He was no longer waiting for Godot. He was going right to the source, in a manner of speaking.
And Emerson Campbell sure as hell would be there.
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.”