The 6:20 Man

Chapter 29

When Devine returned to his office, he found several of the other Burners staring daggers at him as he walked in. He retook his seat. Something was up. Somebody knew what was going on and had shared it with others. Emails and texts must have been flying since he’d been gone.

Devine had a few people here he’d gone out with on occasion for beers or meals and a couple of concerts, and he counted Wanda Simms as a friend. His direct supervisor had lots of newbies just like Devine to oversee, and the unwritten rule at Cowl and Comely was you never got close to any Burner because chances were very good they would be gone in less than a year. And the competition here was so fierce that close friendships were just not possible, at least that was the perennial vibe around here.

But he knew what his fellow associates were thinking.

Devine has the cops all over him. Devine killed Sara. I knew he looked creepy. Maybe PTSD. Asshole. Hope they fry him.

Maybe that was overkill on his part, but he was still feeling it.

He lumbered through his tasks. His job right now was to help analyze a slice of risk on a deal between two corporate titans, on which Cowl and Comely was advising the buyer. On the other side was the mobilized army of venerable Morgan Stanley. Both clients wanted this spin-off of a subsidiary in a management-led buyout to be completed, so the dealmaking was fairly amicable. It was what was known in the business as a “shit sandwich.”

The management was buying the company on the cheap because that was part of the plan. It was all front- and back-end-loaded with fees for the M and A boys. The sub would then issue debt that it never intended to repay. They would use the proceeds from the debt offering to pay management a huge dividend. Then they would go back to the bankers, wrap the junk debt with some decently rated stuff into a CBO, or collateralized bond obligation, and then sell it off to pension funds, police unions, and grandmas. Management would next bleed the company dry, sell whatever of the assets it could make money off of, fire a quarter of the workers, raid the pension plan in such a complicated way prosecutors would never be able to prove anything, and eventually leave the remaining workers hanging without paychecks or health care. When the debt went bad, which it was designed to do, they would go back in, peel off the good stuff, and make even more money off that, while the grandmas and the workers went to the poorhouse. They had no recourse because to have recourse you needed to hire lawyers. And even if the grandmas had any money left, folks like Cowl already had the best attorneys in the business. The litigation would take years and by the time appeals were done, the deep pockets would have vanished under a wall of legalese and there was no money left to pay off any judgment.

Heads I win, tails I win even bigger. And you, Grandma, you lose every single damn time.

He hated every tap of the keys. He despised every dollar moving across his screen. He loathed the fact that the rich were getting unbelievably richer by pitting everyone in this room against one another. And in twenty years the ones who survived would be at the top looking down at a new crop of suckers and doing the very same damn thing. It was a hamster wheel of plutocratic proportions, aiming straight for something maybe even worse.

The man next to him got up abruptly, holding his stomach and looking a bit green.

Devine knew he was from Connecticut and had gone to Yale. His father was the CEO of a Fortune 100. The guy really wanted to be a full-time gamer, he had told Devine. But the old man had threatened to cut him off if he did. So here he was, looking ready to puke.

When Devine gazed up at him, he stammered in an embarrassed manner, “S-stomach b-bug. Had it all night.” Then the man rushed out of the room.

Thanks, bud, you’ve only been sitting next to me all morning.

He glanced over at the guy’s screen, which had not gone blank yet. Streams of numbers flew across it. He didn’t know what his fellow Burner was working on, so the data lines didn’t make much sense to him. Actually, nothing made much sense to Devine now.

At lunchtime he swam against the current once again and rode the elevator down to the third-floor dining hall. He got his food and was going to sit by himself. Until he saw her.

Jennifer Stamos, looking stricken and lost, was sitting alone at a table with a nice view of the East River. However, from her expression, the woman didn’t appear to even be seeing it.

He carried his tray over to her and said, “Want some company?”

She looked up at him in a daze. “Um, okay.”

He sat, sipped his iced tea, and looked her over. Her makeup had hidden some of the dark circles under her eyes, but not every fragment of them. Her face was pinched and her normally luxuriant hair seemed thinner, less robust.

“You doing okay?” he asked.

“No, I’m not.” She glanced at him. “I heard the cops talked to you earlier.”

“They were asking about me and Sara. Did you know she was pregnant?”

Stamos tensed for an instant. “How do you know she was?”

“Because the cops told me she’d had an abortion.”

She said aggressively, “Did they want to know if you were the father?”

“They did, actually.”

“And were you?”

“No.”

“How would you really know whether or not you’re the father, if you had sex with her?”

“Who says I had sex with her? And I didn’t kill her.”

“Some guys kill women who are pregnant by them.”

“But she had already terminated the pregnancy. So where’s the motive to kill her?”

Stamos looked at him funny. “I... You... I guess you’re right about that.”

He looked out the window and bit into a celery stick.

“What else did the cops want to talk about?” she asked.

“The usual stuff. Alibis, polygraphs. They lied to me to try to get me to confess.”

“How did they even know to talk to you?” asked Stamos.

“I’m sure they’re talking to lots of people.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

“Did you get a strange email the day they found Sara’s body?”

She sat forward, tense once more. “Strange email? No, I didn’t. You asked me that before. Did you get one? You mentioned it talked about details of Sara’s death. What exactly did it say?”

“I think it was just somebody trolling or something,” he said vaguely. “I couldn’t really understand it. It was all over the place. And I have no idea who sent it.”

Stamos didn’t look like she believed him. He decided to change the subject before she pushed him further on it.

“Someone I talked to said there were no suits on the fifty-second floor that morning.”

She stared at him, puzzled. “There should have been.”

“I know. Sara’s office was on that floor. But there was a seminar at the Ritz that morning for the M and A Division. All hands on deck. And the support staff don’t show until nine.”

“What are you saying?” she asked.

“Just that it’s either a coincidence that there was a seminar that morning. Or it wasn’t.”

She processed this and came away looking even more stricken.

He said, “I was in here having lunch on Saturday. Brad Cowl was here with some of his usual posse.”

“I’m surprised you would do that. I’m surprised you’re here now.”

“Hell, I’m probably not going to make the cut. So why not enjoy a few good free meals until they give me the boot?”

“You sound like a prisoner awaiting execution,” she noted.

“And maybe some people would be fine with that.”

She didn’t comment on this jarring statement. “Why did you mention Cowl?”

“Because he gave me a look that I can’t explain. I mean, why would the guy even know who I am?”

“You’re a rookie, Travis. And he knows it, even if you think the guy doesn’t notice the newbies. Brad Cowl lives and breathes this place. And he was probably pissed to see you in here. You’re supposed to be eating crackers at your desk and busting your ass to make him more money. So you got the look.”

“What’s he really like?”

“How should I know?” she said.

“Come on. You’re a star, Jennifer. Don’t sell yourself short. And Cowl is a smart guy. He takes care of his stars. So you must know him better than most at this place.”

Her response was unexpected and chilling. In a lowered voice she said, “You saw us, didn’t you?”

“What!”

“That bullshit explanation about calling me ‘sweet cheeks.’ ” She leaned forward and spoke in an even lower voice. “You were in the building that night. You didn’t leave your phone behind. You went up to the fifty-second floor. And saw us. And you’re here trying to, I don’t know, blackmail me? Or make me feel like shit. Or both.”

“If I knew what the hell you were talking about, I’d answer you. But I don’t.”

She gave him a patronizing look and he answered it with one of bewilderment. He didn’t know if it carried the day or not. He sort of doubted it. Stamos hadn’t gotten to where she was by being thick-headed.

But maybe I’m thicker than a log, since my security card would not only show I entered the building that night at a certain time, it also would show I went to the fifty-second floor at the same time they were doing their thing on the desk. Cowl must have found that out and told Stamos. And she would have told him about my “sweet cheeks” comment. That explains the evil eye from the guy and this confrontation with her.

She stood. “You know, you might want to try the truth for a change.”

Devine felt like saying, Look who’s talking. But what would have been the point?

She walked out, leaving him staring moodily out the window at the bright sky.

Who knew there could be so much resolute darkness in the middle of the day?