Page 33 of The 6:20 Man

CHAPTER

18

THERE WAS THE RUSSIAN, WILL Valentine, on the couch, but this time he was awake. A brand-spanking-new pizza box was next to him and one of his Coors Light beers was unopened, but Devine doubted it would be for long. The Russian’s appetite for American junk food and beer was apparently insatiable.

Devine sat next to him, eyed the pizza and beer, and said, “You know, there are other kinds of food and drink in this country. And this stuff will kill you if that’s all you put inside yourself.”

“You like little joke.” Valentine grinned, tore off a big chunk of a pepperoni slice with his teeth, and then clacked away on his computer with one dexterous hand.

Devine watched this and shrugged. “Okay, that’s my advice for healthy living for the week. Got a problem you might help with. It’s a weird email I got, but I don’t know who sent it. Maybe you can figure it out.”

Valentine glanced sharply at him. “Forward me email.”

Devine did so and said, “Whenever you can get to it, but the sooner the better. Lives may depend on it.”

Valentine casually waved this off, though his full attention was on the message now resting in his computer email inbox. “You Americans, you get too caught up in stuff like that. In Russia, people die all the time. Usually by government. Or too much vodka. But is good way to go, no?”

“No.”

“You want pizza?”

Devine looked down at the box and snagged a piece. “Hey, you remember me being here all of Thursday night, right?”

“Thursday? Sure, sure. All the time. Why?”

“No reason.” Devine remembered that Valentine had been dead asleep in his room. Even if he misremembered and told the cops differently, they wouldn’t believe him. He was Russian after all. Valentine had not commented on his facial injuries. He might have assumed Americans got the shit kicked out of them on a frequent basis. Maybe the same was true for Russians.

Valentine looked up. “Whoa, dude, this does not look like email address.”

“I know, that’s the problem. And I can’t reply to it.”

“You sure you got this over internet?”

“I’m sure.”

Valentine didn’t look convinced, but then his expression changed as he read the message again. “Wait. Sara Ewes? Didn’t you tell me you dated her, dude? And now she’s dead.”

Shit, I forgot I told him about Sara. Devine eyed the man, sizing up the situation and what his response would be. “Just try to track the email, Will. It’s important.”

He went up to his room eating the pizza and changed his clothes. Jeans and a black T-shirt were his go-to casual attire. His arm and shoulder were still sore, and he went to the bathroom to reapply the ointment on his face. As he was coming out, Helen Speers was standing there in cut-off jean short-shorts with the bottoms of the white pockets exposed next to her muscled thighs, and a red crop top. Her long hair was piled on top of her head and held there by assorted hairclips.

God, she was a knockout, he thought admiringly.

“What the hell happened to you?” she said.

“Cut myself shaving.”

That got him an eye roll. “You’re not as funny as you think you are. But you share that with most guys.”

“I plead guilty to that, Your Honor.” The light banter ended right there.

“A woman died in your building.”

Devine tensed. “Yeah, she did. Sara Ewes.”

“You know her?” she asked.

“A little.”