The 6:20 Man(34)

In his recurring dream there was Lieutenant Blankenship on a morgue slab with his throat destroyed. The other person he always saw was Captain Hawkins lying in the Afghanistan mountains unconscious after the battle between the two. It hadn’t been much of a fight, actually. Hawkins had allowed himself to grow too soft. And maybe his guilt was a bit too much for him to put up a spirited defense against Devine’s ferocious attack. The thing was, Devine thought the man would wake up and limp back to camp. If he had tried to file charges against Devine, he was going to raise the whole murder scenario to anyone he could. Only the man didn’t wake up.

I hit him harder than I thought.

He walked to the corner, turned, and headed downtown.

The cops were going to be coming after him, too. And he needed to do something about that despite Campbell’s assurances of assistance.

So Devine had somewhere to go and someone to see.

One misstep now and it was all over.





CHAPTER





24


HE HAD SURVEYED THE QUIET street in Park Slope for an hour and not seen a sign of any squad cars or cops. Ewes’s house was evidentiary, he knew, but it was also not the crime scene. They might have gotten everything already. If so, he might be screwed.

He tensed when he saw a cab pull up and the same couple from the previous night got out. They were dressed formally for an early Sunday evening in the summer. Him in a navy blazer, her in a skirt and heels. He wondered if they had dressed up to go and formally identify their daughter’s remains. Or maybe they had gone to a church to pray. Perhaps they had done both.

They walked up the short flight of steps. He unlocked the door, and they passed through. Devine gave it more time. He wanted to let them have a chance to settle, if they had just come back from the police morgue. And he wanted to make sure no cops showed up to meet with them on either a prearranged basis or a spontaneous one.

Twenty minutes later he eased out of his surveillance spot and walked across the street. He smoothed down his shirt and knocked on the door. It was answered a few moments later by the man.

He was around five eight, with glasses fronting periwinkle-blue eyes that were rimmed with red from crying. Devine could see hints of Sara in him. He had discarded the blazer and the cream shirt under it. He was in a white T-shirt and holding a cup of something.

“Yes?” he said, his tone and look surprised. He probably knew no one in the area and was not expecting visitors other than the police.

“Mr. Ewes?”

“Yes? Who are you?” He stared up at Devine with a bit of anxiety.

Devine knew he could look intimidating as hell to certain people, particularly with his damaged face, and he moved to quickly defuse any rising apprehension.

“My name is Travis Devine. I worked at Cowl and Comely with your daughter.” From his pocket he pulled out the lanyard with the photo security card attached and showed Ewes. “I’m so very sorry about what happened.”

“Did you . . . did you know Sara w-well?” His voice cracked before the end.

“She was the liaison with my group of interns. Everyone thought she was terrific.”

“Fred? Who is it?”

The woman appeared there. She was as thin as her husband, but paler. Her hair was blond with white roots. Her face was puckered, her bloodshot eyes wandering aimlessly at first but then holding on Devine.

She had on the same skirt but had shed the pumps. She was around five four in stocking feet. Sara had been nearly five nine. Since Fred wasn’t tall, there must be height somewhere else in the family tree, thought Devine.

“This young man knew Sara,” said Fred. “He worked with her at that place.”

“Well, please come in, Mr. . . . ?”

“Travis, Travis Devine. Thank you.”

“I’m Ellen, this is Fred.”

He stepped inside and Fred shut the door.

Ellen motioned him to a chair and the couple sat on the couch across from him.

The place was decorated with a blend of Wayfair buys mingled with original creations from the unique shops that littered the area. It was colorful and bright and optimistic, right down to the throw pillows and the rugs over the wooden plank floors. The brick fireplace held pinecones, which was a nice touch, he thought, in the heat of summer.

Devine had seen it all before, but when he had, Sara Ewes was alive.

“Excuse me,” said Ellen. “Would you like anything to drink? Fred just made some coffee. Or iced tea?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“So, you worked with Sara?”

“Not directly. Different division. And she was about six years ahead of me.” He caught their looks and said, “I went to West Point and then served in the Army for a number of years before leaving. Then I got my MBA.”

“Well, thank you for your service, Travis,” said Fred.

“I know this must be quite a shock to you both. The whole firm is reeling.”

“Was . . . was there any inkling of a problem?” asked Ellen, her voice small, but her hopeful look looming large.

Do they not know it was a homicide?

“None. She was doing great. I still can’t believe that she . . . took her own life.” He paused, waiting for them to respond to what he now knew was incorrect information.

Fred spoke in a trembling voice. “I know that’s what the police initially thought, Travis, but their thinking has changed.”