The 6:20 Man(5)

Devine swiped his card in the reader and pushed the button for his floor. He imagined Sara Ewes doing this yesterday and perhaps not knowing it would be the last time she ever would. Or maybe she did know. Suicides were often planned. It certainly sounded like this one had been.

As he shot skyward in the elevator shaft, Devine reflected on the fact that he had not told Simms the truth, since he did know Sara Ewes very well. Given time, they perhaps could have grown to love each other. But it hadn’t turned out that way.

And now Sara Ewes was no more. And he needed to know why.





CHAPTER





4


A CLOUDLESS, STARRY NIGHT AND Travis Devine was mostly unaware of it. He hadn’t really looked at the sky since going to work for Cowl and Comely. He had gone from the office to the subway, taken it to Grand Central, and was now on the evening train heading home. From there he would walk from the station.

On leaving the Cowl Building he had nodded at the night security guard, as he always did. For obvious reasons, he related to men who carried guns. The bulky man usually glanced at the clock behind his desk, nodded back, and gave him a patronizing look as if to say, Really? Seriously? Is this shit really worth it, dude? Come on. How much damn money do you need?

But not tonight. Not after Ewes’s death. They just exchanged somber looks.

On the train Devine had his AirPods in and was half listening to a financial news channel on his phone. Money was already being made and lost overseas in Asian markets that would be officially up and running in about an hour. He would rather be listening to Janis Joplin or AC/DC, but he was now a budding financial whiz with a job to do and a career to build. He had no moments to waste on “Me and Bobby McGee” or “Highway to Hell.” And with the latter, he was probably already on it.

The train car was packed with weary, sweat-logged warriors, some of whom would have the next two days off to lick their wounds and get ready for another week’s slog on Monday. He was nearly cheek to jowl with the man seated next to him.

Devine’s mother was a first-generation American of Greek extraction, and he had taken after her in looks, while his siblings had favored their Irish father. Devine had dark, wavy hair, olive skin, a thickened nose, rugged chin, square jawline, and deep-set eyes that seemed to automatically broadcast “brooding” regardless of what he was actually thinking. Some people just thought he always looked pissed off. And maybe he was. And his five o’clock shadow seemed to sneak up on him at noon. It didn’t look exotic or cool; it just looked grungy.

He leaned toward the window when they reached the knoll and the commuter train slowed even more. The rear lights were on in the palace of the skinny-dipping woman. He knew she had taken a chance earlier that morning by stripping down in public. These days everybody had a camera in their phone, which put her in danger of being plastered across social media platforms for all of eternity. But maybe she didn’t care. Which intrigued him even more.

Party lights were strung up around the outdoor area now, resembling tiny stars that had lost their buoyancy. The pool surround was littered with guests in chic dress that managed to be both casual and, he was sure, costly. It took Devine a few moments to find her in the crowd as the train ground to a stop when the mysterious signal problem reared its head once more.

She had on a white, clingy dress that slid to midthigh and, like the bikini, accented the woman’s tan. Her shoes were golden stilettos. She had a drink in hand and was talking to another woman of nearly equal beauty. He watched her laugh and the other woman followed suit. Devine wondered what they were talking about. He also wondered what made women like that laugh, or be happy.

Then Devine started to feel guilty and also stupid for maybe wishing he could be part of that world, especially after learning of Sara Ewes’s death.

I don’t want to be like the guy who owns this palace. I will never be like him. I hope.

He was about to turn away when he saw the very man he was thinking about walk up to the women. He was in his forties, with short, dark hair and a bulky gym build, too heavy in the arms and shoulders, and too light in the legs. The Army built you from the ground up, with legs and core being the dominant muscles. The frat boys always did the biceps curls and couldn’t squat or deadlift shit. They looked strong and were puny. The Army would kill them during Basic.

With his clothes and manner, the man was clearly trying to look younger and hip and very nearly succeeding.

His name was Bradley Cowl, his boss of all bosses, and the force behind Cowl and Comely. Devine didn’t know the name of the young woman who paraded at dawn in her bikini or less.

It angered Devine that Cowl was having a party on the same day one of his employees had taken her own life. And a woman he was supposedly mentoring.

Cowl put a hand around the blonde’s hips, his fingers dancing over her bottom and then gripping it. He next planted a kiss on her that seemed to go on and on, while others around them stared and exchanged embarrassed smiles.

“Damn. Lucky son of a bitch. I mean, look at that shit. Look, dude!”

Devine turned to see the beefy, perspiring young man in a dark blue Brooks Brothers suit next to him staring at what he was staring at. He could sense both the man’s sweaty stink and his lousy envy.

“All about the damn money,” opined Sweaty. “But that’s gonna be me one day, swear to God.” And he sounded like he meant it.