Free Veiled Magic by Deborah Blake Page A

glass.
    â€œWhat’ll it be?” he asked. “Shot or a beer?”
    Donata couldn’t tell if this question was a reflection on her apparent personality, or a statement of the bar’s limited repertoire. Not that it mattered, since she didn’t intend to drink much of whatever she ordered anyway.
    â€œBeer’s good,” she said with a shrug, putting her helmet down on the bar. “Whatever you’ve got in a bottle that isn’t too fancy.”
    The bartender laughed, as she’d intended him to. “Yeah, fancy. I like that.” He popped the top off a bottle of Coors and set it down on the bar a little too hard, so it foamed over. Donata cocked an eyebrow at him but didn’t say a word, simply moving her helmet over out of harm’s way. After a minute, he smirked at her and wiped up the spill with his crusty rag. Clearly she’d passed the test. Donata loved these kinds of places.
Not
. Still, she could do macho with the best of them—that’s what came of seven years of working with mostly male cops.
    She pushed the twenty toward him and shook her head when he went to give her back her change. He shot her a piercing look, then shrugged and put the money in his pocket.
    â€œSomething I can get you besides that beer?” he asked. He gave her a suggestive leer, which she also ignored.
    â€œI’m looking for a guy named Peter Casaventi. I was told he hangs out here sometimes.”
    The bartender lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “People aren’t so big on names around here, honey. You got a description?”
    Donata thought about showing him the picture she’d copied from the society pages of the newspaper: a well-groomed but glum-looking man in his late thirties, about six feet tall, with wavy black hair that brushed the top of his collar, slim hips, broad shoulders, and a slight cleft in his chin. In the photo, he’d been standing next to an elegant older couple, two women, and another man, all of whom had looked more poised and comfortable than he had. He might as well have been holding a sign that said, “Would like to be anywhere but here.”
    On consideration, though, she thought it probably wasn’t a good idea to flash a picture of the monied set in a place like the Abyss, so she settled for giving the bartender a short description.
    He grunted as he thought briefly. “Yeah, I think I know the guy. Comes in for two or three nights in a row sometimes, then I don’t see him for weeks. Sits in the back room by himself, minds his own business, doesn’t make any trouble.” He glared at Donata. “
You
plannin’ on making trouble, sister?”
    â€œNope,” she said. “It’s been a long day. Don’t have the energy.”
    His mouth stretched in a grin. “I hear ya.” He jerked one meaty thumb to his left. “In that case,” he pointed down the bar toward a door. “Back room’s through there. Coupla pool tables, an old jukebox that hasn’t worked since 2010, and a few tables for folks who don’t like to hang out with the rest of us. Help yourself.”
    Someone from the other end up the bar held up an empty glass and the bartender moved away to do his job. Donata got up slowly, tucked her helmet under one arm, and carried her beer with her as she moved to the back room. She hoped that Farmingham was right about this guy being the one they needed to deal with the painting. If she’d spent the evening in a filthy alley and a crappy bar for nothing, she was going to be really put out.

Chapter Eight
    Donata spotted Peter Casaventi as soon as she walked through the door. He sat alone at a table in the back, a little older and a little scruffier than the picture from the paper, but still slim and muscular. He was dressed in well-worn jeans and a soft blue cotton shirt, and he needed a shave and a haircut. He was also startlingly attractive in a way that hadn’t