I know. It's been a minute or two since I've posted. I could hand out a series of excuses about the 3 year hiatus on my story, The Rookie, but I feel like at this point, it would not do the long break justice. Without going into a deep array of excuses, lets just say I had to take care of some professional stuff.

This story has been living in my head for a few months. I'm hoping that by writing again I can drum up some personal interest in revisiting my other story some time soon.

Thanks for your understanding.

As always, I own nothing. Stories written for fun. Not Profit. #nomoneyforcrackerjack

March 2019

Chelsea Neighborhood, NYC

The bar was unusually busy this evening.

Not that the establishment was ever really what one would define as slow. Nothing was slow in New York City. Even at a bar and grill on the edge of Chelsea on a chilly Thursday night.

Perhaps the higher than average patronage of the bar this evening was due to it being the 15th of the month. Pay days usually increased the amount of Patrón Silvers that got served on a given night.

Another reason could have been the Law Enforcement Conference that was in town.

O'Dells was nothing, if not a dyed in the wool cop bar. Cop-owned; three generations, in fact.

Elliot grabbed a clean rag from the sink next to the far side of the bar, unfolding it slightly before positioning it in his cupped hand. With a long reach, he began swiping it across the mahogany surface, clearing the condensation left from the glasses that he had retrieved moments earlier. As he methodically cleaned up the remnants of the section of the bar that had just been vacated, his brow knitted together, deep in thought.

He had known the Police Conference was coming to town. It did so every 3 or 4 years; hitting larger cities like Seattle, Miami, Houston, Chicago. Given the sheer size of New York Cities Police Force, the conference was most often hosted here.

Also, Elliot got the monthly retiree newsletter from the Police Benevolent Association of New York. They usually had at least one or two special events for retired cops at these things, which had been highlighted in the most recent letter, including a happy hour, a recognition ceremony for meritorious service, workshops about life after the force, etc.

Elliot had thought about going. It had been 8 years since he had left the Job and he had essentially steered clear of anything law enforcement related for most of that time. No security work. No teaching at the academy, though an offer had been made shortly after he left the 1-6.

He couldn't do any of that. The closest he ever got to cops was serving them drinks after their shifts.

And for Elliot, that was not too bad. He got to imagine that he was still connected to the community, without the responsibility of holding someones life in his hands. Granted, he did have to collect people's keys every so often, make sure they got home safe... but he didn't have to draw a weapon. Didn't have to decide who lived or who died.

A kid or his partner.

That was too much to handle.

O'Dells was a great place to work. It was out of mid-town, so he was unlikely to see any of the cops that he used to work with frequenting the bar. Cops tended to drink in proximity to their own house. Likewise, most of the regulars at O'Dells worked Homicide, Warrants, and Vice; no Special Victims. In the 5 years Elliot had been working at O'Dells, he had yet to hear about a sex crime case while he was pouring someones' Whiskey Sour.

And, he found, at least in this bar, most people refrained from talking shop. It happened on occasion, but if people started doing it in front of him, he would just redirect the conversation to someone's kids, or ask how their wife was doing… If that didn't work, he could walk to the other end of the bar. Pretend to clean something... or take a break.

Elliot had thought seriously about the conference. He thought that maybe he was finally ready for something a little more immersive.

Plus, his shrink thought it was a good idea. Had said so when they spoke a few weeks back. … But, then he had looked up the Catalog for the Conference on the event website and thought better of it.

There were a series of panels on Sex Crime Victimology. Three over the course of 4 days. Among the panelists for each session…. His old partner - Olivia Benson.

Now… Lieutenant Olivia Benson.

God. Things had changed.

It was strange to think of Olivia, leading a unit. Not that he couldn't imagine it. Elliot certainly could see Olivia in leadership. She was a born leader. But, when he pictured her; thought back to the late nights in the file room, pouring over case files; sitting across from on another at their conjoined desks; he saw her soft expression, questioning eyes, and curious smile. He heard her voice... asking if he wanted take out before they when on stake out.

When he thought of her... Elliot thought of himself... walking with her, working with her... leaving her. His Partner... Olivia Benson.

While there were over 30,000 cops in New York City alone; even a remote possibility that he could run in to her was a deterrent to attend. Elliot didn't even care that the times for the panels and the times for the retiree events were at different points of the day. He knew that if he went… he would linger… just to see her. And, if Elliot saw her, he would feel regret.

Regret was something that he had already… he didn't need to feel more of it.

- Regret over a failed marriage.

- Regret at stunted relationships with his kids that took more time to repair than Elliot would care to admit.

- Regret over leaving his best friend without so much as a word.

- Regret over caring more about his best friend than the tail end of his reconciliation with his now, ex-wife.

- Regret over never reaching out.

… Never having the balls to tell her how he felt.

… At being so broken for a time that he could do nothing more than listen to her voicemails until the speaker in his phone burnt out. Yeah… So many fucking regrets.

"I love when something like this is happening at the Javits," a gruff voice interjected, pulling Elliot from his thoughts.

Elliot turned to face his manager. "Yeah, Mikey? And, why's that?" The right corner of his mouth upturning slightly. "Is it cuz you get to watch an old man get flustered?"

"Ha!" His compatriot behind the bar chirped. "Don't pretend that you get flustered doing this. You used to chase down asshole perverts for a living. This is easy for you."

"I see that you took no effort to correct my statement about being an old man." Elliot joked, turning around fully to meet the amused countenance of his employer and friend.

Mikey… or former Detective First Grade, Michael Joseph O'Dell had been a lifer at the 71st in Brooklyn. He had aspirations of moving up into leadership, but a week after taking the Sergeants exam he had been shot twice; once in the elbow, and once in the hand. He had been offered a desk job upon recovery, but Mikey had put in his 20 years and then some. His pension was waiting for him… and he could not imagine working as a cop and not be out on the streets. Mikey was the kind of cop who's skills would have atrophied behind a desk, long term. He had to be in the action to be relevant. If he was not in the action, he was nothing.

Elliot understood. He didn't fault Mikey for leaving.

"Yeah. Well. You are kinda old." Mikey sighed, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Look who is fucking talking." Elliot chucked the rag that he had been using to wipe down the bar directly at Mikey's face. "You're only like 8 years younger than me."

With the quick reflexes of someone who had been dodging gunshots for the better part of 25 years, Mikey darted to the left, catching the rag on his shoulder.

"The difference between 49 and 57 is vast, my friend. I'm surprised you don't need a walker."

Elliot shook his head, trying to stifle the laughter that was building in his gut. "Shut up." He grabbed a piece of ice from the bar cooler next to him, and pitched it lightly toward his boss.

"Hey man, I just call um as I see um." Mikey added with a smile as he began collecting plates at his end of the bar. "Don't waste ice." He added with a tone of mock authority.

Elliot, still amused by the exchange, saluted quickly, before beginning to tend to customers once again. Mikey followed suit. While there where 3 people working the bar, and then 5 waitstaff working the restaurant portion of the venue, people kept streaming in. The conference was great for business. They had basically been seeing full patronage since 4pm. Once a table or stool was cleared, new people came in. No seat in the bar had remained empty for more than 5 minutes.

Three seats had cleared at the end of the bar, just on the other side of the entrance to the kitchen. It was slightly more secluded than the main loop of the bar bench, which was shaped like a large U. Elliot cast a quick glance to that section of the bar, and observed that two people had just entered the front, and were making their way to that area.

Elliot pitched his head over his left shoulder. "Mike. I got these guys". His coworker nodded without reply.

As Elliot made his way over he took stock of the younger man and woman that had just walked in.

The man was taller and was posted directly behind the woman, both of them moving as a pair as they walked to the open seats at the end of the bar. They let their eyes roam the venue, as if assessing, quickly.

Cops.

Definitely Cops… No surprise there… But not regulars.

Elliot squinted a little, watching them further. The man pulled the bar stool out slightly and offered it to the woman.

Partners. Partners for sure... Elliot, thought to himself. Both the man and the woman were probably in their mid to late 30's, if Elliot had to guess.

He realised that they were deeply engrossed in conversation with one another, not stopping their conversation as they sat down at the bar. The woman had blond hair, and kind blue eyes… though she also was currently wearing an expression akin to annoyance or agitation as she 'talked'… 'argued'… whatever, with her companion.

The guy… well he was definitely going grey… though, it was in a pretty 'stately' manner… if Elliot had to put a name to it.

Elliot reached up and scrubbed a hand past the light beard beset upon his chin and cheeks… pondering why some men get stately congressman hair, and others get patchy-ass beards, and a thinning high and tight. He pursed his lips at the thought.

As Elliot drew closer, he began to catch the tone of their exchange.

"Amanda, c'mon. Ya godda be kidding me. How can you not see that Heller is the doer? He's got serial rapist written all over him."

"Nope, Carisi. I don't think so. The guy's alibi is solid. Five people place him at the party during the time of the attack." The woman shook her head, stern in her response. She moved to take off her jacket. "Wishful thinking, Dom. ...Let it go." She added for good measure.

Elliot paused for a minute, his feet halting in place. '... Serial Rapist'

These cops could be SVU.

Elliot brushed off the thought. Even if they were, the possibility that he knew someone that knew these two cops was astronomical. Also, its not like other squads didnt have to deal with sex crimes once in a while.

He continued walking toward the pair. There was no way, right? Statistically that was almost a 1 in 10,000 chance, even with the conference. The 1-6 was way over on the other side of Midtown.

Nah, even if they were SVU, they had to be from somewhere like the 10th or the Six.

As Elliot reached the pair, he shook off his remaining doubt... "Hey there. How are ya doing tonight." Elliot offered.

Carisi jerked his head up from the stooped position he had been in while he was trying to connect with Amanda's eye line. She was reading the bar menu. "Oh hey. Yeah. Good. How're you."

"Can't complain." Elliot said with a smile before continuing. "I'm Eli. We have a few specials on tap this evening, as well as $4 on well drinks until 7:30pm. Special for the Conference, with valid ID. Whadda ya have?"

Rollin's looked up, catching the older man's eyes for the first time. "Can I get a water for now, and an order of tots." Her breath caught as she connected with his line of sight.

"Sure thing" Elliot nodded, not bothering to write down the order. "And for you, Sir?" He said, turning toward the younger man.

"Can I start with a Stella, please?" Carisi asked. "I'll work my way up."

"Sounds good." Elliot nodded again. "Together or separate."

"Seperate." The man and woman replied in unison.

"Would you like to start a tab?" Elliot looked at both of them expectantly.

"Yes." Carisi said, fishing is debit card out of his wallet.

"Me too." Amanda added, pulling her pocket book from her purse, she retrieved her VISA card.

"Great. I'll get these in for you. Tots should be about 10 minutes. Anything else?" Elliot asked.

"We're good for now." Amanda smiled politely, but her eyes narrowed as she looked at him more intensely.

Elliot tilted his head in the affirmative, noticing the way the blond woman was taking him in.. "I'll be back in a bit with your drinks." He added, before turning on his heels and making his way to the center of bar to input information into the register.

Carisi and Amanda, turned back to one another to continue their conversation where they had left off. As Amanda opened her mouth to talk more about the Heller case, she suddenly closed it back up, and then opened it once more, a gesture of trying to find her words. She squinted slightly, casting a glance to the back of the man that had just taken their order.

"… Hey Dom, does he seem familiar to you?"

Carisi shook his head in the negative. "Nah… never seen the guy." He thought for a moment… "…perhaps we crossed paths at some point. I mean. The guy is clearly a cop, or was at some point."

"How do you know he was a cop."

Carisi's face twisted into an expression similar to that of a smug professor, "Well, besides the fact that we were told no less than an hour ago that this was the best cop bar near the Javits Center… which makes me think he is a cop… I mean, look at him. Guys built like a tank. That, plus the way he sets his hand on his hip, like there was a gun there for 20 years, past the second belt loop… Cop." He pointed a finger, gestuing toward the older man that had just taken their order, as if for emphasis.

Amanda cast another furtive glance at the man that had introduced himself as Eli. He was using his large hands to deftly pour a bottle of amber liquid into a pint glass, and speaking to a women working next to him at the bar. He had close cut hair, a light beard, and a hawkish gaze. His shoulders were broad, something that was enhanced by the grey, cable-knit sweater, that cinched just at the point his narrow hips met his dark-wash blue jeans. He clearly lifted… regularly. She spotted what looked to be a tattoo on his right arm, just peaking out from his rolled up sleeve.

"Yeah, your probably right." She said letting out a puff of air as she spoke…"Also, that belt loop thing makes you sound like a nerd. Don't say that to anyone else." Amanda smirked.

"I'm not a nerd." Carisi narrowed his eyes, trying to be serious, before letting a grin pass the corner of his lips. "Hey, what time did Lieu say she would be here." He added before craning his neck to look at the door.

Amanda pulled her phone out of her pants pocket, scrolling through messages quickly. After finding the information she was looking for, she turned toward Carisi. "Well, she wanted to meet up with a couple people she's doing the panels with to talk about the set up tomorrow… then she said she was going to call Lucy. Check on Noah and all that."

Amanda lookd back to the bartender, whom was now making his way back with her and Dominic's beverages...She shook her head almost imperceptibly, willing herself to recall why the man walking towards them seemed so familiar. "...my guess, she'll be here in about an hour. Hour and a half at most." She added, as an after thought.

Thanks for reading.

I've got another chapter in the works right now. Guessing this may be two more chapters at most.

-crackerjack