“I want to know. I’m not trading for it—I’m giving you what I found anyway—I just need to know what’s fucking up your head and your life.”
“I can’t talk over the phone. But I’ll tell you tomorrow, in person.”
“What if you get killed before then?”
“I’ll leave you a note. Come on, I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Okay, here’s the only Jill Winslow that fits the age group and the geography. Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Jill Penelope Winslow, married to Mark Randall Winslow—where do these WASPs get these names? She’s thirty-nine years old, no apparent place of employment. He’s forty-five, an investment banker with Morgan Stanley, works in Manhattan. They live at Number 12 Quail Hollow Lane, Old Brookville, Long Island, New York. No other property owned. According to DMV, they have three cars—a Lexus SUV, a Mercedes sedan, and a BMW Z3. You want the particulars?”
“I do.” He gave me the models, colors, and tag numbers, and I wrote them down.
He said, “The BMW is in her name.”
“Okay.”
He continued, “I tried a lot of different sources for the phone number, but no luck. I can probably get a number for you Monday. I did a criminal and civil check, but they’re clean. No Jill Penelope Winslow divorce or death, but your Jill Winslow and the one I focused on may not be the same person. So, without a middle name from you, or a DOB, or Social Security number—”
“I know how this works. Thank you.”
“Just so you know. I did my best on a Saturday morning with a little hangover. You should have been at this club last night. This babe, Sally—”
“Sarah. Okay, do me a favor and e-mail me any other Winslows that might fit. I’m checking out of here, and I’m not on my cell phone today, but you can leave a message. I should be back in my apartment tonight.”
“I left a bottle of champagne for you and Kate.”
“That was very thoughtful of you.”
“Actually, a half case that I didn’t use. When is she coming home?”
“Monday.”
“Great. You must be having a whiteout by now.” He laughed.
“Okay, I’ve got to go.”
“You going to Old Brookville?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me know if I had the right Jill Winslow. Okay?”
“You’ll be the first to know, right after me.”
“Yeah. You close?”
“I think.”
“The last ten yards are a bitch.”
“I know. Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
I hung up, went into the shower, and washed the salt off. As I was drying off, the phone rang. There was only one person in the universe who knew where I was, and I just spoke to him, so it must be the hotel. I picked up the phone and said, “Hello.”
A female voice said, “Mr. Corey?”
I said, “I’m checking out now. Have my bill ready.”
She replied, “I’m not with the hotel. I’d like to speak to you.”
I dropped my towel and asked, “About what?”
“About TWA 800.”
“What about TWA 800?”
“I can’t speak on the phone. Can you meet me?”
“Not unless you tell me what this is about and who you are.”
“I can’t speak over the phone. Can you meet me tonight? I have what I think you’re looking for.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Information. Maybe a videotape.”
I didn’t reply for a few seconds, then I said, “I have what I need. But thanks.”
She ignored that, as I knew she would, and said, “Eight P.M., tonight, Cupsogue Beach County Park, the inlet. I won’t call again.” She hung up.
I tried star 69. A recording informed me that the number I was trying to reach couldn’t be dialed by that method.
I looked at the clock on the nightstand—3:18 P.M. Not quite enough time to drive to Old Brookville and back to Cupsogue Beach.
More to the point, why would I want to meet somebody in a deserted place after dark? If you have to, you have to, but you must be wearing a wire, have a backup team, and remember to bring your gun.
In this case, however, it was all moot because I was acting on my own, and my Glock was in the diplomatic pouch somewhere between Yemen and New York.
It was also irrelevant because I was not going to that meeting.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I changed my mind.
Regarding clandestine meetings: Always arrive an hour early, and never go by a direct route. So, at 7 P.M., rather than park my car at Cupsogue Beach County Park, I pulled over on Dune Road and found a beach access path between two houses.
Dressed in my swim trunks and black T-shirt, I walked barefoot along the ocean beach. A sign on the beach informed me I was entering the park grounds.
Official sunset was 7:17 P.M., and the sun was now half submerged in the ocean. The water sparkled with red and gold flecks.
The few remaining people on the beach were packing up and heading back to their cars.
By the time I could see the inlet at the far tip of the barrier island, I was the last person left on the beach, except for a park ranger in a four-wheel drive who was patrolling the beach with a bullhorn, announcing that the park was closed.
He drove past me and called out, “Park’s closed. Please exit the park.”
I turned inland and climbed up a dune. At the top, I could see the nature trail that cut between the dunes. Two couples carrying beach gear were trudging toward the parking lot. It was 7:15 P.M. I had forty-five minutes to come to my senses. Actually, I’d had nearly forty years to do that, and still no luck.
The sun set, and the sky turned from purple to black as the nautical twilight lingered, then died on the horizon. Stars appeared, and a sea breeze rustled the tall grass around me. The surf washed over the beach, making a soft, rhythmic sound. Now and then, a small breaker crashed on the sand.
I moved slowly through the grassy dunes and reached the last dune from which I could see the inlet, about fifty yards away.
To the right of the point was Moriches Bay and to the left was the ocean, both connected by the short inlet. A few pleasure boats with their running lights on were entering the bay, and lobster boats were heading out to deep water. Across the bay, I could see the lights of the Coast Guard station.
I had no idea which way my so-called informant would travel to the meeting place at the tip of the island, but I was here first, I’d reconnoitered, and I had the high ground. Having said that, I’d feel even better if I had my gun.
This hadn’t seemed like a bad idea when the sun was up.
My digital watch read 8:05 P.M., but there was no one on the sandy point waiting for me. My informant was late, or was somewhere in these grassy dunes waiting for me to walk out to the point first.
At 8:15, I considered making the first move, but that could possibly be my last move.
I listened intently for any sound around me, but it would be almost impossible to hear anyone walking in the soft sand, though I thought I heard the rustling of sea grass when there was no breeze.
I turned my head slowly and tried to see through the darkness, but nothing moved.
The moon was rising now—a bright half-moon—and the beach and sea were illuminated. The sea grass where I sat was not offering much concealment in the moonlight, and I felt a little exposed sitting there on the dune with a few thin blades of grass around me. At least my clothing and skin were dark.
At 8:20, I realized I needed to make a decision. The smart thing to do was to leave, but getting out was not going to be as easy as getting in. I decided to sit tight. Whoever wanted this meeting had to make the first move. That’s the rule.
Five minutes later, I heard what sounded like a cough, but it could have been a dog. A few seconds later, I heard it again, and it seemed to come from the direction of the sand dune behind me.
I tu
rned slowly toward the sound, but I couldn’t see anything. I waited.
I heard the sound again, and this time, it did not sound like a dog. It was human, and it was moving, circling around me. Or there could be more than one person out there, all of them armed with automatic pistols fitted with silencers. I heard another cough in another location.
Someone, obviously, was trying to announce his or her presence and wanted a response, so I decided to play the game, and I coughed, then I changed my position in case I’d just become a target.
A second later, a male voice, not too far away, said, “Where are you?”
The voice had come from the sand dune to my right, and I turned toward it. I lowered my profile and said, “Stand where I can see you. Slowly.”
A figure rose up from behind the dune, about thirty feet away, and I could see the head and shoulders of what looked like a big man, though I couldn’t make out his face.
I said, “Come closer—hands where I can see them.”
The figure rose higher, and the guy crested the top of the dune, then began to walk down the slope into the dark valley. I said, “Stop there.”
He stopped about thirty feet from me.
I said, “Okay, turn around and get down on the ground.”
He didn’t follow my instructions, which always pisses me off. I said, in my best NYPD voice, “Hey, pal, I’m talking to you. Turn around and get down. Now!”
He stood where he was, looking up at me, then he lit a cigarette. In the glare of the lighter, I caught a glimpse of his face, and I thought for a moment it was someone I knew, but it couldn’t be. I said, “Hey, asshole, I’ve got a gun pointed at you that you’re going to hear in about three seconds. Turn around. Now. And get the fuck down. One, two—”
He replied, “Your gun is in a dip pouch. And unless you have another one, then there is only one gun here tonight, and it’s mine.”
The voice, like the face, was hauntingly familiar. In fact, it was Ted Nash, back from the dead.
CHAPTER FORTY
It took me a few seconds to get over my astonishment; I knew I’d never get over my disappointment. I said, “Aren’t you dead, or something?”
“Officially dead. Actually feeling fine.”
“Maybe I can fix that.”
He didn’t reply, but threw his cigarette away and started walking up the sand slope toward me. As he got closer, I could see he was wearing jeans, a dark T-shirt, and a windbreaker, under which would be his gun.
He approached me from an oblique angle so I couldn’t kick sand in his face, or plant my heel between his eyes.
He got to the top of the dune about ten feet from me and stopped.
We faced each other and played the eyeball game.
Ted Nash of the Central Intelligence Agency was a tall man, about my height, but not as muscular as I am. Even in the moonlight I could see his perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair, and his facial features, which women for some reason found attractive. I often wondered if a broken nose would add to or detract from his looks.
We had developed an immediate and intense dislike for each other, way back when we worked the Plum Island case, partly because of his arrogance, but mostly because he was hitting on a female detective, which I found inappropriate and unprofessional, not to mention interfering with my own interest in the lady. Then later, there was the Kate thing, which I could forgive him for because he was dead. Now, my only reason for tolerating him seemed to be gone.
Other than having the same taste in women, we didn’t agree on much else.
He looked me up and down and said, apropos of my swim trunks and T-shirt, “Am I cutting in on your leave time?”
I didn’t reply, but just kept staring at him, making a mental inventory of all the reasons I didn’t like him the first time he was alive. How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways. For one thing, he had this perpetual snotty tone in his voice. For another, he seemed to have a permanent smirk on his face.
He glanced at his watch and asked me, “Wasn’t our meeting for eight o’clock at the inlet?”
“Cut the shit.”
“I made a bet with someone that you’d show up. Only an idiot would show up unarmed at a night meet in a desolate place with someone they didn’t know.”
“Only an idiot would meet me alone. I hope you have backup.”
He didn’t respond to that, and asked me, “How was Yemen?”
I didn’t reply.
He said, “I’ve heard that Kate had a good time in Tanzania.”
Again, I didn’t reply. I thought I was close enough to clock him before he got to his gun, and he must have sensed that because he took a few steps away. He looked around and said, “Beautiful night. It’s great to be alive.” He laughed.
I said, “Don’t get too used to it.”
He looked at me and asked, “Aren’t you even a little surprised to discover that I’m alive?”
“I’m more pissed off than surprised.”
He smiled and said, “That’s why they call us spooks.”
“How long have you been waiting to use that line?”
He seemed a little upset that I wasn’t appreciating his rehearsed lines, but he pressed on with his script and said, “I never congratulated you on your marriage.”
“You were dead. Remember?”
“Would you have invited me to your wedding?”
“I would have if I knew where you were buried.”
He got sulky, turned, and started down the slope toward the ocean. He motioned me to follow. “Come on. I like to walk along the beach.”
I followed, trying to close the distance between us, but he called over his shoulder, “Don’t get too close. Ten paces.”
Asshole. I followed him down to the beach, and we headed west, toward the inlet. He took off his docksiders and walked along the water’s edge letting the surf wash over his feet. He said, “Wet stuff.”
Which is CIA jargon for killing someone. I said, “Oh, please, don’t be too clever.”
“You never appreciated my cleverness. But Kate did.”
“Fuck you.”
“Can we have an intelligent conversation without you saying ‘Fuck you’?”
“I’m sorry. Go fuck yourself.”
“You’re annoying me.”
“I’m annoying you. How annoyed do you think I am that you’re alive?”
He replied, “I feel the same about you.”
We walked along the shoreline, side by side, ten paces apart, and I drifted to my left and closed the distance. He noticed and said, “You’re crowding me.”
“I can’t hear you over the surf.”
“One more fucking step, Corey, and you’re going to see what kind of gun I’m carrying.”
“I’m going to see it sooner or later, anyway.”
He stopped and turned toward me, his back to the ocean. “Let’s get this straight. I’m armed, you’re not. You came here to get some answers. I’ll give you those answers. What happens next is partly up to you. Meanwhile, I’m the man.”
I was losing my cool, and I said to him, “You’re not the man, Teddy. Even if you had a fucking Uzi, you’re not the man. You’re an arrogant, patronizing, egotistical, narcissistic—”
“Look in the water, Corey. What do you see?”
“I’m going to see you floating facedown before this night is over.”
“That’s not going to happen. Not to me, anyway.”
We stood there on the beach, about five paces apart, the surf getting heavier and crashing loudly on the shore. Nash said, above the noise, “You think I slept with Kate, but you don’t want to ask me about it because you don’t want to hear the answer.”
I took a deep breath, but didn’t reply. I really wanted to smash his sneering mouth, but I got myself under control.
He continued, “I wouldn’t tell you, anyway. A gentleman never kisses and tells, the way you and your NYPD buddies do when you get drunk and talk about all the women you’ve fucked by na
me, and with graphic descriptions. Like your stupid friend Fanelli.”
I let that go for the time being and I asked him, “Why did you want to meet me? To reveal your miraculous resurrection? To listen to your infantile jokes? This is very cruel, Ted. Give me your gun so I can kill myself.”
Ted Nash stayed silent for a while, then lit another cigarette and exhaled into the breeze. He said, “I called you here because you’re causing problems in my organization, as well as in yours. You’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, and apparently Yemen didn’t teach you anything.”
“What was I supposed to learn, master?”
“How to follow orders.”
“What’s it to you?”
He didn’t reply and asked me, “What are you doing out here at the Bayview Hotel?”
“I’m on vacation, stupid.”
“No, you’re not. And cut the stupid shit. Try again.”
“I’m on vacation, asshole.”
He didn’t seem to like that name, either, but he didn’t ask me to try again. He looked at me, pointed to the sky, and said, “That was my case. Not yours. Not Kate’s. Not Dick Kearns’s and not Marie Gubitosi’s. My case. It’s closed. You should leave it closed, or quite frankly, Mr. Corey, you may come to an unhappy end.”
I was a little surprised and disturbed that he knew about Dick and Marie. I said, “Are you threatening me? You did that once before, and that was one time more than anyone else has gotten away with.”
He flicked his cigarette in the surf, slipped his shoes on, then took off his windbreaker, revealing a shoulder rig in which sat a Glock. He tied the arms of the windbreaker around his waist and said, “Let’s walk.”
“You walk. And keep walking.”
“I think you forgot who’s in charge of this meeting.”
I turned and started walking down the beach toward where I’d left my car.
He called after me, “Don’t you want to know what happened here with that couple?”
I flipped him the bird over my shoulder. I figured if he was going to shoot, he’d have done it already. Not that I didn’t think he was capable of putting a bullet in my back, but I had the feeling he wasn’t authorized, or if he was, he first needed to see what I knew.