He too had a very nearly uncontainable thrill of being in the Ladies’ Mile.

CHAPTER 20

“WHAT CAN I GET YOU, HATCHER?”

“Johnnie Walker Black. Rocks.”

“A week on the job together, and I still don’t know your drink,” Rogan said. “That ain’t right.”

As much as Ellie wanted to go home, flip on the tube, and crash on the couch, this had been her first invitation for a group drink out of the Thirteenth Precinct, and she was not about to blow the opportunity. They were celebrating Jake Myers’s arrest at Plug Uglies, a cop bar on Third Ave. between Twentieth and Twenty-first.

Even though this wood-paneled pub-originally named for one of the city’s old Irish gangs, now accessorized with the shoulder patches of hundreds of police and firemen-was the official hangout of the Thirteenth Precinct, this was Ellie’s first visit with other cops. Her only previous invitation had come from Jess after her first day in the homicide squad-not his sort of place, but it was close to work, and with a $2 happy hour, it was one of the few spots in Manhattan where her brother could afford to pick up a tab.

Tonight, drinks were on Rogan, and that meant that half the squad tagged along, even though they had nothing to do with the Chelsea Hart case. When it came time to celebrate, a case clearance for one was a win for all.

She spotted a familiar face at the end of the bar and indicated to Rogan she’d be right back.

“Hey, stranger.”

Peter Morse greeted her with a peck on the cheek. Ellie automatically looked around to confirm that the other cops were preoccupied.

“How’d you know I’d be here?” she asked.

“I didn’t. I’m meeting Kittrie.” Peter glanced at his watch. “His idea to be here, and now he’s fifteen minutes late. Typical.”

“He made you stay late last night, took top billing on this morning’s story, and now you’re having a drink with him? I thought you hated that guy.”

“Doesn’t matter-he’s the boss. Everyone’s tiptoeing around him anyway these days, ever since Justine accidentally connected to his line and heard some doctor saying something about a tumor. I’m convinced she made up the whole thing to fuck with me, but I’m not going to risk being an a-hole to the guy. He wanted to work together on the Hart story, we worked together. He wants to have a drink, I’m having a drink.”

“And he just happened to pick Plug Uglies out of all the bars in Manhattan?”

“Of course not. He’s convinced you pick up the best dirt at cop bars. Little does he know I have found a much more pleasurable method of cultivating inside sources.”

Peter placed his palm on the small of her back, and she pulled away. Enough PDA for one night.

“Ah, except I don’t actually give you any inside information. I just use you for the sex.”

Peter snapped his fingers. “I knew there was a problem with my plan. That probably explains why I’m in the doghouse with Kittrie. He’s pissed we didn’t get a better picture of your victim.”

“You had the same one as the Times.”

“Exactly. But the Sun didn’t. Now he says I shouldn’t have just taken whatever the family handed us. He says the graduation shot was too controlled.”

“What did he expect you to do? Go to her MySpace page and steal pictures off the Web?”

“That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“Too late. We already told the family to pull down the profile. But it would still be less tacky than nagging Chelsea’s friends. That’s how the Sun got their picture.”

“You’re tracking journalists’ practices now?”

Ellie got the impression he didn’t agree with her assessment about the tastelessness of chasing down a murder victim’s loved ones to help a story. “No, but it’s the only way they could’ve gotten it. One of Chelsea’s friends snapped it with her cell phone the night before the murder.” She was still annoyed that the photograph had run on the front page of tens of thousands of newspapers, with Chelsea’s missing earrings on full display.

She felt a hand on her right shoulder and turned to find herself in the middle of an enthusiastic handshake. The man pumping her arm was about forty years old, medium height and build, with wire-rimmed glasses and not much remaining hair.

“Hi there. George Kittrie. I believe you’re the famous Ellie Hatcher?”

“Hopefully less famous by the day.”

“Not if we have anything to say about it, isn’t that right, Peter?” Kittrie nudged the visibly uncomfortable reporter. “Ignore me. I’m being a jerk, even if I was only kidding.”

Kittrie looked familiar. She tried to place him-probably the author photo on his book. “Have we met before?”

“Nah, but you may have seen me around. I’m a big believer that any crime-beat reporter worth his salt has got to hit the cop bars. It’s all about contacts. I had a real good relationship with Flann McIlroy, by the way.”

Given the circumstances of McIlroy’s death, Ellie supposed her name would always be linked with his in New York City law enforcement circles.

“What kind of drink can we get you?” Kittrie asked.

She turned to see J. J. Rogan encircled by Thirteenth Precinct cops, a lonely Johnnie Walker Black on the bar next to him, getting more watered down by the second, calling out to her: Drink me.

“I’ve got some friends waiting for me,” she said.

“Sounded like a celebration when I passed. I don’t suppose there’s a break in the Chelsea Hart case.”

“Just an after-work drink is all.” The Daily Post would get wind of Jake Myers’s arrest soon enough from the Public Information Office. She said her good-byes and left poor Peter on his man date with Kittrie.

As Ellie made her way over to Rogan, she saw that the first patrol officer who responded to Chelsea’s crime scene was holding court. If she had to guess, he was probably leaving out the part where he tossed his cookies and was sent off to fetch her clothes.

She plucked her drink from the bar, and Rogan nodded his head in her direction.

“Capra here was just telling everyone about being first on the scene this morning.”

Ellie saw a hint of color creep into the cheeks of the young officer. “First uniform on the scene, Detective. Your partner, of course, was first man there. Or woman, or-”

“Someone get this officer another drink,” she said with a laugh. John Shannon, the detective whose desk was behind hers, raised his glass in a toast. The rest of the crowd, however, greeted her with stony stares and uncomfortable glances. It was apparently going to take more than one arrest and a round of drinks to win some folks over.

Her cell phone vibrated at her waist. The screen read, “Unavailable.”

“Hatcher.” Ellie plugged one ear shut with her index finger.

“Hi, it’s Max Donovan from the DA’s office.”

“You got our message?” She maneuvered her way to the front of the bar.

Their message had actually been left by Rogan. She stole a look at her partner.

“Yeah, this is my first chance to get back to you. The good news is, well, it couldn’t be any better. I cut a deal with Nick Warden.”

“He’s flipping on Jake?”

Ellie opened her backpack and pulled out a manila folder that the Central Records Division had delivered that morning. It contained the file on the murder of Roberta Harrington, aka Robbie. The original reports dated back to the summer of 2000. Given that Jake Myers was barely out of middle school at the time, any connection between the two cases now seemed impossible.

She skimmed while Donovan brought her up to speed.

“No question. It helped that I could go in there this morning with the fingerprint match and the cabdriver’s ID. I told him, ‘Look, we’ve got our case against Jake. The only question is whether we’re going to have one against you, too.’ Once he and his lawyer heard what we already had on Myers, and what Warden was looking at on his drug case, it was easy. The guy’s got loyalty, though. He wanted a deal for Jaime Rodriguez, too.”