Page 54 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“Everything okay?”

I spin around, embarrassed to be caught mid-recon, and there’s Tasha, looking a little tired but happy to see me. “Sorry I’m late,” she says with an apologetic grimace. “I just can’t get out from under my workload these days.”

Lucky workload, I think.

“No sweat,” I say and wave toward the booths. “Any preference?”

“How about that one?” Tasha’s hand grazes my lower back, and my brain instantly puts a pin in the sleuthing and screamsDate date it’s looking like a dateas she gently steers me to the empty booth. She’s not in work mode anymore, and she’s let her hair down and—even sexier—unknotted her bow tie, which hangs loose around her neck. I’m on an actual date with the after-hours James Bond of civic engagement.

High five to myself.

I let her slide into the booth and then ask her what she wants. “First round’s on me.”

“There’s going to be more than one round?” she asks with a grin.

“I havea lotof unwinding to do,” I say with a matching grin. “I’m guessing you do, too, workaholic?”

“Guilty as charged.” She holds up a hand. “What can I say, I’m a beast for public service. If I’m not in bed, I’m probably at work.”

“Sounds like you need to spend more time in bed,” I suggest, raising an eyebrow.

“Get me that drink and you can tell me your pitch.”

Holy corporate-style flirting, Batman.

I float over to the bar with her order, and as I wait for the bartender to pour a couple pints of Green Line, I scope out the wall above the cash register. It’s crammed with a bunch of haphazardly taped-up photos from one of those rebooted Polaroid cameras, and I search for Cran’s trademark sneer, but come up empty—just a lot of poorly framed shots of strangers toasting or making Malört face.

I sneak a look at the three sports guys, who are glued to a TV screen playing a Cubs game. One of them has a hand resting in a bowl of nuts, like he’s getting a manicure and needs to soften his cuticles first.

Mental note: Don’t eat the nuts here.

Follow-up note: Those guys are probably not part of any potential crime syndicate.

A quick glance at the couple in the booth tells me they are full-on making out, so also probably not involved in much crime-ing.

How does recon work if people don’t just walk up and admit stuff to you? I’m starting to get the distinct impression that I suck at this.Soldier on, I think solemnly.

As the bartender works, I try a little casual chitchat.

“So, you get a lot of suits in here?”

She stops midpour and shoots me a baffled look, like I’ve asked her about local Serbian politics.

Maybe that’s just not the right question.

“Cool matchbooks.” I point to the little bowl of them. “How many do you think you go through in a month?”

She squints and I think this isalsonot the way to go.

One more try. “How do you decide who gets to go up on the wall?”

Finally, she answers. “You have to be somebody I like.”

Then she gives me a look that clearly says I will not be going up on the wall.

That’s enough recon for now.

“Two Guinnesses,” she says, plopping the pint glasses down in front of me.