The 6:20 Man(6)

Devine stared at him for a moment, perhaps seeing himself in the man’s fired-up rhetoric.

When he had told his father he was getting an MBA, the old man was thrilled. When he’d gotten the job at Cowl and Comely, Devine Sr. had taken his son out to dinner, and they had even gotten drunk together. It was the first time Devine had had that sort of experience with his father. It had been intoxicating, and he wasn’t talking about the booze. It was the first time Devine could remember his father’s being proud of him. And it was the first time Devine, as an adult, had felt positive feelings toward his old man.

And when he woke up the next morning, he had never felt more depressed. This wasn’t about reward. This wasn’t about making money and owning his own palace one day. Or making his father proud. That ship had long since sailed.

This was about paying one’s debts.

The train gathered speed as the signal problem vanished. Later, Devine trudged out of the station. He would walk home, go to sleep, and then rise early. He would perform the workout he had pretty much done every day since leaving the Army. He would shower in the darkness, eat his breakfast, and head to this very same station as the sun rose. At least tomorrow was Saturday. Which meant he had only one more day of toil until his only day off for the week.

But his plans were about to be disrupted.





CHAPTER





5


“MR. DEVINE? TRAVIS DEVINE?”

He looked over as the man got out of the car parked in front of the station, which also housed an Italian restaurant.

“Yeah?”

The man walked over. He was Black, about Devine’s height and lean, maybe forty-five or a bit older, bald head, and furrowed skin on his brow. He wore a dark blue suit that looked good on his athletic frame. His shoes were black and rubber soled. He flashed a badge and an official ID housed in a cred pack, like he was a magician doing a card trick. “Detective Karl Hancock, NYPD.”

Devine grew rigid. “What can I do for you?”

“You mind coming over to the car where we can talk?”

“What about?”

“Come on, what do you think? Sara Ewes. She’s dead, didn’t you know that?”

Devine didn’t like the guy’s manner. It was blunt and seemed to leap to lots of conclusions. The brown eyes, clearly visible under the streetlight, scrutinized Devine and came away suspicious.

“I heard about it, along with everyone else.”

“Right. This way, sir, if you don’t mind. Won’t take long.”

That’s what they always say. And before you know it, years have gone by.

He sat in the passenger seat of the car, where the smell of spilled coffee and the vapory veil of cigarette smoke was suffocating.

Hancock rolled down a window and said, “Sorry about that. Fact is, I don’t smoke and I don’t drink coffee and this isn’t my ride. And they ain’t supposed to smoke in here, but they do. Motor pool checkout. Serious budget cuts. Don’t think they’ve bought new wheels for ten years or so. Gotta dry-clean my clothes every time I pull duty in one.”

“No problem, I’ve smelled a lot worse.”

“That would be first in Afghanistan and then in Iraq, correct? Captain Devine?”

He didn’t like that the NYPD knew this about him. That showed they had already investigated him and sent a detective all the way out here on the very day Sara’s body was found.

“Former Captain. And I’ve been to bars in the city that smelled worse than those places.”

“You were wounded, twice. But you look all there.”

“Yeah, in all the places you can see.”

Hancock’s demeanor changed. “Is that right? You got problems up here?” He tapped his temple.

“No, I’m just fine up there.” Devine slid up his pants leg to reveal a thick, hardened scar that wrapped both ways around his calf like the tentacles of an octopus. “If you ever wanted to see the bomb pattern of an IED, there it is.”

Hancock glanced at the old wound and said, “Damn, looks like it hurt.”

“I didn’t have time to feel it. The blast knocked me ass-over-heels unconscious. But when I woke up, I did. Thank God for morphine.” He let his trouser leg drop. “But I thought you wanted to ask about Sara Ewes.”

The official notebook came out. “You knew her?”

“Yes.”

“How?” asked Hancock.

“We worked at the same firm, Cowl and Comely. But you knew that.”

“So how exactly did you know her?”

“We met at some company mixers. We went out in groups for drinks, some dinners before the recruitment BS was over and our noses got pressed to the grindstone. She was sort of a mentor to my intern class.”

“How did she strike you?”

“Talented and hard-charging. But why did you come all the way out here to ask me questions? I was there all day. I’ll be there tomorrow. And my understanding was she died by suicide, so why are the police involved?”

“It’s speculated that she killed herself. My job is to rule out all other manners of death. And you work on Saturdays?”

“In my world, Detective, it’s only the day after Friday. And I don’t see how I can help. I didn’t work directly with her. I haven’t seen her in months, in fact. Last time was a group dinner at Per Se, Columbus Circle. Over fifty people, with wine included. Must have cost the firm a small fortune. But it’s only money.”