“Actually . . . no, we didn’t. But we weren’t trying to build a criminal case against him.”
“Destroying evidence is a crime, last time I checked.”
“There was no crime committed against TWA 800, so the evidence was not . . . The point is, this couple was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. They saw nothing that two hundred other people didn’t see, and their videotape showed nothing that would interest the CIA or the FBI. The polygraph confirms that.” He concluded, “I questioned them extensively, and others questioned them, including your FBI colleague Liam Griffith. Everyone agrees they are telling the truth.” He added, “You can speak to Liam Griffith, and he’ll confirm what I’m telling you.”
“I’m sure he will. But I’ll know for sure after I question the couple. Do you have a pen and paper on you?”
“You may not speak to them.”
“Why not? Did they meet with an unfortunate accident?”
“Don’t be melodramatic. You can’t speak to them because we promised them anonymity for all time in exchange for their cooperation and truthfulness.”
“Okay, I’ll do the same.”
Ted Nash seemed to be thinking, probably about his instructions regarding yours truly. I said to him, “This is real simple, Ted. You tell me their names, I meet them, I talk to them, and we resolve this once and for all. What’s the problem?”
“I’ll need to get clearance to do that.”
“Okay. Call me tomorrow on my cell phone. Leave a message.”
“I might need until Monday.”
“Then let’s meet Monday.”
“I’ll let you know.” He reached in the top pocket of his windbreaker for his cigarettes, then realizing they were wet, decided not to have a smoke.
I said, “That’s why you got winded. Smoking can kill you.”
“How’s your jaw feel?”
“Fine. I soaked it in salt water along with your head.”
“My knee in your balls didn’t seem to hit anything.”
Ted was pretty good, but I’m better. I said, “I think it was your wet panty shield that weighed you down.”
“Fuck you.”
This was fun, but not productive. I changed the subject and said, “Call me, and we’ll arrange a meeting—in a public place this time. I pick. Bring company if you’d like. But I want the names of this couple before we even say hello.”
He looked at me and said, “Be prepared to answer some questions yourself, or the only thing you’ll get out of that meeting is a federal subpoena.” He added, “You don’t have the power you think you have, Corey. We have nothing to hide because there is nothing more to this than what I’ve just told you. And I’ll tell you something you should have already figured out—if there was something to hide, you’d already be dead.”
“You’re threatening me again. Let me tell you something—no matter how this case ends, you and I are going to meet so we can get your death thing straightened out.”
“I look forward to such a meeting.”
“Not as much as I do.” He put out his hand again, but we weren’t close enough to shake, so I guessed he wanted his gun back. I said, “You just threatened to kill me—and now you want me to give you your gun back? What am I missing here?”
“I told you—if I’d needed to kill you, you’d already be dead. But since obviously you believe what I just told you, I don’t need to kill you. But I do need my gun back.”
“Okay, but you promise not to point it at me and make me tell you what I know about this case?”
“I promise.”
“Cross your heart?”
“Give me my fucking gun.”
I pulled the Glock out of my waistband and dropped it in the sand. I kept the loaded magazine. I said, “Next time we meet, you won’t have to fake your death.” I turned and walked away.
He called out, “When you meet Kate at the airport, don’t forget to tell her I’m alive, and I’ll call her soon.”
Ted Nash needed for me to kill him right now, but I wanted something to look forward to.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I was much less paranoid now that I discovered there really were people following me, and wanting to kill me. This was a big relief.
I went back to the Bayview Hotel, showered the salty water and muck off, and changed into my travel attire, then checked out.
I was now on the Long Island Expressway, driving my rental Ford Taurus, and it was 10:05 on Saturday night. I had a local FM station on, cranking out some Billy Joel and Harry Chapin, who the manic DJ kept informing his listening audience were Long Island boys. So were Joey Buttafucco and the serial killer Joel Rifkin, but the DJ didn’t mention this.
Traffic was moderate to heavy, and I made a few erratic moves to see if I was being followed, but all Long Island Expressway drivers are nuts, and I couldn’t tell if I had a trained Federal agent on my tail, or just a typical Long Island loony.
I exited and re-entered the Expressway to satisfy myself that no one was following. Acting on some residue of paranoia, I looked up through the sunroof for the fabled Black Helicopter that the Organs of State Security use in America to watch its citizens, but there was nothing up there except the moon and the stars.
I turned on my cell phone for five minutes, but there were no messages.
I gave a little thought to my meeting and wrestling match with Mr. Ted Nash. The guy was as obnoxious and arrogant as ever, and being dead for a while hadn’t done him a bit of good. The next time, I’ll do it myself and attend the funeral. But in the meantime, he was back on my case, trying to thwart my noble efforts to achieve truth and justice, and my less noble efforts to stick it up some people’s asses while I was at it.
My jaw was still aching, and a quick look in the mirror at the Bayview Hotel had revealed a patch of missing skin and a black-and-blue mark running along my jawbone. I also had a headache, which I always get when I meet Ted Nash, whether or not I smash my forehead into his face. Also, there was a little tenderness in the area of the family jewels, which was reason enough for me to have killed him.
In my twenty years with the NYPD, I’d had to kill only two men, both of them in self-defense. My personal and professional relationship with Ted Nash was more complex than my hasty relationship with the two total strangers I’d had to shoot, and therefore my reasons and justification for killing Ted had to be more closely examined.
The rumble on the beach should have been cathartic for both of us, but in truth, neither of us was satisfied, and we needed a rematch.
On the other hand, as Kate would say, we were both Federal agents, trying to do the same job for our country, so we should try to understand the animus that drove us toward mutually destructive acts of verbal abuse and physical violence. We should talk out our differences and recognize that we had similar goals and aspirations, and even similar personalities, which should be a source of unity, rather than a source of conflict. We needed to acknowledge the anguish we were causing each other, and to work in a constructive and honest way to understand the feelings of the other person.
Or, to keep it short and simple, I should have drowned the son-of-a-bitch like a rat, or at least shot him with his own gun.
A sign informed me that I was entering Nassau County, and the lunatic DJ announced that it was another beautiful Saturday night on beautiful Long Island, “From the Hamptons to the Gold Coast, from Plum Island to Fire Island, from the ocean to the Sound—we’re rockin’, we’re rollin’, we’re gettin’ it on, and we’re partyin’ hard. We’re havin’ fun!”
Fuck you.
Regarding Mr. Nash’s revelations to me, he had a very good story, and he might be telling the truth: There was no rocket on that videotape. This was good, if it was true. I’d be very satisfied to believe it was an accident. I would be very pissed to find out it wasn’t.
I had maybe one card left to play in this game, and it was Jill Winslow—but for all I knew, the right Jill Winslow was not the one in Old Bro
okville, where I was now headed. The right Jill Winslow might be dead, along with her lover. And if I kept snooping around, I, too, could be dead, even if there was no cover-up and conspiracy—I think Ted Nash just wanted me dead, and after tonight, his bosses would give him the go-ahead.
I got off the Expressway and headed north on Cedar Swamp Road. I saw no cedars, and I saw no swamps, which was good. I get nervous whenever I have to leave Manhattan, but after Yemen, I could vacation in New Jersey.
I was familiar with this area of Nassau County because there were some Nassau County detectives assigned to the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, and I’d teamed up with them to do surveillance on some Salami-Salami characters who worked, lived, and were up to no good out here.
I continued along Cedar Swamp Road, which was flanked by big houses, a country club, and a few surviving estates of Long Island’s Gold Coast.
I turned right onto Route 25A, which is the main east-west route through the Gold Coast, and headed east.
I had to assume that tomorrow at the latest, Ted Nash would be at the Bayview Hotel, talking to Mr. Rosenthal about my visit, and about Jill Winslow. So, I had to move fast on this, but the problem with speaking to Mrs. Winslow tonight—aside from the late hour—was Mr. Winslow, who most probably had no idea that Mrs. Winslow was into sex, lies, and videotape. Normally, I’d just wait until Mr. Winslow went to work on Monday—but with Ted Nash on the prowl, I didn’t have until Monday.
The village of Old Brookville, with a population of fewer people than my apartment building, has its own police force, located at the intersection of Wolver Hollow Road and Route 25A. Small white building on the northwest corner of the intersection—can’t miss it, according to Sergeant Roberts, the desk sergeant I’d spoken to.
At a traffic light, I turned left onto Wolver Hollow Road and into the small parking lot in front of the building whose sign said OLD BROOKVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT. The dashboard clock read 12:17.
There were two cars in the parking lot, and I assumed one belonged to the desk sergeant, and the other to Ms. Wilson, the civilian lady I’d first spoken to when I called.
If Ted Nash of the CIA or Liam Griffith of the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility had followed me, or planted a tracking device in my car, then they were on their way here.
The clock had already run out on this game, and so had the overtime; I was now on borrowed time.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I walked into a small waiting room; to the left was a floor-to-ceiling Plexiglas wall. Behind the Plexiglas was a high bench desk, and behind the desk was a young and yawning civilian aide, whose desk sign said ISABEL CELESTE WILSON. Ms. Wilson asked me, “Can I help you?”
I said, “I’m Detective John Corey with the FBI.” I held up my credentials to the glass. “I called earlier and spoke to you and Sergeant Roberts.”
“Oh, right. Hold on.” She spoke on the intercom, and within a minute, a uniformed sergeant entered from a door in the rear.
I went through the rap again, and Sergeant Roberts, a muscular middle-aged man, looked at my Federal credentials with my photo, and I also showed him my NYPD duplicate shield with my retired ID card, and as we both knew, once a cop, always a cop.
He buzzed me in through a door in the Plexiglas wall, and escorted me into his office in the back of the stationhouse. He offered me a chair and sat at his desk. So far, I didn’t smell anything wrong, except my shirt.
He asked me, “So, you’re with the FBI?”
“I am. I’m working on a Federal homicide case, and I need to get some information about a local resident.”
Sergeant Roberts looked surprised. “We don’t get many homicides here. Who’s the resident?”
I didn’t reply and asked him, “Is there a detective available?”
He seemed a little put off, but in the world of law enforcement, detectives speak to detectives, and the chief of detectives speaks only to God.
Sergeant Roberts replied, “We have four detectives. One is out on a case, one is off-duty, one is on vacation, and the detective sergeant is at home on call. How important is this?”
“Important, but not important enough to disturb the detective sergeant’s sleep.” I added, “I’m sure you can help me.”
“What is it you need?”
Sergeant Roberts seemed to be the type of local cop who would extend the requisite professional courtesies, if you treated him right. Hopefully, he had no negative experiences with the FBI, which was sometimes a problem. I replied, “The homicide was in another jurisdiction. It’s international and possibly terrorist-related.”
He stared at me, then asked, “Is this resident a suspect?”
“No. A witness.”
“That’s good. We hate to lose a taxpayer. So, who’s the resident?”
“Mrs. Jill Winslow.”
“Are you serious?”
“You know her?”
“Sort of. I know her husband better. Mark Winslow. He’s on the village planning board. I’ve spoken to him a few times at meetings.”
I asked, “And her?”
“I’ve met her a few times. She’s a nice lady.” He smiled. “I stopped her once for speeding. She talked me out of a ticket and made me think she was doing me the favor.”
I smiled politely and asked, “Do you know if she works?”
“She doesn’t.”
I wondered how he knew that, but I didn’t ask. I said, “So, Mr. Winslow’s on the planning board? But my file shows he works for Morgan Stanley.”
Sergeant Roberts laughed. “Yeah. That’s how he makes most of his money. Village jobs pay a dollar a year.”
“Really? How do you get by on a dollar a year?”
He laughed again. “I have a real job. Most of the village government are volunteers.”
“No kidding?” This place was like Mayberry RFD, except most of the residents were rich.
Sergeant Roberts asked, “So, what’s with Mrs. Winslow? Where did she see this murder?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details. In fact, I’m not sure I have the right lady, so let me check a few facts. About how old is she?”
He thought a moment, then said, “About mid- or late thirties.” He asked me, “Did this homicide take place overseas?”
Sergeant Roberts asked too many questions, but I didn’t think he was suspicious, just nosy, and I had the feeling that gossip was Old Brookville’s main industry. Not knowing if Jill Winslow traveled overseas, or if Sergeant Roberts knew if she did, I replied, “The incident occurred in the continental United States.” I asked him, “Do the Winslows have children?”
He didn’t reply, but swiveled his chair toward his computer and hit a few keys, then said, “Two boys, James, age thirteen, and Mark Jr., fifteen. Never had a problem with them.” He added, “They’re both away at boarding school.”
I glanced at his computer screen and asked him, “You have all that in your computer?”
He replied, “We do a resident survey every year or so.”
“A resident survey?”
“Yes. Each police officer is given an area to survey—questionnaires are handed out and interviews are done, and we put the answers into the computer database. We have a file on everyone.”
“Hey, it worked in Germany and Russia.”
He gave me an annoyed look and informed me, “It’s all voluntary.”
“That’s a good first step.”
He further informed me, “Everyone benefits from this. For instance, we know if there are handicapped people in the house, if there are dogs on the premises, we know who works in the city, and we have contact phone numbers for everyone. All of this information is available in every police vehicle through a mobile data terminal.” He stated, “We have a low crime rate, and we want to keep it that way.”
“Right. Okay, can you tell me if there are any other Jill Winslows in the area?”
He went back to his computer and said, “They have a few Winslows listed as conta
ct relatives in the area, but I don’t see any other Jill Winslow.”
“Any domestic disturbances?”
He hit a few keys and said, “None reported.”
This was a little creepy, but very convenient. I should institute this computerized resident survey in my apartment house. I asked Sergeant Roberts, “How long have you been on this job?”
Without consulting his computer, he replied, “Eleven years. Why?”
“I’m wondering if you can remember anything unusual that happened regarding the Winslows about five years ago.”
He thought about that, then replied, “I can’t recall anything that’s ever come to the attention of the village police.”
“Any rumors or gossip about her?”
“You mean . . . ?”
“Yeah. Fucking around.”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of. But I don’t live here. Why do you ask?”
I ignored his question and asked him, “What can you tell me about them? I mean, background, lifestyle, stuff like that.”
Sergeant Roberts thought a moment, then replied, “Mark Winslow is from an old Long Island family. She’s a Halley, according to the resident survey, also an old family. They’re well-to-do, but not filthy rich. He works for Morgan Stanley in the city, as you know, and travels a lot for business. She notifies us every time he, she, or both of them are away. They belong to the country club, and he has a club in the city”— he glanced at his computer—“Union League Club. Very Republican. What else do you want to know?”
I wanted to know if this was the Jill Winslow who was fucking on the beach the night of the TWA 800 crash, but maybe she’d be the one to ask about that. I said, “I think I get the picture.”
He asked me, “What does this have to do with being a witness to a homicide?”
Good question. Sergeant Roberts was sharper than I’d expected, which was a good lesson for me to remember. I replied, “There’s more to this, obviously. But for reasons of national security, I can’t tell you what that is.”
We kept eye contact, and he said, “All right.”