CHAPTER 24
PETER WAS WAITING for Ellie at the bar when she walked into Dos Caminos at eight o’clock. The popular restaurant was a bit of a scene, especially for the relatively sedate Gramercy neighborhood, and was much fancier than her usual take-out Mexican fare, but she supposed that had been the point when Peter had selected it.
He handed her a margarita on the rocks, with salt. “I took the liberty.”
“You dear, wonderful man.”
They followed the hostess to a small table in the back dining room.
“So hopefully today was slightly better than the rest of your week?” Peter asked once they were alone.
Ellie used a chip to scoop up an enormous blob of green salsa, and popped it into her mouth. She nodded happily while she swallowed. “No new bodies. No new arrests. Just tying up the loose ends against Myers.”
“Well, as much as I’ve appreciated your willingness to allow the late-night pop-ins-”
“I believe the young people refer to them as booty calls.”
“Yes, right. Lovely. Despite my appreciation for the time together, it’s nice to see you while the hour is still in the single digits. You holding up okay? I think you’ve put in more time in your first week in that unit than I have all month.”
“I’m good. The truth is, I put in a ton of time off the clock even when I was working garden-variety property cases.”
Finally, for the first time in forty-eight hours, Ellie had a chance to breathe. She was in a great restaurant with a terrific guy and a tasty margarita. She could finally think and talk about something other than Chelsea Hart, Jake Myers, and the little mistakes that had turned a night of spring break into a tragedy.
She should have been appreciative. She should have been bubbling over with non-work-related chatter. But she found herself thinking about those cold case files. She finally allowed herself to raise the subject over her pork tacos.
“I was following up on some old cases Flann McIlroy had been looking at,” she said.
“You get ten minutes of downtime, and you start poking around in someone else’s cold cases?”
“I know. I’m a glutton for punishment. But, you know, he meant a lot to me, and so-”
“No explanation necessary.”
“Anyway, he had these three cases he thought might be connected. I was wondering if he ever reached out to you about them. It would’ve been about three years ago.”
“Why would he call me?”
“That was just his way. He’d plant stories in the press as a way to stir up public attention. Maybe turn up a witness who’d never come forward.” Of course, McIlroy’s critics would have said it was a way of calling attention to his own career.
“No, I never spoke to the man until I met you. But I’m still pretty new to the crime beat. If he was going to call someone at the Daily Post, it would’ve been Kittrie. You should ask him.”
“Your editor? You haven’t exactly described him as the most accessible man on the planet.”
Peter shrugged. “He’s not that bad. Just a little rigid. I might be, too, if I was a boss.”
“Oh, my God. You look like you’re in physical pain trying to say something nice about the man.”
“Fine, he’s a fuckstick.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to say that about a guy with a tumor.”
“I told you, I think Justine’s just screwing with my mind, trying to force me to be nice to him.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she said. “You know what they say: People live longer, we’ve got crummy lifestyles, the environment’s going to hell. Cancer rates are up, my friend. We’re pretty much all dying as we speak.”
“Jesus, you’re depressing. I’m telling you-Kittrie’s fine, in that respect, at least. Just call him, okay? He’s a tool, but he definitely would’ve had a line in to a guy like McIlroy.” Peter pulled out his own business card and scribbled George Kittrie’s name and number on it. He extended it toward Ellie, then pulled it back. “I don’t need to be jealous now, do I?”
“Oh, definitely. Because, as you know from my own history, I have such a weakness for overbearing, micromanaging bosses.”
He handed her the number. “If McIlroy had a story to plant, it would have been with him.”
“Okay, now I have a single remaining demand of you this evening.”
“Ooh, a demand? Daddy likey.”
“Okay, two demands. One, don’t ever say that again. And two, don’t let me talk about work anymore.”
“But, Detective, what in the world would you talk about if not work, when that’s all you ever do?”
“Fine, I can talk about normal-people work stuff-my partner, my boss, the heroin addict who left behind his prescription methadone during a burglary-”
“You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “But I don’t want to talk about my cases.”
“I think we can work around that.”
And for the rest of the evening, Ellie forced herself to be normal. No talk of killers, either past or current. She and Peter were on a date like two regular people.
And when Peter offered to walk her home, she had anything but work on her mind.
CHAPTER 25
THERE’S ALWAYS an easy way and a hard way.
Ellie had spoken those words to the drug-buying law student at Pulse as a warning that there were two ways she could search her purse. Now it was Thursday morning, and she repeated the phrase to herself as an entirely different kind of warning. She had three cold case files tucked discreetly in her top drawer, and she had a decision to make.
She could return the files to Central Records and pretend she had never received a call from Bill Harrington. Or she could try to retrace Flann McIlroy’s steps, a task that was probably impossible and would only complicate the case against Jake Myers.
She sat at her desk nursing a spoonful of Nutella, looking at the handwritten phone number on the back of Peter’s business card. An easy way or a hard way.
The dream witness in the solid case against Jake Myers. Easy. Cherry pie. Or the cop who breaks the news to Rogan, Dan Eckels, Simon Knight, Max Donovan, the mayor’s office, and-worst of all-Miriam and Paul Hart that there’s a problem. Not easy.