The 6:20 Man

Chapter 23

Devine ventured up into the land of the Fifties now and headed crosstown between Sixth and Seventh. It was a long, narrow, pothole-riddled street full of construction equipment and ripped-up asphalt and exposed trenches, and plywood and steel-plate pathways with warning signs everywhere. The construction work was thankfully silent on the Sabbath, but the people, heat, food carts, trash, and everything else one would expect in the big city were in full and sometimes malodorous splendor.

He made sure no one was tailing him, and then he reached the door of the Italian restaurant with the single green awning, situated precisely at midblock. It was too late for lunch, too early for dinner, and thus the timing was perfect for Devine’s visit.

Someone had been watching, because the door swung open before he could touch the knob. He walked through and was hit immediately with chilly air from the AC. The door was closed behind him. The person didn’t look at him and he didn’t glance in their direction either. There was no need to.

He walked right down the short hall. There was no one else visible. Chianti bottles with wicker bottoms were lined up behind the tiny bar, and some metal pizza platters were stacked on an old wooden credenza along with a mess of laminated menus. The mingled scents of garlic and basil and Parmesan and pasta sauce were readily apparent. The stained carpet was cheap and coming up in places. The walls were dotted with photos of long-dead celebrities, and the usual cheap prints of Napoli, Roma, and the Amalfi Coast. Bottles of olive oil and single droopy flowers in chipped porcelain vases were on every cloth-draped table. It looked like pretty much every standard Italian restaurant he’d ever eaten at in New York City.

He opened the one door at the end of the corridor, just beyond the single bathroom. He closed it behind him and looked at the man seated on the far side of the small table in the room, which seemed instantly claustrophobic from where Devine was standing.

Emerson Campbell looked at Devine and Devine looked back at him.

“Sit down.”

Devine sat.

The older man’s voice was low, monotone, and still managed to raise every hair on Devine’s thick neck.

“Report, Devine. There have been significant developments.”

Devine did so. Short, succinct, each sentence packed with meat and no emotion, though he was feeling a great deal. But Emerson did not care about such things, Devine knew. To him, it was all about the mission. He finished, eased forward, and said what he really wanted to say.

“The cops are bearing down on me. I can feel it. They’ve been fed info. This will be a problem. And a reporter came to see me. Someone’s talked to her. They’re trying to tie me to what is now a murder investigation. And I had nothing to do with Sara’s death.”

“If you’re innocent you have nothing to worry about.”

Devine looked at him closely. “Lots of innocent people go to prison.”

“And I would venture to say that far more guilty people do not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I did not kill her. I’m not a killer.” He paused and added quietly, his gaze downcast, “At least not that kind. But who knows, maybe there’s no difference.”

Campbell steepled his hands and looked at Devine like a judge about to impose a death sentence. “Your actions and inactions led to a fellow soldier’s death. But this only happened when it became clear that Captain Hawkins was going to get away with the murder of a fellow officer after having an affair with the man’s wife. You went through your chain of command. You tried to do the right thing for the fallen Blankenship. In my time I stood up to the brass, too, and got my ass handed to me for my troubles. In that way we are kindred spirits, you and I. Which was one reason I recruited you for this mission.”

“I always wondered if Blankenship’s wife knew about what Hawkins did.”

“Stop wondering. She did, though we can’t prove it. And Blankenship had a million-dollar life insurance policy. Combat death was not covered, but suicide was after two years. She got it all and is living fat and happy. Now, you texted me before about Waiting for Godot. Theories?”

“I just saw it. Nothing clicked.”

“What will you do now?”

“Keep digging. When we first met, it was believed that Sara killed herself. Now the police think she was murdered. That changes everything, including my mission for you.”

Campbell said, “When we first met, my assumption was that Ewes hadn’t killed herself. I believed she had been murdered.”

“Why? I didn’t think she would kill herself, but I knew her, you didn’t.”

“Yes, but I know something about Brad Cowl and what’s going on there. So if she had found out something illegal was occurring? That is plenty of motive to kill the woman.”

“You really didn’t get into it at our first meeting, but do you have anything definite you can tell me about Cowl, and why you suspect something criminal is going on there?”

“We believe it started when Cowl was gone from the country over twenty years ago for a considerable period of time, and no one seems to know where he went. He then returned and skyrocketed up the financial ranks right after that. There is also little known about where his seed money came from.”

“Most accounts I’ve heard think it came from his partner, Anne Comely.”

“There is even less known about her.”

“Look, why would Homeland Security and the Defense Department even be interested in financial crimes? Isn’t that for local prosecutors and the DOJ?”

Campbell looked over Devine’s shoulder at the closed door. “My job is to worry about enemies both foreign and domestic. And right now we might have both.”

Devine tensed. “Wait a minute, are you saying Cowl is some sort of, what, spy? For who?”

“The man had nothing when he left the country over two decades ago, and then when he comes back, he’s top of the mountain in less than two years? Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?”

“You sound like a conspiracy theorist now.”

“Conspiracies do happen, Devine. More than you probably think. And it’s not just the dollars that Cowl is making. I really couldn’t care less about that. But if there’s something behind the dollars that attacks the national security of this country? Then I care a great deal.”

“So can you help with the cops and the reporter?”

“The cops, yes. The reporter, I doubt it. But a reporter can’t arrest you, either.”

“Maybe she can do worse.”

Campbell looked at him thoughtfully and for such a long period that Devine finally said, “What?”

“Why Wall Street and Cowl and Comely? Strange career path for an Army Ranger.”

“Why not?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yeah, Detective Hancock didn’t buy it either.” “Well then?”

“I can make some money. My old man can be proud of me.”

“And that’s it?”

“Isn’t it enough?”

“Would you like to hear what I think?”

“Does it matter if I do or not?”

“I think you picked an occupation that you loathe. And you did it because you knew your father, a man whom you also loathe, would approve.”

“And why would I do that?”

“It’s your self-imposed penance, Devine. You let a fellow soldier die. You were never punished for that, and it bothers the hell out of you, because you, unlike Captain Hawkins, actually have principles and a conscience. So you left an organization that had allowed you to reach your full potential. You left an organization that you never wanted to leave. And now you’re actually in a prison... of your own making.”

“You’re wrong! My father was proud of me for the decision I made, and I was happy about his reaction. In fact, we went to dinner in celebration and got drunk together.”

“You joined the Army in spite of your father’s wishes, Devine. In fact, you put on the uniform to spite him.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

Campbell picked up a file that lay in front of him. “This is your psych eval when you were trying to get into Ranger School. You were quite candid with those folks, as you had to be. You spoke about how your father had been riding you your entire life. Never good enough, never enough like your brother and sister. A disappointment of epic proportions in his mind. You had the well-deserved rep of being stoic about everything, Devine, but not that time, no, not that time.”

Devine started to say something but then didn’t.

“And do you want me to read the letter the Army got from your father? The Army keeps every scrap of paper, as you know, and this one was quite unusual. Most parents are proud of their children for entering the service, but not your father. He was also quite candid, when he” — Campbell picked up another piece of paper and glanced down it — “called it ‘a spit in his face,’ your going to West Point to serve your country. That you were only doing it to defy him. While his other two children were shining examples of the American dream, you were the poster boy of his personal nightmare.” He laid the paper aside. “His words, not mine. So don’t tell me you and your old man were celebrating and getting drunk together, okay? That’s bullshit and we both know it.”

Devine looked away.

“You left the Army, an institution you served proudly and with great loyalty. That was your first act of penance. A career on Wall Street was your second.”

“And is my work for you my third act of penance?”

“That’s up to you. But the question becomes for you: Where does it end?”

“According to you I have the rest of my life to give in service to make up for what I did.”

“So you concede my theory on the matter is correct?”

“I concede nothing. And what does it matter now?”

“It only matters, Devine, to you. But I would say this: Life is a long enough journey without having only negative motivations to get your ass out of bed every day. What I’m offering you is, once again, something positive to do with your life in serving your country. And it’s not just moneymaking that’s going on at Cowl, Devine. I’m not sure exactly what is going on there, but it’s more than the dollars. Now, I think it’s time we both got back to work.” Campbell inclined his head toward the door.

Devine didn’t leave the way he came. The door to the rear was standing open. He breathed in the garlic and Parmesan, and the next moment emerged into the heat.

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.