Page 4 of To Die For

Devine relaxed and leaned back in his chair. He greatly respected this man who, in some ways, was an older version of himself. And Campbell’s last words had hit every reassuring mark for Devine.

“Well, what else do I have, except minutes to burn and blood to shed, sir? Let’s get to it.”

CHAPTER

3

TWO NIGHTS LATER DEVINE WALKEDresolutely up a steep, slippery street in Seattle, while the darkness, varnished with a marine layer, shrouded him like a sheet fort laid by a child. The nearly forty-five-degree upward angle caused his heartbeat to accelerate. At least he wasn’t carrying an eighty-pound rucksack, only a six-ounce cup of coffee.

Behind him was a harbor filled with commercial, military, and recreational activities all of a nautical kind. Ahead of him the rest of the city was splayed out on multiple hills like a modern fortress with clear views of approaching armies. He was staying at one hotel and now heading to another, to meet with someone. Well, two people, actually. He knew very little, but at least he knew that.

The flight here had been uneventful. Five hours on a United Airlines A320. Campbell had sprung for first class so Devine could stretch out his long legs on the narrow-body jet. He’d also allowed himself the luxury of a beer since it was free in that part of the plane. In any event, it beat a vomit seat on a cram-packed Air Force C130, but then again, riding coach, or even being out on the damn wing, would’ve done that.

Seattle was always chilly, rainy, and foggy at this time of year. Devine had been here before and found the city interesting and consistent in certain respects. But like any large metropolis, something could jump out and bite you with little warning.

He located his destination in a part of the city that was still awaiting a full facelift. The four-story hotel was sandwiched between a vape shop and a cannabis dispensary that had fake ivy glued to itsbrick exterior. The combined smells reminded him of the time he’d been thrown into a Dumpster as part of an unofficial West Point meet-and-greet courtesy of a half dozen drunken upperclassmen, all of whom were now commanding armed men in uniform.

The small, shabby lobby was empty, and the single banged-up elevator was out of order. Therewasa silver coffee urn and a stack of cups set on a round table with a sign that readHOTAPPLECIDER,HELPYOURSELF.

Devine did not help himself. He threw his coffee into a trash can and headed up the stairs.

On the third floor he turned right and trudged to the end of the hall. The carpet was torn and stained; the walls needed repainting. And apparently, the fuggy cannabis smell and sickly sweet pop of the vape shop had pierced the thin exterior walls on either side of the hotel, morphing into an alchemy of intoxication for those dwelling here. Devine held his breath so he wouldn’t get stonedandaddicted simply by inhaling air.

He thought he heard the creak of a door, the slight sound of a footstep, and Devine also seemed to sense a shadow or two here and there. Yet no threat materialized, so he assumed it had to do with the curiosity of people working or staying here. He let go of the butt of his Glock and kept going.

He gave a special rap at the last door on the hall and got another one in return, which he answered with another combo of raps. He felt a bit like he was in a 1960s-era spy flick, but at least you couldn’t computer-hack a secret knock. The door opened by the width of the slender burglar’s chain, and a woman peered out at him.

“Travis Devine?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“ID?”

He produced it. She unchained and opened the door fully, and motioned him in. She poked her head out and glanced down the corridor before closing and locking the door.

He noted that she held a dark, matte-finished Sig nine-mill inher right hand. She was around five-five, a little lumpy in figure, and her features were drawn. Her stringy brown hair, with more than a few gray strands, bracketed her forty-something face. She looked sleep deprived and unhappy all in one dreary package.

She reholstered the sidearm and showed her credentials. “FBI Special Agent Ellen Saxby.”

Devine ran his eye over the tiny room, noting the tattered carpet, the old furnishings, and the general air of neglect. Devine next spied the half-eaten meatball sandwich from Subway on a side table. An open door off this room revealed a modest bathroom that looked like it dated back to the 1970s. He also noted a closed door apparently leading into the sole bedroom. Then there was the stained couch with a pillow and blanket strewn across it that rested against one wall of the room. This was apparently Saxby’s humble place to lay her weary head.

“FBI per diem gone through the shitter?” he said, eyeing the woman.

“The government has to live within a budget, too, Devine.”

He thought about his flying out here first class, but that was a rare thing indeed.

“I know, but most Americans probably wouldn’t think the government even has a budget. Where’s Betsy Odom?”

“Napping. In the only bedroom.”

“Just you here?” Devine said.

She nodded. “I’ve gotten about ten hours of shut-eye total over the last few days.”

“How’d you get so lucky?” he asked.

“Probably because I accused my supervisor’s fav boy of being a misogynistic dick. My complaint got fav boy reassigned to a cushy post at the New York Field Office and here I am, a glorified babysitter in a shithole masquerading as a hotel that smells like wolf’s piss.”

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