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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

8:45 P.M.

With more than a decade passed since the move from Wichita to New York, Ellie was still struck by random reminders of how much her life had changed as a result of that geographic switch. She had grown up in a place where arguments about pizza revolved around the choice between Pizza Hut and Domino’s. Now a craving for pizza could spark a thirty-minute debate about the relative virtues of the crispy, charred crusts of John’s in the West Village compared to the white pies at Lombardi’s. And then there were those who swore that real New York pizza could only be found in Brooklyn.

Fortunately, Ellie had been spared any such discussion. When she’d called Max Donovan to say she was finally ready for a break and could use some pizza, they both knew precisely the place she had in mind.

Ellie pushed her way through Otto’s narrow revolving door. The name was Italian for the number eight, reflecting the restaurant’s location on Eighth Street, just north of Washington Square Park. If Ellie had been told a dozen years earlier that a craving for pizza would lead her to a crowded Mario Batali wine bar just a block from the famous park arches where Harry had dropped off Sally, she never would have believed it.

But now Otto was Max and Ellie’s “place.” They didn’t have a song or an anniversary or cutesy nicknames for each other, but in the rituals of their relationship, they had developed a well-practiced habit of sitting at the Otto bar, drinking wine and nibbling on small plates of antipasti, pizza, and pasta.

“There she is.”

The head bartender, Dennis, wore his usual white oxford shirt, blue jeans, and Buddha-like smile. He was already pouring two fingers of Johnnie Walker Black into a lowball glass, which he set before the awaiting empty stool next to Max Donovan.

“I was just telling the DA here that you must be working harder than him these days. Am I ordering for you, or do you want menus?”

“Your choice tonight,” Ellie said.

“And how hungry are we?”

“Very.”

“Good. We like hungry people here.” Dennis topped off Max’s glass of red wine and made his way to the other end of the bar.

“To the end of the day,” Max said, raising his glass for a clink.

They had been keeping their relationship casual, but she had allowed Max deep enough into her life that he knew how much she hated the natural pause points in a hot case. You jump from lead to lead, from witness to witness, from the morgue to the crime lab, but at some point, you have to rest. Take a breath. Take a break. Take a fresh look later.

Some cops could turn off during those moments. Close out all thoughts of the case and live their lives until it was time to tune back in. Not Ellie. She’d been moving nonstop for nearly twelve hours on an empty stomach and knew she’d be awake the rest of the night from the lingering adrenaline.

“So what’s next on that Web site case of yours?” Max also knew her well enough to anticipate she’d need to talk about the case to transition back into any kind of normal conversation. “Hopefully you’ll get something off the boyfriend’s laptop.”

Ellie had called Max from Gaslight to make sure she had probable cause to seize Guzman’s computer. He agreed that she could act without a warrant to prevent Guzman from cleaning out the hard drive. Unfortunately, he also agreed it was premature to haul Guzman in for questioning.

“I dropped the laptop off with the analyst. I swear, that kid looked like he was fifteen years old. And he called me ma’am. But, fuck it, I told him he could call me Grandma as long as he had something for me tomorrow afternoon.”

A skinny Italian kid with an apron and ponytail set a collection of dishes in front of them, and Dennis interrupted to announce the contents of their meal. It involved meats and cheeses she couldn’t even pronounce, but to her it all boiled down to pizza and pasta and was therefore perfect.

She plunged her fork into a plate of spaghetti carbonara without waiting for Max. “And how was your day today?”

“Fine. I had that ridiculous charade this morning with Bandon, of course. Then after you left for Long Island, I spent the rest of the afternoon on a murder plea with Judge Walker. It was like pulling teeth.”

“The defendant wussed out?” Exchanging twenty-five years to get out from under a true life-sentence sounded like a good deal until the defendant actually had to seal his own fate in open court.

“No, he got hungry and apparently pretty sick of the prison slop he’ll be eating for the next quarter century. He wouldn’t plead guilty unless the judge got him some McGriddle cakes and gorditas.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“He wouldn’t plead unless we got him his food. And not just any fast food. Two McGriddle cakes and two Taco Bell Gordita Supremes, one chicken and one beef.”

“I’m not falling for this.” Max had a way of exaggerating or even fabricating entire stories, anything to make her laugh.

He held up his right hand in a mock oath. “I swear to God. After an hour trying to explain why the guy shouldn’t waive important constitutional rights in exchange for fast food, Judge Walker finally broke down. Apparently, though, it violates personnel rules for the guards to give anything unauthorized to the prisoners. So then Walker sent his bailiff out on a food run, but he came back without the Mickey D’s. I guess McGriddle cakes are a breakfast menu item and therefore unavailable after eleven a.m. I finally schmoozed up a manager and got it done.”

Of course he had. Max could talk the archbishop into converting. “Now that’s power.”

“No, real power in the culinary world would involve persuading you to leave me some of that spaghetti.”

She shook her head quickly and took another bite, but pushed what remained on the plate in his direction. Just as she felt the tension of the day leave her body, her phone vibrated at her waist. It was Rogan.

“Yeah,” she said, cupping her free hand around the mouthpiece to block out the Clash song playing overhead.

“You’re with your boy, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, say good-bye. We’ve got another body.”