The 6:20 Man

CHAPTER

10

HE FIRST NOTED THE CHALKY white fingerprint powder on the lock. He used his shirtsleeve to cover his hand and tried the knob. The door swung open. He was looking at a dark room until he flicked on the light with his elbow.

There was the chair she’d likely stood on, still lying on its side, like it was dead, too. The cord she had used was no longer there, though the ceiling panel was still removed and sitting on the floor, like a tooth missing from a mouth. It had powder on it, as did the chair. Floating through his mind was the image of Sara Ewes standing on the chair, slipping the cord around her neck, and then pushing the chair away.

He wondered if Ewes had had second thoughts, regretted her decision, and pulled and pulled against the cord around her neck that was killing her. At what point did she realize it was useless? That she was going to die? Did she scream for help that never came? And then just . . . ? He closed his eyes and shook his head with the absolute misery of this tragic image.

She had been a wonderful, caring person. But everyone had their dark, unspoken side, of which no one else, not even close friends and family, was aware.

And I’m the poster boy for that.

He looked around the space and observed things one would expect to encounter in a storage room. Cleaning supplies, cardboard boxes, a vacuum, boxes of file folders, reams of copy paper, printer ink cartridges, an old fax machine, Christmas decorations, a whiteboard on a stand. She would have seen all these things while dying. It didn’t seem . . . fair. Staring bug-eyed at Christmas decorations knowing you wouldn’t live to celebrate the next one.

He punched off the light and closed the door, then he heard the noise to his left, down the hall.

Halfway there, he already knew what he would find. It wasn’t hard.

Moaning and groaning and lustful whimpers.

He stopped, looked around, and spotted a door with the necessary sight line. The office in question was in the corner. The lights inside were off and he could well understand why. You would take no chances doing what they were doing, even with the blinds drawn.

He stood behind the door, but left it open a crack so he could see clearly.

Ten minutes went by and the moans and groans stopped. A few mumbled words. Feminine to his ear. Perhaps of praise, or relief that it was over.

Another minute passed, a light came on inside the office, and then the door was jerked open. Out staggered Brad Cowl, smoothing his hair down and putting his costly shirttail back in his very expensive pants and notching his crocodile leather belt closed. He took a moment to slowly zip up his pants like he was reholstering his gun. He looked sweaty and triumphant.

Devine took out his phone and snapped several shots of Cowl, as well as the woman who was clearly visible in the room behind him. Her head was turned to the side, and she was staring at Cowl, seemingly surprised that he was leaving her so abruptly. She was the same one he had seen going into the building earlier. Only now she was naked and lying on the desk on her back, with her thighs still akimbo. Cowl must have finished, jumped up, and headed on his way.

He took three more pictures of what he was seeing. Then he turned the video function on and held the camera up. He did not like spying on people, particularly at a moment like this. But if something dirty with national security implications was going on here, he instinctively knew having this stick to hold over Cowl’s head might come in handy.

The woman called out, “Where the hell are you going, Brad?”

Cowl turned back and said, “Early morning. Need some shut-eye. And thanks, sweet cheeks. It was great. Next week, same time, but I’ll let you know where. Don’t know what came over me tonight, except you are so hot it makes me lose my damn mind.” He laughed.

The woman, Devine noted, did not.

Cowl passed by Devine’s hiding spot, no doubt heading for the elevator. If he were a betting man, Devine would say the Bugatti was done for the night and Cowl was going to sleep, this time for real and not on a desk.

A couple minutes later, Devine glanced back in the direction of the office, from which the woman stepped out, now dressed.

Her name was Jennifer Stamos. She was twenty-eight and had been at Cowl for six years. In fact, she had been in Sara Ewes’s class. Devine knew this because she was in the firm’s employee directory, which was accessible to all at Cowl. It did not contain addresses, like an old phone book did, or other personal information. This was strictly business-related. It was known, firm-wide, without a shred of originality, as “the Book.” It contained all the things each person had done while at Cowl: every deal, every triumph, every failure, every screwup. Cowl kept score like no one else. Everyone had a numeric and alphabetical grade that, combined, served to define their firm-wide ranking for all to see, and, to ratchet the pressure up even more, that ranking was updated daily.

Devine knew this glorified digital pissing contest was designed to make the competition even more intense. To see how far you were falling behind, or racing ahead, all you needed to do was check the Book. And then you ran harder and harder to catch up and then pass the front-runners. Or else you ran harder and harder to get further ahead. Or you worked your ass off and still fell behind and got depressed as hell. It was cruel and inhumane, and it was also just the way things worked in this world.

Stamos, he knew from the Book, had been a clear second in her class. But that was not the case now, because Sara Ewes was no longer in the race. Stamos had just taken over the lead by default.

She was beautiful. Long, dark hair that fell straight to her shoulders. Olive skin, full lips, lovely features, green eyes that Devine had watched seemingly spike with electrical current when she was animated. She had been to several of the mixers. He had watched her dance and joke and drink, and even do a stupid line of coke in a back room, and not like it. In off-hours her choice of dress had been sexy and chic. At leisure, she possessed a flippant, playful style that made her appear vulnerable and approachable. Coupled with her prodigious brains and sheer business talent, it was a truly potent combination that had captivated Devine and many others at the firm.

She looked nothing like that right now. She appeared shrunken and depressed. Her hair was tangled, her blouse was untucked from her jeans, and her painful-looking stiletto heels, which cranked her five-three stature to five-seven, were in her hand.

Devine knew that Ewes and Stamos had not been friends. There was no room for that within the same class, or even outside classes. The women knew that it was unlikely both would make the long haul at Cowl, because things simply did not work that way in this arena. But Devine wondered if Stamos felt badly for having sex in an office with the head of the firm on the same day that her chief competitor had been found dead only a few feet away. He at least hoped she did.

Stamos stopped at the women’s restroom for a few minutes. When she came back out, Devine followed her, but waited for the elevator doors to close behind her before he rushed forward and pushed a button to summon his own elevator car.

Stamos was heading out of the glass doors when Devine’s elevator reached the ground floor. He nodded to the guard, who was back behind the desk and watching him curiously. Then the guard glanced at the departing woman and his eyebrows went up, and a knowing grin spread over his face.

Stamos was walking down the street and looking at her phone. Devine thought he knew what she was doing, and he headed over and unlocked his bike and slipped on his helmet.

The Uber appeared three minutes later and she got in.

Devine followed.

The Uber dropped the woman off at a bar in Greenwich Village that, on Friday night at midnight, was just starting to rock.