O’Connor had known each other for years and O’Connor was a regular patron of Maranoa’s brothel. The editor had warned Savannah away from the Black Opal.

The pieces fell into place. Will cursed aloud.

Max was involved.
There was no other explanation. He was the common denominator. Everywhere Will turned, there was a link to the man.

He glanced at his watch. It was a little after ten. He thought wistfully of Savannah who was probably getting ready for bed after their marathon sex sessions the night before. He was exhausted too and suddenly yearned to have the night over with, so he could join her.

Opening the door of the stall, he rinsed his hands in the sink, threw some water over his face and dried off with paper towel. He looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was decidedly disheveled. It looked like he’d been involved in a scuffle. It must have happened while he’d been ducking for cover outside. Running his hands through his hair, he smoothed the strands in an attempt to tidy up.

He pulled open the door to leave the men’s room and glanced around the main bar. O’Connor was nowhere to be seen. The man named Billy had also vanished. Two other men had now joined Maranoa at his table.

Will turned back toward the bar, intent on finishing his drink. He was halfway across the room when the staff door swung open. Seconds later, Savannah breezed inside and sauntered over to the bar, barely decent in a tight, revealing outfit.

Will gaped in disbelief. Shock was quickly followed by blinding anger…

CHAPTER 26

Moving toward the bar, Savannah’s hips swayed with a confidence she was far from feeling, but it was all about appearances. She pulled her shoulders back and thrust out her breasts. If she
looked
like she was meant to be there, people would assume she was. At least, she hoped they would.