“Were you dating her? Did you have sex with her?”
“Should I get a lawyer?” asked Devine.
“Do you think you need one?”
“This is America. Everybody needs a lawyer at some point.”
Hancock looked displeased by the response. “If you won’t answer the question, it makes me suspicious and it makes you look guilty.”
“Even if I was dating her or had sex with her, why would that be a motive for murder?”
“Oldest motive in the book. Spurned lover.”
“So now I’m a spurned lover? You should write novels.”
“Were you one?” asked Hancock. “A spurned lover?”
“I think we’re done here.”
“You know, the Army cops got the guy. We will, too.”
“I hope you find the person. Only it won’t be me, because I didn’t do it.”
“Oh, okay, I’ll just take your word for it. Cross you right off the suspect list.”
“You talk to any other suspects?” asked Devine.
“No need for you to know that.”
Devine turned around and walked home.
Tomorrow was Sunday, a day of rest. For God.
But not for Travis Devine. Tomorrow might just outdo everything else he’d done the entire week. Maybe his whole time at Cowl and Comely.
But then again, why wait until tomorrow? After all, the night was still young.
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.”
“The news said it was a suicide.”
“NYPD may be rethinking that,” noted Devine.
“Was that NYPD outside talking to you? I was looking out my window. He seemed like a cop.” She seemed more intent and into this than was warranted. He wasn’t sure how that made him feel.
“Yes, he is.”
“What did he want with you?”
“Asking questions, just like they’re doing with everybody else.”
She folded her arms over her chest and looked alarmingly judicial. “Do you need a lawyer, Travis? I know some good ones.”
“I had nothing to do with her death.”
“Doesn’t matter. Innocent people get sent to prison all the time.”
This set him back on his heels, although Devine knew what she said was true. “I’ll let you know. Thanks for the offer. Hey, you remember me being here Thursday night, right?”
“Why? Am I your alibi?” she quickly added.
“You can call it that if you want.”
“I think so. But then again, I got in late. I remember seeing you last night for sure. I was doing yoga in the dining room.”
“Last night is irrelevant to the police investigation.”
“I get that. Let me think about it.”
“Thanks. How’s your studying going for the bar?”
“New York’s is really hard, but I feel good about it.”
“What kind of law are you going to practice?”
“Criminal.”
“Which side?”
She gave him a look that he couldn’t readily interpret. “The side that needs me the most, of course.”
She walked off downstairs and he heard the front door open and close. He crossed the hall and knocked on Tapshaw’s door, after he heard her tapping away inside.
She opened the door and stood there in what looked to be her pajamas.
“Yeah?” she said brightly. She had dirty blond hair that spooled around her narrow shoulders. Her face was button cute and her eyes danced with both focus and merriment. She was in her late twenties, she had told him, but sometimes, like now, the woman still looked to be in her teens. She was too skinny, but otherwise appeared healthy to his eye. She had bunny slippers on her feet. Her room was a wreck. Devine had seen more orderly spaces after he’d tossed a grenade inside them.
The walls were covered in yellow and green Post-it notes. She had three large computer screens on her desk. There was a white-board that had revenue and profit projections, and a business flow chart along with a corporate organizational schematic.
He knew that Tapshaw had gone to MIT. Her undergrad degree had been in computer science. He’d also learned that she was a world-class gamer; in fact, she had used her winnings to start her company, she’d told him. She’d also won some prestigious international awards for her out-of-this-world computer skills and overall brilliance. Then she’d tacked on a fast-tracked MBA from Harvard. The burly, beer-chugging Russian downstairs knew his way around computers, Devine knew, but this shiny-faced skinny young woman trying to build an empire in the love and dating space might be in a totally different league.