Night Fall

BOOK THREE

September

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Conclusions: CIA analysts do not believe that a missile was used to shoot down TWA Flight 800… There is absolutely no evidence, physical or otherwise, that a missile was employed.

CIA “Analytic Assessment,” March 28, 1997

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

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Not having contracted malaria or been abducted, kidnapped, or murdered, I arrived at JFK on a Delta flight from London at 4:05P.M. on the Friday after Labor Day, having spent about forty days and forty nights in the desert wilderness of Yemen.

For the record, the place sucks.

Kate was still in Dar es Salaam, but she’d be home within the week. She seemed to be enjoying Tanzania, e-mailing me about friendly people, good food, interesting countryside, and all that. Rub it in.

Exactly why we’d gotten off with short tours was more of a mystery than why we’d been exiled in the first place-which was no mystery at all. Possibly, Jack Koenig and his colleagues believed that, as with a prison sentence, a short one teaches you a lesson, and a long one breeds resentment and revenge.

Wrong. I was still pissed off and not a bit grateful for my early release.

I cleared Passport Control and Immigration quickly since I wasn’t carrying anything except my overnight bag, a diplomatic passport, and a concealed grudge; I’d left my safari clothes in Yemen where they belonged, and my Glock was being shipped home through the embassy dip pouch. I was wearing tan slacks, a blue blazer, and a sport shirt, which looked good when I’d put them on about a day ago.

It seemed strange to be back in civilization, if that’s the right word for JFK International Airport. The sights, sounds, and smells-which I’d never noticed before-were jarring.

Aden, as it turned out, was not the actual capital of Yemen-some shit-hole town called Sana’a was, and I’d had to go there a few times on business, where I had the pleasure of meeting Ambassador Bodine. I introduced myself to her as a close friend of John O’Neill, though I’d met the gentleman only a few times. I didn’t get kicked out, which was the plan, but neither was I invited for dinner at the ambassador’s residence.

Aden, where I was stationed, was the port city where theCole had been blown up, and it, too, sucked. The good news was that the Sheraton Hotel where the team stayed had a gym (the Marines had to show the staff how to put the equipment together) and a swimming pool (which we had to teach the staff how to clean), and I was as tan and fit as I’d ever been since I took three bullets up in Washington Heights about four years ago. I’d kept the drinking in Yemen to a bare minimum, learned to like fish, rather than drink like one, and experienced the joys of chastity. I felt like a new man, but the old man needed a drink, a hamburger, and sex.

I stopped at the lounge and ordered a beer and hamburger at the bar.

I had my cell phone, but the battery was as dead as my dick at the moment, and I asked the bartender to plug in my charger, which he was happy to do. I explained, “I was in the Arabian desert.”

“Nice tan.”

“Place called Yemen. Dirt cheap. You should go there. The people are great.”

“Well, welcome home.”

“Thanks.”

There had actually been e-mail service in Aden, through Yahoo! for some reason, and this is how Kate and I had kept in touch, along with an occasional international call. We never mentioned TWA 800, but I’d had lots of time to think about it.

I’d e-mailed John Jay College of Criminal Justice, explaining that I was on a secret and dangerous mission for the government, and I might be a few days or years late for class. I suggested they start without me.

The TV over the bar was tuned to the news channel, and it appeared that nothing had happened in my absence. The weather guy said it was another beautiful late summer day in New York, with more of the same in the days ahead. Good. Aden was a furnace. The interior of Yemen was hell. Why do people live in these places?

I ordered another beer and scanned aDaily News on the bar. There wasn’t much news, and I read the sports section and checked my horoscope: Don’t be surprised if you have feelings of ecstasy, jealousy, agony, and bliss all in a day’s work. I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

Anyway, in Aden, I worked with six FBI agents, including two women, and four NYPD guys from the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, two of whom I knew, so it was okay. Along with the investigators, we had about twenty Marines armed to the teeth, and an eight-man FBI SWAT team, all of whom rotated duty as sharpshooters on the roof of the Sheraton, and which the hotel, I think, used in their marketing strategy for the few other guests.

The mission also included about a dozen Diplomatic Security Service people, and a few Army and Navy intelligence personnel, and of course, the CIA, whose identity and number was a big secret, but I counted four. All the Americans got along fairly well because there was no one else to talk to in that godforsaken place.

My duties in Aden consisted of working with their corrupt and stunningly stupid intelligence people to get leads on the perpetrators of theCole attack. Most of these guys spoke some kind of English, left over from the British colonial days, but whenever my teammates and I got too nosy or aggressive, they forgot their second language.

Now and then, Yemen intelligence would round up the usual suspects and drag them down to police headquarters so we could see some progress in the investigation. About once a week, five or six task force guys would be taken to the police station to question these miserable wretches through inept and lying interpreters in a fetid, windowless interrogation room. The intelligence guys would smack the suspects around a little for our benefit and tell us they were getting close to the “foreign terrorists” who blew up theCole.

Personally, I think these suspects were hired for the day, but I appreciated the police interrogation techniques. Just kidding.

And then there were the “informants,” who gave us useless leads in exchange for a couple of bucks. I swear I saw some of these informants in police uniforms around town on the days they weren’t being informants.

Basically, we were pissing into the wind, and our presence there was purely symbolic; seventeen American sailors were dead, an American warship had been put out of commission, and the administration needed to show they were doing something. But when John O’Neill had actually tried to do something, he got the boot.

As a point of interest, a week ago, word had reached Yemen that John O’Neill had left the FBI and was now working as a security consultant for the World Trade Center. I should see him about a job-depending on how the TWA thing played out; I was going to be either very employable, or unemployed forever.

Kate, in her e-mails, told me she was having a lot more luck in Tanzania, where the government was helpful, partly as a result of losing hundreds of its citizens in the U.S. Embassy bombings.

The Yemen government, on the other hand, was not only unhelpful, but also treacherous and hostile, and the guy who was head of their intelligence service, some slimeball named Colonel Anzi, who we nicknamed Colonel Nazi, made Jack Koenig look like Mother Teresa.

There had been an element of danger in Yemen, and we always traveled with bulletproof vests and armed Marines or SWAT guys. We didn’t mix much with the locals, and I slept with Mrs. Glock every night.

Our hotel had been mortared and rocketed a few years before by some rebel group, but they were all dead now, and we only had to worry about the terrorists who blew up theCole and undoubtedly wanted to blow up the Sheraton Hotel, first chance they got.

Meanwhile, my beloved Kate was whooping it up in Dar es Salaam. I had another beer and got my imagination fired up, concocting stories about wild tribal horsemen attacking my Jeep on the way to Sana’a, being jumped by assassins in the casbah, and narrowly escaping the bite of a deadly cobra placed in my bed by Yemen intelligence men.

I mean, this could have happened. I thought about trying one of these stories out on the bartender, but he was busy, so I just asked him for my cell phone.

I dialed Dom Fanelli’s cell phone, and he answered.

I said, “I’m back.”

“Hey! I was worried about you. I followed the news every day from Kuwait.”

“I was in Yemen.”

“Really? Same shit. Right?”

“Probably. I’m at JFK. Can’t talk long in case they’re still on my case. Where are you?”

“In the office. But I can talk.”

“Good. How’s my apartment?”

“Great… I would have cleaned it if I knew… anyway, how was Yemen?”

“It’s a well-kept secret.”

“Yeah? How are the babes?”

“I gotta tell ya-this place was like Scandinavia with sunshine.”

“No shit? They have nude beaches?”

“They don’t even allow women to wear bathing suits on the beach.” Which was true.

“Mama mia! Maybe I should put my papers in for the ATTF.”

“Do it soon, before the word gets out.”

“Yeah. Right. You’re jerking me off.” He asked, “How’s Kate?”

“Coming home in a few days.”

“That’s great. Let’s have a night out.”

“I’ll try. I’m on admin leave for ten days, and I’m taking some vacation time, so Kate and I are going to Paris.”

“Terrific. You deserve it. What are you doing tonight?”

“You tell me.”

“Oh, right. Those names.”

“I need to get off this phone in a few minutes, Dom. Talk to me.”

“Okay. Forget Gonzalez Perez. Brock, Christopher, two possibles who fit, one in Daytona Beach, one in San Francisco. You want the particulars?”

“Shoot.”

He gave me the addresses and phone numbers, and I wrote them on a cocktail napkin.

He said, “Roxanne Scarangello. Got what I think is a positive. Ready to copy?”

“Ready.”

“Okay… where did I put that…?”

“On the bulletin board?”

“No… here it is. Okay, Scarangello, Roxanne, age twenty-seven, in her third year of a PhD program at University of Pennsylvania-that’s in Philly. Got a BA and an MA from the same place-bullshit, more shit, piled higher and deeper.”

“She start class?”

“Yeah. Well, she was registered. Should have started today, actually.”

“Current address?”

“Lives on Chestnut Street with a boyfriend named Sam Carlson. Mama’s not happy.” He gave me the address, apartment, and cell phone number. He added, “I did a standard credit check on her-those credit bastards have more background on people than the FBI-and I discovered she used to work summers at the Bayview Hotel in Westhampton Beach. That’s the babe, right?”

“Right.”

“I even got a photo from her college yearbook. Nice-looking. You want it?”

“Maybe. Anything else? Criminal? Civil?”

“No. Clean. But she’s got no visible means of support, except maybe the boyfriend, but he’s a student and his credit report sucks, too, and I did a background on her parents, who aren’t exactly rich.”

“Scholarship?”

“That’s it. Some kind of school scholarship, with a stipend. And knowing where you’re coming from, I checked further and found out that this is a U.S. government-supported scholarship, but maybe that’s just a coincidence.”

“Maybe. Nice work.”

“Piece of cake. Meet me for a beer. You owe me one.”

“I do, but I’m jet-lagged.”

“Bullshit. You’re going to Philly. Take a break, John. Meet me at the Judson Grill. Full of Hampton babes back after Labor Day. Hey, you might get a lead there.”

I smiled and said, “Dom, I’ve kept my dick in my pants for six weeks. Don’t tempt me.”

“Six weeks? How do you know it still works?”

“Go sanitize my apartment. I’ll be home late tonight, or early tomorrow. Ciao.”

“Ciao, baby. Welcome home. Think about what you’re doing-you don’t want to go back to Yemen.”

“Thanks.” I shut off my cell phone, then paid the bar tab and tipped the bartender a five for the electricity.

I walked into the terminal where a digital clock said it was 5:01P.M., and I reset my watch to earth time.

I actuallywas jet-lagged, and I’d been in the same clothes for over a day, and quite frankly I’d make a Yemeni camel jockey gag.

I should be going home, but I was going to Philadelphia.

I went to the Hertz counter and rented a mid-sized Ford Taurus, and within thirty minutes I was on the Shore Parkway, heading toward the Verrazano Bridge, the radio playing, and my cell phone plugged into the car outlet.

I called my home answering machine and retrieved a few dozen messages from people who seemed surprised or confused about us being out of the country. There were about six messages from Dom Fanelli, all saying, “Kate, John-you home yet? I thought I’d check your apartment for you. Okay, just checking.”

This is the guy who tellsme to be careful. Detective Fanelli was going to wind up on the wrong side of a domestic homicide case.

I shut off the cell phone, and left it charging. My beeper, in fact, had not worked in Yemen, but following Jack’s orders I’d left it on the whole time, and the battery was dead. But it was on.

I also recalled that Mr. Koenig had given me a direct order not to involve myself in TWA 800. I should have asked him to clarify that, which I’ll do next time I see him.

I drove over the Verrazano, across Staten Island, and across the Goethals Bridge, then onto I-95 in New Jersey, and headed south toward Philadelphia. I should be there in less than two hours.

Roxanne Scarangello.She may not know anything, but if Griffith and Nash spoke to her, then I needed to speak to her.

I was five years and two months behind the curve on this one, but it’s never too late to re-open a case.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

To a New Yorker, Philadelphia-about a hundred miles south of Midtown-is like the Statue of Liberty: historical, close, and totally avoidable.

Nonetheless, I’ve been to the City of Brotherly Love a few times for police conferences, and a few times to see a Phillies-Mets game, so I know the place. All things considered, to paraphrase W. C. Fields, I’d rather be in Yemen. Just kidding.

At about 7:30P.M., I pulled up to a five-story apartment building at 2201 Chestnut Street, not far from Rittenhouse Square.

I found a parking space on the street, got out of my rental car, and stretched. I called Roxanne Scarangello’s apartment, and a female answered, “Hello?”

“Roxanne Scarangello, please.”

“Speaking.”

“Ms. Scarangello, this is Detective John Corey with the FBI. I’d like to speak to you for a few minutes.”

There was a long silence, then she asked, “About what?”

“About TWA Flight 800, ma’am.”

“I’ve told you all I know about that, five years ago. You said you wouldn’t be calling me again.”

“Something new has surfaced. I’m outside your apartment. May I come up?”

“No. I’m… not dressed.”

“Why don’t you get dressed?”

“I… I’m actually late for dinner.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“I can walk.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

I heard what sounded like a deep sigh, then she said, “All right. I’ll be right down.”

I turned off my cell phone and waited in front of the apartment building, which seemed like a decent place on a nice tree-lined street, within walking distance of the University of Pennsylvania, an expensive Ivy League school.

It was nearly dark, and the night was clear. A soft breeze carried a hint of autumn.

You don’t appreciate these things until they’re gone, and if you’re lucky, you get to appreciate them again with new eyes and ears.

America.

It was some kind of delayed reaction, and I felt like kissing the ground and singing “God Bless America.”

A tall, attractive young woman with long dark hair, dressed in black jeans and a black sweater, came out of the apartment house.

I said, “Ms. Scarangello? I’m John Corey, FBI task force.” I held up my credentials and said, “Thank you for your time.”

She replied, “I’ve really told you all I know, which is almost nothing.”

That’s what you think, Roxanne. I said, “I’ll walk with you.”

She shrugged, and we began walking toward Rittenhouse Square. She said, “I’m meeting my boyfriend for dinner.”

“I, too, have a dinner date. So I won’t keep you.”

As we walked, I asked her some inconsequential questions about the university, her first day of classes, Philadelphia, and about her doctorate program, which she said was in English literature.

I yawned, and she asked me, “Am I boring you?”

“Not at all. I just got in from the Mideast. See my tan? Do you want to see my ticket?”

She laughed. “No. I believe you. What were you doing there?”

“Keeping the world safe for democracy.”

“You should start here.”

I remembered I was speaking to a college student and replied, “You’re absolutely right.”

She went into a rap about the last presidential election, and I nodded and made positive sounds.

We got to a restaurant called Alma de Cuba near Rittenhouse Square and entered. It was an upscale, trendoid kind of place, and I wondered how big that stipend was.

Ms. Scarangello suggested a drink while we waited for her boyfriend.

There was a cocktail lounge in the rear, decorated with plantation shutters and black-and-white photos of old Cuba projected onto the white walls. We found a table and ordered a carafe of white sangria for her and, to continue the theme, a Cuba libre for me.

I said to her, “Let me get right to the point. You were the cleaning person who went into Room 203 of the Bayview Hotel in Westhampton at about noon on July 18, 1996, the day after the TWA 800 crash. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“No other cleaning person or staff had been there before you. Correct?”

“As best I know. The guests hadn’t checked out, and they weren’t answering the phone or the knocks on the door. Also, there was a Do Not Disturb sign on the door.”

That’s the first I’d heard about that. But it made sense if Don Juan and his lady wanted to put time and distance between themselves and the hotel. I said, “And you entered with your passkey?”

“Yes, that was the procedure after the elevenA.M. check-out time.”

The drinks came, I poured some sangria for her, and we clinked glasses.

I asked her, “Do you recall the names of the FBI people who first interviewed you?”

“Not after five years. They only used their first names.”

“Well, think hard.”

She replied, “I think one of them had like an Irish name.”

“Sean? Seamus? Giuseppe?”

She laughed. “That’s not Irish.”

I smiled. “Maybe Liam.”

“That’s it. The other was… can’t remember. Don’t you know?”

“Yeah. Probably Ted.”

“I think that’s it. Nice-looking guy.”

And an asshole.

She asked me, “Are you still looking for that couple? Is that what this is about?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why are they so important?”

“We’ll know when we find them.”

She informed me, “They probably weren’t married to each other. They don’t want to be found.”

“Well, but they need marriage counseling.”

She smiled. “Yeah. Right.”

I asked her, “Did the FBI show you a composite sketch of the man?”

“Yes. But I didn’t recognize him.”

“How about the woman he was with?”

“No. I never saw a sketch of her.”

I said to her, “Okay, so you walked into the room and what?”

“Well… I called out in case they were, like, in the bathroom, you know? But I could see they were gone. Nothing around. So I dragged my cart in, and I started by stripping the bed.”

“Okay, so the bed was slept in?”

“Well… probably not. It was just, like, the bed cover was at the foot of the bed, the blanket was gone, and probably they lay down on the top sheet, maybe to nap or watch TV, or… whatever. But it didn’t have that overnight slept-in look.” She laughed. “I got real good at the nuances of hotel room use.”

“I wasn’t an English major. What’s a nuance?”

She laughed again. “You’re funny.” She surprised me by lighting a cigarette. She said, “I only smoke when I drink. You want one?”

“Sure.” I took a cigarette, and she lit it for me. I used to smoke, so I didn’t choke on it.

I said, “So, the blanket was missing?”

“Yes. And I made a note to tell the head housekeeper.”

“Mrs. Morales.”

“Right. I wonder whatever happened to her.”

“Still there.”

“Great lady.”

“She is.” I asked, “Did you know Lucita? The cleaning lady?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“How about Christopher Brock, the desk clerk?”

“I knew him, but not well.”

“Did you speak to him after the FBI questioned you?”

“No, we were told not to speak to anyone. And they meantanyone.”

“How about the manager, Mr. Rosenthal? Did you speak to him?”

She replied, “He wanted to talk to me about it, but I said I couldn’t.”

“All right. And you left the hotel shortly after that day?”

She didn’t reply for a while, then said, “I did.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Nope.”

“Well… these FBI guys said it would be best if I left my job at the hotel. Because I might be tempted to talk to news people, and maybe I’d be harassed by the media feeding frenzy and all that. So I said I couldn’t afford to leave my job, and they said they’d make up my salary if I cooperated and left, and… kept quiet.”

“Pretty good deal.”

“It was. I mean, it’s peanuts to the Federal government. They pay farmers not to grow crops. Right?”

“Right. They pay me not to take care of the office plants.”

She smiled.

I asked, “What was it that the FBI didn’t want you talking about?”

“That’s just it. I didn’tknow anything. But there was like this big thing about this couple in Room 203 and them going to the beach and seeing the plane crash. It didn’t seem like a big deal, but they made a big deal out of it, and the news people got wind of something going on. Next thing I know, I’m retired and out of there.”

I nodded. The Feds come on like gangbusters, cause a shit storm, then try to wipe up the shit with money.

I asked her, “Did they help you with your scholarship?”

“Sort of. I think so. Don’t you know?”

“That’s not my department.”

Ms. Scarangello’s cell phone rang, and she answered it. I could tell she was talking to her boyfriend, and she said to him, “Yes, I’m here. But take your time. I’m in the bar, and I ran into one of my old profs. I’m fine. See you later.” She hung up and said to me, “That was Sam-my boyfriend. He’s at the apartment now.” She added, “I’m not supposed to ever mention TWA 800. Right?”

“Right.”

“So, see, wasn’t that good?”

“Excellent. Do I look like a professor?”

She laughed. “No. But you are when Sam gets here.”

Carafe two, Cuba libre two.

“So,” I said, “take me through everything you did and saw in that room, things you might have smelled or touched that seemed out of the ordinary, and even completely ordinary.”

“Oh, jeez… it’s been five years.”

“I know. But if you start talking, then it’ll start coming back.”

“I doubt it. But, okay… next I went into the bathroom because this is the least pleasant part of the job, and I wanted to get it over with. I started in the shower-”

“The shower had been used?”

“Yes, but not that morning. I could tell it had been used, maybe the night before. Soap and shower stall were dry, and so were the used towels. I remember telling one of the FBI guys that it was like the bathroom was hardly used. Just a quick shower and out.”

“Was there sand on the floor? In the bed?”

“There was beach sand in the bathroom. I told the FBI guy that.”

“Okay, so you went back in the bedroom.”

“Yes. I first emptied the wastebaskets, then the ashtrays-”

“They were smoking?”

“No… I don’t think so. But that’s what I usually do.”

“Try to separate this room on this day from the hundreds of other rooms you’ve cleaned.”

She laughed. “Sure. More like two thousand over three summers out there.”

“I know, but you were questioned for a long time about this one room. So you can remember what you said to the FBI guys. Right?”

She replied, “Actually, I wasn’t questioned that long. They just asked me what I did and saw in the room, then thanked me.”

I nodded. Neither Liam Griffith, who was probably an OPR guy, nor Ted Nash, CIA, knew how to wring a witness dry. They weren’t detectives. I am. I asked Roxanne, “Did this couple leave a tip?”

“No.”

“See? You remember that.”

She smiled. “Cheap bastards.”

“I’m buying drinks tonight.”

“Good.”

“Okay, what was in the wastebaskets?”

“I really don’t remember. Just the usual. Tissues. Whatever.”

“How about a box from a video camera cassette?”

“No… you think they videotaped themselves… like, doing it?”

“I don’t know. How about cellophane, gum wrappers, price tags, receipts for anything?”

“No… but there was a Band-Aid wrapper in the ashtray.” She shrugged.

“Any sign of blood?”

“No.”

“Okay, tell me how you cleaned a room. Any room.”

“Sometimes I varied it because it was mind-numbing, but I had a routine.” She proceeded to give me a lesson in room cleaning, which I might actually need in case my cleaning lady died.

I asked her, “And there was definitely lipstick on a wineglass?”

“Yes. I think that was the first thing that made me aware that there had been a woman in the room.”

“Any other sign of a woman? Dusting powder? Makeup? Long hair?”

“No. But you could tell two people had been there. Both pillows were squashed. Lots of towels used.” She smiled and said, “Guys use one towel, women use them all and call for more.”

“I’ll ignore that sexist remark.”

She smiled again and gave herself a little slap on the face. She was either very cute, or I’d been in the desert too long.

She went on, and her memory was getting better with the wine and cigarettes.

When she was finished, I asked her, “Is this more or less what you told the FBI guys?”

“Mostly less. Why is this important?”

“We never know until we ask.”

She lit another cigarette and offered me one, which I declined.

I realized that my time with Roxanne was running out, given the fifteen-minute walk from her apartment, which, if I was her boyfriend, I’d do in ten minutes.

She sensed I was about to wind it down and said to me, “Stay and meet Sam.”

“Why?”

“You would like him.”

“Would he like me?”

“No. That’s the point.”

“Don’t be a bitch.”

She laughed, then said, “Really, don’t leave.”

“Well… I need a cup of coffee before I drive back to New York.”

“You live in New York?”

“I do. Manhattan.”

“That’s where I’d like to live when I graduate.”

“Good move.” I signaled a waitress and ordered coffee.

Roxanne and I made small talk, which I can do while my brain is elsewhere. I didn’t come all the way from Yemen to Philadelphia just to flirt with a college girl. Or did I?

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The boyfriend was late, Roxanne was getting lit, and half my brain was still at three thousand feet, while the other half was soaked in rum.

I wanted to leave, but something kept me sitting there. Fatigue, probably, or maybe Roxanne, or maybe a gut feeling that if I sat there long enough, or asked the right question, or listened more closely, something would pop up.

My coffee came in a big mug, and I banged it down and ordered another. I chatted with Roxanne while thinking about anything I might have missed.

I asked her, “Was the TV turned on when you entered the room? Like sometimes people leave it on when they want it to look like they’re in the room.”

She snuffed out her cigarette and asked, “Are we back in the room?”

“Just for a minute.”

“No, it wasn’t turned on.” She added, “In fact,I turned it on.”

“Why?”

“Well, we’re not supposed to watch TV while we work, but I wanted to see the news about TWA 800.”

“I won’t tell. So, what was on the news?”

“I don’t remember exactly.” She shook her head and said, “It was really awful.”

“It was.” I said to Roxanne, “Maybe you can help me with something. This couple checked in about four-thirty. Okay? The guy checked in alone. The next time they’re seen, it’s about sevenP.M. when the maid, Lucita, saw them with the bed blanket, heading for their car. No one seems to have seen them in those two and a half hours in between. So, I’m wondering, what did they do during that time? I mean, what do people do out there in the late afternoon?”

“You’re askingme? I don’t know. I guess they go shopping, have a drink. Take a drive.” She added, “Maybe they stayed in their room. That’s why no one saw them.”

“Right… but that’s a long time to sit in a hotel room on a nice day.”

She smiled at me and said, “Maybe they got romantic. That’s what they were there for. They had sex, they napped, they watched TV, or popped in a romantic tape.”

“Right.” The problem was that I really wanted them to have gone to the hotel bar and paid for drinks with a credit card, or left a local store receipt in the wastebasket. But that’s not what they did.

I sat back and yawned. I seemed to be hitting a dead end in regard to the missing two and a half hours, but maybe it wasn’t that important. A nap would account for the time, or an afternoon TV show, or pre-beach sex, none of which would leave a paper trail… I asked her, “What do you mean, ‘popped in a tape’?”

“A videotape.”

“There was no VCR in the room.”

“There used to be.”

I nodded. VCRs in hotel rooms were common then, but today, with satellite and cable, porn-on-demand, and so forth, many hotels had gotten rid of the VCRs. Room 203, for instance, no longer had a VCR, but apparently it once did. I asked Roxanne, “Do you remember if the VCR was turned on?”

“I think it was. Yes… I turned it off.”

I asked her, “Did you check the VCR to see if there was a videotape in there?”

“Yes. I pushed the Eject button, but nothing came out.” She added, “It’s part of the routine. Movie tapes that the guests brought themselves and forgot had to be given to the front desk in case people called about them. Library tapes were returned directly to the library or the front desk.”

“Whatlibrary?”

“The hotel library. There’s a videotape lending library.”

“Where?”

“At the Bayview Hotel. Pay attention.”

I sat up. “Tell me about the videotape lending library.”

“You been to the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“Well, when you walk in, there’s, like, a library room. They sell magazines and newspapers, and they lend books and videotapes.”

“So, you can borrow a videotape?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Did this come up in any way when you were talking to the FBI?”

“No.”

I sat back and stared into space. It wasn’t possible that Liam Griffith and/or Ted Nash had missed this. Or was it? I mean, even I, John Corey, had missed the significance of that library when I saw it, and I’m a detective.

But maybe I was getting myself overly excited and optimistic. I asked Roxanne, “Was there a charge for a videotape? A deposit?”

“No. You just signed for it. Same with books.” She thought a moment, then asked me, “Hey, do you think this guy signed out a tape… and, like, he left his name?”

“You should be a detective.”

She was on a roll and said, “That’s what they did in the room that afternoon. Watched a movie. That’s why the VCR was turned on.” She thought a moment and said, “In fact, there were two pillows propped up on the headboard, like they were watching TV.”

I nodded. Actually, if Don Juan signed out a tape, he wasn’t leaving his real name. But if thelady signed out a tape, maybe she did.

I asked Roxanne, “Was any kind of identification needed to sign out a book or videotape?”

“I don’t think so. I think just your name and room number.” She added, “You should check with the hotel.”

I nodded and asked, “What did the guest sign? A book? A card?”

She lit another cigarette and replied, “It was one of those receipt books with a pink carbon copy. The guest wrote the name of the book or movie on the receipt, signed it, and wrote their room number. Then, when the guest-or the maid-brought the book or videotape back, they got the pink carbon copy as a receipt, marked ‘Returned.’ Simple.”

I thought of Mr. Leslie Rosenthal and his archives, which would put the Library of Congress to shame. The guy was a pack rat and probably didn’t even throw away his gum wrappers. I said to her, “Mr. Rosenthal, who I had the pleasure of meeting, seemed to be a saver.”

She smiled and said, “He was a little anal.”

“You knew him?”

“He liked me.”

“Did he ever take you down to the basement to see his archives?”

She laughed, then thought a moment, and said, “Those library receipt books could be down there.”

I said to her, “Please keep all of this to yourself.”

“I haven’t opened my mouth about this in five years.”

“Good.”

I thought a moment. What were the chances that Don Juan or his lady borrowed a videotape? The VCR in Room 203 had been turned on, but the most likely explanation for that was they’d hooked up their video camera into the VCR to play the camera’s mini-tape, to see on the TV screen what they thought they’d seen on the beach that night.

On the other hand, they were apparently in their room for two and a half hours that afternoon, so maybe one of them went to the lending library and got a movie. But would either of them sign their real name?

I had this sudden sinking feeling that I was grasping at straws. But when all you’ve got is straws, you grasp them.

The boyfriend arrived, slightly out of breath I thought, and he leaned over and kissed Roxanne on the cheek. She said to the boyfriend, “Sam, this is Professor Corey. I took one of his philosophy classes.”

I stood and we shook hands. He had a limp shake, and in fact, was kind of dweeby, but he looked nice enough. He asked, “You teach philosophy?”

“I do. Cogito ergo sum.”

He smiled and informed me, “I’m in the advanced physics program. I don’t get philosophy.”

“Neither do I.” It was time for me to leave, but I wasn’t finished with Roxanne, so I sat.

Sam, too, sat, and there was a moment of silence, then I said to Roxanne, “What were the hours of the library?”

She glanced at Sam, then back at me and replied, “I think it was eight to eight.”

“What if a guest checked out before or after those times and wanted to return a book or videotape?”

She seemed a little uncomfortable, smiled quickly at Sam, then said to me, “They gave it to the desk clerk, who kept the library receipt book when the library was closed.”

I nodded. “Right. Makes sense.” I said to Sam, “You want a drink?”

Sam replied, “Uh… maybe we should go to the table. They’re holding it… would you like to join us?”

“No, thanks.” I said to Roxanne, “Would you remember what mode the VCR was left in? Like Play, Record, Rewind?”

“Uh… no. No, I don’t.”

Sam said, “I’m not following any of this.”

I looked at Sam and asked, “Does the physical world exist outside our minds?”

“Of course. There are a thousand instruments that can record and verify the physical world and do it better than the human mind.”

“Like a camera.”

“Right.”

I stood and said to Roxanne, “Thanks for your company.”

She stood, we shook and she said, “Thanks for the drinks, professor.”

I patted Sam on the back and said, “You’re a lucky man.” I caught Roxanne’s eye and cocked my head toward the bar, then went to pay for the drinks.

As I was paying the tab, Roxanne joined me, and I said, “Thanks for your help.” I gave her my card and said, “Callme ifanyone else calls you about this.”

“I will. You can call me if you need anything else. You want my cell phone number?”

“Sure.” I took her cell number and said, “Thanks.” I added, “Sam’s a nice guy.”

I left Alma de Cuba and began walking back to my car on Chestnut Street.

My butt was dragging, but my mind was already at the Bayview Hotel.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I headed back to New York on the New Jersey Turnpike, which is very scenic, if you close your eyes and think of someplace else.

I was pushing the pedal a bit, though there was no particular urgency in checking out a lead in a case that was closed and five years old; the urgency had to do with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility, who I assumed had not forgotten me in my absence, and had undoubtedly calendared my return from overseas. If they were wondering where John Corey was tonight, they’d have to ask me tomorrow.

I tuned in to an all-news channel and listened to the latest. It seemed to be a slow news day. In fact, it had been a very quiet summer on the terrorism front.

On the other hand, the National Security Agency had sent out a secret advisory informing everyone that radio chatter among our Islamic friends had been extraordinarily heavy this summer, which was not a good sign.

I turned my mind to more immediate concerns, and thought about my conversation with Roxanne Scarangello. I realized that the interview could have gone either way, which is how most witness interviews go; a word here, a random remark there, the right question, the wrong answer, and so forth.

After twenty years of doing this, you develop a real sixth sense. Therefore, the lending library thing was not dumb luck; it was John Corey being tenacious, brilliant, perceptive, clever, charming, and motivated. Mostly motivated.

I mean, I wasn’t getting paid for this, so I needed a non-monetary reward. Basically, I wanted to stick this one up Koenig’s ass so far it would part the Brylcreem in his hair. Liam Griffith, too. And I wished for a moment that Ted Nash were alive so I could stick it up his butt while I was at it.

It was 9:10 on my dashboard clock, and I wondered what time it was in Dar es Salaam. Same as Yemen, actually, which would be the wee hours of the morning. I pictured my angel asleep in a three-star hotel overlooking the Indian Ocean. She’d e-mailed me once, “It’s so beautiful here, John, I wish you were with me.” As if it was my idea to go to Yemen.

Actually, I realized that I missed her more than I thought I would. I was honestly happy that she’d been sent to a decent place, and not to Yemen, which, if I haven’t mentioned it, sucked.

Yes, there were uncharitable moments when I wished she was in Yemen and I was in the Bahamas, but they were only passing moments, followed by loving thoughts of our reunion.

I continued north on the New Jersey Turnpike, clipping along at about 85 mph. I was tired, but alert.

I understood that the only thing I might find in the Bayview Hotel archives would be Mr. Rosenthal, scratching his head and saying, “What happened to those library receipts?”

Iwas now on Montauk Highway on Long Island, approaching Westhampton Beach. It was half past midnight, and a light fog was rolling in from the ocean and bays.

My radio was picking up Connecticut signals out here, and some PBS station was playingLa Traviata. I don’t tell this to many people, but I’ve gone to the opera on double dates with Dom Fanelli, who gets free tickets. I figured I should be at the Bayview Hotel about the time the fat lady was singing.

The fat lady was singing “Parigi, o cara” as I pulled into the guest registration space. I waited for her to finish and drop dead, which she did, and I shut off the engine and went into the hotel.

It was past Labor Day, and the lobby was quiet at this weekday hour. The bar doors were closed, which was a disappointment.

Peter, my favorite desk clerk, was on duty, so I skipped the formalities and said to him, “I need to speak to Mr. Rosenthal.”

He looked at his watch, the way people do when they want to emphasize some silly point about the time, and said, “Sir, it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning.”

“Do you know what time it is in Yemen? I’ll tell you. It’s eightA.M. Time for work. Give him a call.”

“But… is this urgent?”

“Why am I here? Give him a call.”

“Yes, sir.” He picked up the phone and dialed Leslie Rosenthal.

I asked Peter, “Do you have the keys to the basement?”

“No, sir. Only Mr. Rosenthal.” Someone answered the phone on the other end, and Peter said, “Mr. Rosenthal? I’m very sorry to disturb you at this hour- No, nothing wrong-but Mr…”

“Corey.”

“Mr. Corey from the FBI is here again, and he’d like to speak to- Yes, sir. I think he knows what time it is.”

I said helpfully, “It’s five minutes after one. Give me the phone.”

I took the phone from Peter and said to Mr. Rosenthal, “I really do apologize for calling you at this hour, but something urgent has come up.”

Mr. Rosenthal replied with a mixture of grogginess and controlled annoyance,“What has come up?”

“I need to see the archives. Please bring your keys.”

There was silence, then he said, “Can’t this wait until morning?”

“I’m afraid not.” To put his mind at ease, I said, “This has nothing to do with illegal immigrant workers.”

There was another silence, then he said, “All right… I’m about twenty minutes from the hotel… I have to get dressed…”

I said, “I appreciate your continued cooperation.” I hung up and said to Peter, “I could use a Coke.”

He replied, “I can get you one from the bar.”

“Thank you. Put a shot of Scotch in that and hold the Coke.”

“Sir?”

“Dewar’s, straight up.”

“Yes, sir.”

He unlocked the doors to the bar and disappeared inside.

I went over to the doors that led to the library and peeked through the paned glass. It was dark in there, and I couldn’t see much.

Peter returned with a short glass of Scotch on a tray. I took it and said, “Put it on my room tab.”

He asked, “Are you staying with us this evening?”

“That’s the plan. Room 203.”

He went behind his desk, played with his computer, and said, “You’re in luck. It’s not occupied.”

Peter wasn’t getting it, and I informed him,“You’re in luck. You don’t have to kick anyone out.”

“Yes, sir.”

I swirled the Scotch and sipped it. After a nearly dry month, it tasted like iodine. Is this what this stuff actually tasted like? I set it down on an end table and asked Peter, “How long have you been working here?”

“This is my second year.”

“Do you loan videotapes from the library?”

“No, sir. There are no VCRs in the rooms.”

“Were you here when the hotel had videotapes in the library?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, how do you loan books to guests?”

“The guest chooses a book and signs for it.”

“Let’s take a look.” I motioned to the library, and Peter took his passkeys, opened the double doors, and turned on the lights.

It was a big, mahogany-paneled room lined with bookshelves, decorated as a sitting room.

In the far left corner was a long desk with a telephone, cash register, and computer, and behind the desk was a glass cabinet filled with sundries. To the right of the desk was a newspaper and magazine rack, all typical of a small hotel with limited space for services.

The lobby entrance seemed to be the only way in or out of the room, unless you went through a window.

If I understood Marie Gubitosi correctly, the desk clerk, Christopher Brock, did not see Don Juan again after he checked in. But maybe his lady was in here to buy a newspaper or a sundry item, or specifically to borrow a book or videotape to pass the time before hitting the beach for some romance under the stars.

I should have paid more attention to this room when I was here the last time. But even great detectives can’t think of everything on the first go-around.

I asked him, “How do guests sign for a book?”

“In a receipt book.”

“Which you keep behind your desk.”

“Yes, so books can be returned at any hour.”

“Let’s see the receipt book.”

We went back into the lobby, and Peter retrieved the book from behind his desk, and I retrieved my Scotch.

I asked Peter, “Do you keep these books after they’re filled up?”

“I believe we do.” He added, “Mr. Rosenthal keeps all records for seven years. Sometimes longer.”

“Good policy.” I opened the receipt book, and it looked the same as Roxanne had described. A simple stationery store receipt book with three receipts per page and a pink carbon. It had a place for a date, a line that said, “Received,” a few blank lines, and a place for a signature. Each receipt had a pre-printed sequential number in red.

I looked at an entry at random, which read, “August 22, Received, ‘Gold Coast,’” followed by a barely legible signature, and a room number, in this case, 105. A handwritten notation said, “Returned.”

I asked Peter, “Does the guest need to show identification?”

“Not usually. For any room charge, bar, restaurant, and so forth, if your name and the room number you give matches what’s in the computer, that’s sufficient.” He informed me, “Standard practice in most good hotels.”

“Okay…” Having lived in a bad hotel for the last six weeks, I wouldn’t know. I thought of Don Juan’s lady, who might not even know what name he’d checked in under. I asked Peter, “Let’s say it doesn’t match.”

“Well, sometimes it doesn’t because a second person in the room may not have the same last name as the registered guest. Then, usually the showing of a room key is sufficient, or just the name of the guest to whom the room is registered.”

“Okay, if I forgot my room key, and I can’t even remember the name of the person I’m sleeping with, would you let me sign out a book?”

This was Peter’s chance for revenge, and he looked at me closely and said, “No.”

I flipped through the receipt book, but I didn’t see any information on the guests, other than a signature and the room number. Now and then, there was a second name written on the receipt, which I assumed, as per Peter, was the name of the registered guest, which was not the same as the book borrower.

I asked Peter, “Since my last visit, has anyone from the FBI come here?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Okay, let’s check me into Room 203.”

Peter did what he does best, and within five minutes, I was checked into Room 203 using my American Express card, which hadn’t gotten much of a workout in Yemen. The post-season price had dropped to a hundred and fifty bucks, which was cheap if I hit pay dirt here, and a paper trail for the OPR if I didn’t.

Mr. Rosenthal was taking his sweet time, and I, being a man of both action and extreme impatience, considered kicking down a few doors, just like in the movies. But that might upset Peter.

I sat in a wing chair in the lobby and waited for Mr. Rosenthal, who had the key to the archives, and possibly the golden key that opened the door to the short path through the bullshit.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Mr. Leslie Rosenthal walked into the lobby dressed casually in slacks and sport shirt, sans whale tie.

I stood and said, “Good evening.”

“Good morning is more like it.” He asked me, “Are you here for more file reconciliation?”

“I am.”

“At one-thirty in the morning?”

“The FBI, sir, never sleeps.”

“I do.” He observed, “I have the feeling you are not here on a routine assignment.”

“What was your first clue?”

“The hour, for one thing. What’s this all about?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. Did you bring your keys?”

“I have. Have you brought my missing files?”

“Actually, since I saw you last, I’ve been in the Mideast. See my tan? Want to see my airplane ticket?”

He didn’t respond to that and asked me, “What would you like to see?”

“Your receipt books for the video lending library.”

I watched him ponder this, then he said, “We got rid of the video library about three years ago and donated all the tapes to a hospital.”

“That’s very commendable. But you kept the receipt books, of course.”

“I believe so. Unless some idiot threw them out.”

“Other than yourself, what other person has the keys to the file room?”

“No one.”

“Well, there you are. Let’s take a look downstairs.”

I followed him to the basement door, which he unlocked. He turned on the lights, and we descended the stairs.

He unlocked the door to the archives room and went directly to the rear of the room, where cardboard storage boxes were stacked on metal shelves. Each box was labeled and dated, and within a minute we found a box labeled, “Video Library Receipts-Feb ’96-March ’97.”

I stared at the box, and asked Mr. Rosenthal, “Did the FBI ask for these receipts in 1996?”

He replied, “I showed them how the file cabinets were organized, then left them alone. I don’t know what else they looked at.”

On that note, I took the box down from the shelf and set it on the floor.

Mr. Rosenthal said, “I suppose you think that this couple may have signed out a videotape.”

Everyone’s a detective all of a sudden. I replied, “The thought has occurred to me.” I opened the box, which was filled with receipt books. Truly the work of an anal compulsive.

I started removing the receipt books from the box, noting the start and end dates written on the cover of each book, half expecting to discover a missing book, replaced by a note from Liam Griffith saying, “Fuck you, Corey.”

I asked him, “Why do you save these?”

He explained, “I have a policy of saving all records for seven years. You never know what the IRS or sometimes the hotel owners want to see.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Or the FBI. Seven years is safe.”

“Cover your ass, I always say.”

I found a receipt book dated, “June 12-July 25, ’96.”

I moved under a hanging fluorescent light and began flipping through the pages of video receipts. My hands were actually a little unsteady as I flipped the pages toward July 17.

The first receipt for that date was at the top of a page and was signed, Kevin Mabry, Room 109, and Kevin borrowedButch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The next receipt was signed Alice Young, Guest Cottage 3, who borrowedLast Tango in Paris. Go, Alice. Then, an indecipherable signature in Room 8, which must have been in this building, and that person borrowedThe Godfather. I flipped the page and read two more signatures and movie titles for July 17, but neither person had given their room number as 203. Then the last receipt at the bottom of the page was dated July 18, the following day.

I stood there and stared at the open receipt book.

Mr. Rosenthal asked, “Any luck?”

I didn’t reply.

I flipped back a page and looked at the pre-printed red receipt numbers, then flipped forward. Three numbers were missing from the sequence.

I bent the book back and could see where a page had been neatly razored out of the receipt book. “Bastards.”

“Excuse me?”

I threw the book into the box and said, “I’d like to see the receipts for borrowed library books.”

Mr. Rosenthal retrieved the appropriate box and I found the receipt book for the period in question. I flipped through the receipts, thinking that perhaps Don Juan or his lady had taken out a book, but no one in Room 203 had borrowed a book on July 17, 1996. I dropped the book in the box and said, “Let’s go.”

We walked toward the door, with Mr. Rosenthal glancing over his shoulder at the mess on the floor.

In the back of my mind-but not too far back-I knew that the FBI could not possibly have stayed in this hotel for two months without thinking about the lending library. I mean, they weren’t real detectives, but they certainly weren’t brain-dead either.Damn it.

But Ihad proved something-someone in Room 203 had borrowed a videotape, and thus the missing page. Great deductive reasoning, leading to another piece of missing evidence.Bastards.

Mr. Rosenthal was about to lock the door of the archives room when I thought of something Roxanne said and stopped. I said to him, “I didn’t see any pink carbons in the receipt books.”

“They’re given to the guest when the book or videotape is returned.”

“What if it’s not returned?”

“Then it stays in the receipt book until the guest has departed and the borrowed item is discovered to be missing. Then, it’s pulled for a monthly inventory of missing property.”

“Okay… so the guests in Room 203 checked in on July 17, and on July 18, at noon, you discovered they had left without checking out. The morning of July 19, the FBI arrived inquiring about a missing bed blanket. Later that morning, more FBI people showed up asking about the guests in Room 203. Is it possible that by then someone on your staff had pulled out the pink receipt from the receipt book and marked it as missing?”

He replied, “The librarian waits to see if a maid or anyone returns the item. If not, sometime that day, or early the next day, the pink carbon is sent to the bookkeeper, who will bill the guest for the missing item, or put it on their credit card. Sometimes the item is actually returned to the hotel by mail, or shows up later, but if the item is still missing or hasn’t been paid for, the pink copy goes into the tax file as a deductible property loss.”

“And after that?”

“As with all tax records, the pink carbons are archived for seven years.”

“Lead the way.”

Mr. Rosenthal led me to a cabinet marked “Tax Files, 1996,” and found a manila envelope marked “Library Receipts-Missing, Lost or Stolen,” and handed it to me.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a wad of pink receipts, held together by a rubber band. I snapped the rubber band, and began flipping through the two dozen or so receipts for missing books and videotapes.

Mr. Rosenthal asked, “Can I help-?”

“No.” They were not in strict chronological order, so I went through them slowly. Each was marked, “Not Returned.” Toward the middle of the stack, I stopped at a receipt dated July 17. The room number was 203. The borrowed item was a videotape-A Man and a Woman.

The signature was scrawled, and the person had not pressed hard enough to leave a clear imprint on the carbon copy.

Printed on the receipt in a different handwriting were the words, “Not Returned,” and the name “Reynolds,” which, according to Marie Gubitosi, was the name that Don Juan had used when he checked in.

I asked Mr. Rosenthal about that, and he replied, “Apparently the person borrowing the videotape didn’t have a room key, so the librarian checked her computer and saw that the name signed on the receipt didn’t match the name of the guest in Room 203. She inquired of the person borrowing the videotape and that person gave the name of the registered guest, which matched the name on the computer.”

“Right.” The lady, then, knew what name Don Juan was using that day, so apparently, they’d done this before, which probably meant this was not a one-night stand.

I looked again at the signature, but the light was not good, though the handwriting looked feminine. I said, “Let’s go upstairs.”

We left the archives room with Mr. Rosenthal stealing backwards glances at my untidiness.

Upstairs in the lobby, I put the pink slip on the front desk under the bright desk lamp, and I asked Peter, “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

He retrieved a square magnifier from behind the desk, and I looked at the faint carbon signature.Jill Winslow. I looked at it closely, focusing on each letter.Jill Winslow.

Peter was trying to steal a look at the pink slip, so I put it in my pocket, along with his magnifying glass. I motioned Mr. Rosenthal toward the library, and we entered the dark room. I said to him, “Knowing what you do about this matter, and having been in the hotel business-I assume for many years-do you think the female guest in Room 203 would have signed her real name to the video library receipt?”

He pondered that a moment, then replied, “I think so.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Well… it’s the same in the bar, or the restaurant, or the sundry counter… you’re asked to sign your name and room number, and you sign truthfully because the staff may go right into the computer while you’re there-or you may be asked to show your room key, or even a driver’s license at any point in the transaction.” He added, “Also, it’s just a natural reflex to sign your true name when asked.”

“Unless you’re traveling incognito. You know, having an affair. The guy didn’t check in using his real name.”

“Yes, but that’s different. Signing for a book or videotape is an inconsequential transaction. It’s best to use your real name and room number to avoid the risk of embarrassment.”

“I like the way you think, Mr. Rosenthal.”

“That’s very scary.”

Mr. Rosenthal had a dry, almost sarcastic sense of humor. I bring out the best in people.

I left the library, and Mr. Rosenthal followed.

He asked me, “Do you need to keep that receipt?”

“Yes.”

He made a little joke and said, “Then I’ll need a receipt for the receipt.”

I chuckled politely and said, “Put it on my room bill.”

We were at the front desk now, and he asked me, “Are you staying with us tonight, Mr. Corey?”

“I am. I got a good off-season rate.”

Mr. Rosenthal asked Peter, “What room did you give Mr. Corey?”

“Room 203.”

“Of course.” Mr. Rosenthal asked me, “Do you think the room will speak to you?”

I replied, “It already did.” I said to Peter, “I need a sevenA.M. wake-up call.”

Peter noted it in his book and asked, “Do you need help with your luggage, or directions to the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion?”

“I do not. Thank you for your help, gentlemen.”

I walked out of the lobby into the cool, foggy night.

I got into my rental car, drove to the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion parking lot, took my overnight bag, climbed a set of stairs, and entered Room 203.

A voice in my head, or in the room, said,Eureka!

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I sat at a writing desk and turned on the lamp. I placed the pink receipt on the desk and looked at it with the magnifier.

The hand that wrote “A Man and a Woman” was definitely feminine and matched the handwriting on the date, room number, and the signature. Someone else, presumably the librarian, had written “Reynolds” and “Not Returned.”

I once took a handwriting analysis course at John Jay College, and there was a lot to be learned from a person’s handwriting and signature. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember much of the class. But I do remember that there was a distinct difference in handwriting when a person signed his or her real name as opposed to a made-up name or a forgery. This signature looked real. Maybe because I wanted it to be real. Maybe I was making this up.

I stood, turned on all the lamps, and went to the wall unit. Beneath the television was an empty shelf, and I now noticed in the lamplight that there were four small circles on the shelf-actually, discolorations in the white wood finish. They were the size of a dime, in a rectangular pattern. Obviously, this was where the VCR player had sat on its rubber pads until about three years ago.

This was not exactly a monumental discovery, but I feel good when I can physically verify what someone has told me.

I sat again at the small desk and dialed the cell phone of Dom Fanelli. I had no idea where he’d be at this hour, but the nice thing about cell phones is that it doesn’t matter.

He answered, “Hello?”

I could hear loud music in the background. “It’s your partner.”

“Hey, goombah! What’s with this Bayview Hotel shit on my Caller ID? What the hell are you doing there?”

“I’m on vacation. Where are you?”

“My phone started vibrating in my pants, and I thought it was Sally. Sarah. Whatever. Sarah, say hello to-”

“Dom, I can barely hear you.”

“Hold on.” A minute later, he said, “I’m outside. I was following a homicide suspect, and he went into this club on Varick Street. This is a tough job. What’s up?”

“I need a make on a name.”

“Again? What happened to the names I gave you? Did you go to Philly?”

“I did. What I need now-”

“Now you’re in Westhampton Beach. Why don’t you go home?”

“Why don’tyou go home? Okay, the name is-”

“I tidied up your apartment. The cleaning lady will be there tomorrow. Fridays, right?”

“Unless she died. Listen-Jill Winslow.” I spelled it. “I’m thinking she’s maybe thirties, forties-”

“That narrows it down.”

“I don’t have anything solid on her, but she checked in here for a romp in the hay with a guy on a summer weekday-July 17, 1996.”

“Familiar date.”

“Yeah. The guy used an alias, so he’s probably married, and she may or may not be. But I think she is-”

“Married women are the safest if you’re married.”

“That’s what your wife says about her boyfriends. Okay, I’m thinking she lives on Long Island, but maybe Manhattan. How far would you drive for a romantic rendezvous?”

“I once drove to Seattle to get laid. But I was nineteen. What’s the farthest you’ve ever driven to get laid?”

“Toronto. Okay, so-”

“How about that FBI lady in D.C.? What’s farther? Toronto or Washington?”

“Doesn’t matter. You win with Seattle. Okay,listen — First, tap into DMV-there’s a tan Ford Explorer involved, at least five years old, but it may be his, not hers, and it could be sold by now. Then, tap into ChoicePoint and LexisNexis for a property search, divorce records, and so forth. I’m thinking upscale neighborhood on Long Island, so also check utility records with Long Island Power Authority for Winslows. But she could live in Manhattan, so also check Con Ed. Obviously get into telephone records, but they’re probably unlisted. Remember, all this stuff may not be inher name, but in her husband’s, so-”

“Here it is. Jill Winslow, Number 8 Maple Lane, Locust Valley, Long Island, New York, 1996 Ford Explorer, tan, husband’s name Roger. Just kidding. You should play with your computer, too. I’ve got homicides to solve.”

“This may be the biggest homicide you ever helped solve.”

There was a silence, then Dom Fanelli said, “I understand.”

“Good. And also check death records.”

“You think she died? Was she offed?”

“I hope not.”

“What are you on to? Tell me, in case you get killed.”

“I’ll leave you a note.”

“No joke, John-”

“Call me tomorrow at this number. Room 203. Leave a message if I’m not in. You’re Mr. Verdi.”

He laughed and said, “Hey, I never saw anyone so miserable as you at the opera.”

“Bullshit. I love it when the fat lady croaks at the end of La Traviata. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Ciao.”

I hung up, got undressed, and threw my clothes neatly on a chair. I took my overnight bag and went into the bathroom.

I shaved, brushed my teeth, and got in the shower.

So, Liam Griffith, Ted Nash, and whoever else was with them had discovered the video receipt book and taken the page out of the book. But they forgot the carbon copy. How dumb is that?

Well, but we all make mistakes. Even I make a mistake now and then.

More important, was Jill Winslow a real name, and did they find her? I think yes, on both counts. Which also meant they’d found Don Juan through her. Or they’d found Don Juan first, maybe through his fingerprints. In either case, both had been found.

I could picture Nash and/or Griffith talking to them, inquiring about them shooting a videotape on the beach, and about their relationship.

What were the possible outcomes of that discussion? There were three: one, this couple had not actually recorded TWA 800 exploding; two, they had, but they’d destroyed the tape; three, they’d recorded the explosion and saved the tape, which they’d turned over to Nash, Griffith, and friends in exchange for a promise that their affair would be kept secret-assuming that one or both of these people were married and wanted to stay that way.

In any case, this couple had spent some time on a polygraph machine as they answered these questions.

I had no doubt that I, or Dom Fanelli, would find Jill Winslow if she was still alive.

And I would speak to her, and she would tell me everything she’d told the FBI five years ago because I was an FBI person doing some follow-up.

But that wasn’t going to put the videotape in my hand, even if there had once been a videotape.

So, that was sort of a dead end, but at least I’d know the truth about this videotape, and maybe I could take that information to a higher authority. Maybe I’d disappear.

I had one more thought, and it had to do withA Man and a Woman. Why did Jill Winslow-or maybe Don Juan-swipe that tape? If you’re clearing out of a room fast, and you leave the key in the room and don’t check out at the desk, why would you shove a borrowed movie tape in your handbag or luggage?

I thought about that, and about something that Roxanne had said, and I thought I knew why Don Juan or Jill Winslow took that videotape. When I spoke to Jill Winslow, I’d ask her if I was right.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Peter called at 7A.M., and I thought I detected a malicious tone in his voice when he announced the time.

I rolled out of bed and instinctively felt under the pillow for my Glock, but then I remembered that we were temporarily separated.

I showered and dressed, and walked to the main building for breakfast.

Peter greeted me with a muted “Good morning,” and I went into the lounge/restaurant. It was Saturday morning and a few weekenders may have arrived the night before, but the place was almost empty.

The waitress brought coffee and a breakfast menu. Having spent forty days in a Muslim country, I felt pork-deprived, and I ordered bacon and ham with pork sausage on the side.

The waitress asked, “Atkins?”

I replied, “No, Catholic.”

After breakfast, I went into the library room. A few people were sitting in club chairs near the sunny windows reading newspapers and magazines.

I perused the shelves and found a Stephen King book,Bag of Bones. I went to the table in the rear, and I said to the librarian/sundries saleslady, “I’d like to borrow this book.”

She smiled and said, “This one will keep you up all night.”

“That’s good. I have diarrhea.”

She slid the receipt book toward me and said, “Please fill that out.”

I wrote the date, the title of the book, Room 203, and I signed the receipt, “Giuseppe Verdi.”

The lady said, “Do you have a room key with you?”

“No, ma’am.”

She punched up Room 203 on her computer and said, “I’m showing another guest in that room.”

“My boyfriend. John Corey.”

“Uh… okay…” She wrote “Corey” on the slip and said, “Thank you, Mr. Verdi. Enjoy the book. It’s due back anytime before you check out.”

“Do I get a receipt?”

“You get the pink copy when you return the book. Or you can just leave the book in your room when you check out if you don’t require a return receipt.”

“Okay. Can I buy the book if I like it?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

I went upstairs to the hotel offices and spotted Susan Corva, Mr. Rosenthal’s assistant. She seemed to remember me and smiled tightly. I said, “Good morning. Is Mr. Rosenthal in?”

She replied, “He’s usually in on Saturdays, but he’ll be late this morning.”

I said, “He probably overslept. Can I use one of your computers?”

She motioned me toward an empty desk.

I checked my e-mail, and there were a few inconsequential messages, then a message from Kate, which said, “I tried calling you at the apartment. Please let me know you’ve arrived safely. I’ll be home Monday:) Same flight info. I’ll take a taxi from the airport. Imiss you:(and I can’t wait to see you. All my love, Kate.”

I smiled.:)

I typed in a reply: “Dear Kate-arrived safely. I’m not in the apartment. Spending a few days R amp;R at the beach.”

I thought a moment. I’m not good at this mushy stuff, so I followed her format and typed, “I missyou:(and I can’t wait to seeyou:) I’ll try to meet you at the airport. All my love, John.”

I sent it into cyberspace, thanked Susan, and left the office. Downstairs, I asked Peter where he got his hair done and he gave me the name of the place in Westhampton Beach.

I drove into the village, found Peter’s hairstyling place, and got my first decent haircut in over a month. I asked Tiffany, the young lady cutting my hair, “Do you know Peter, the desk clerk at the Bayview Hotel?”

“Sure. He has great hair.” She added, “Great skin, too.”

“How about me?”

“You have a nice tan.”

“I was in Yemen.”

“Where’s that?”

“Saudi Arabian peninsula.”

“No kidding? Where’s that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Vacation?”

“No. I was on a secret and dangerous mission for the government.”

“No kidding? You want a little hairspray?”

“No, thanks.”

I paid Tiffany and inquired about where I could buy a bathing suit. She directed me to a sporting goods store a block away.

I walked to the store and bought a pair of baggy green swim trunks, a black T-shirt, and beach sandals. Tres Hamptons.

I drove back to the hotel and went into the lobby to check for phone messages, and to see if Peter noticed my new haircut, but he was off-duty. There were no messages, and I went to my room and changed into my new swimwear, remembering to remove the tags.

I checked my cell phone for messages, but no one had called, and my beeper was still not charged.

Thinking of Roxanne, I left a few dollars for the cleaning lady, and I exited my room.

I drove down to Cupsogue Beach County Park, parked in the lot and walked to the beach. It was a day of brilliant sunshine, warm temperatures, and a soft breeze.

I spent the morning swimming, catching a few September rays, and running barefoot on the beach, humming the score ofChariots of Fire.

By noon there were a few people on the beach, mostly families, enjoying what could be the last good beach weekend of the waning summer.

I was in better shape than I’d been in years, and I resolved to stay that way so that when Kate came home she’d marvel at my golden tan and my surfer-boy body. I wondered if she’d stayed in top shape in Dar es Salaam. I hoped I didn’t have to say something like, “You’ve put on a little weight, sweetheart.”

I should probably not say that until after we’d had sex.

I ran out to the western tip of the park where the inlet separated this barrier island from Fire Island, where the memorial service had been held at Smith Point County Park. This was the inlet from which Captain Spruck had sailed into the ocean on the evening of July 17, 1996, and seen something that had troubled him ever since.

It was the kind of golden late summer day that makes you reflect on the cycles of the seasons, with corresponding thoughts about the cycles of life and death, and what we’re doing on this planet, and why we’re doing it.

Weird birds circled overhead, then dived after unsuspecting fish, who in the blink of an eye were transported from sea, to air, to bird’s stomach.

Out there, over the ocean, 230 people had started a journey to Paris, but had suddenly fallen three miles through the night sky into the sea. Just like that.

A society can be judged by its response to untimely deaths-accidents and murder-and the society we lived in spent a lot of time, money, and effort to investigate accidents and murder. It was part of our culture that no murder go unpunished, and no accident be written off as unavoidable.

And yet, five years after TWA 800 exploded in midair, apparently and officially as a result of an electrical spark in the center fuel tank, not much had been done to correct the potentially catastrophic problem.

Meaning what? Meaning, perhaps, that the alternate theory-a missile-was still influencing some people’s thinking and decision-making.

As the years passed, and not one single similar problem had occurred-even with no remedial action taken in regard to the fuel tanks-the official conclusion became a little more suspect.

Ijogged along the ocean beach, then turned inland and ran up and down a few sand dunes, hoping to spot the tail of a kinetic missile sticking up out of the sand, but no such luck.

I found the small, sheltered valley between the dunes where Don Juan and his lady, now named Jill Winslow, had spread a blanket and spent a romantic and probably illicit hour or so on the beach. I wondered if this thing that had happened here still haunted them.

I took off my T-shirt and lay down where they’d probably lain down, my T-shirt for a pillow, and slept in the warm sand.

I had an erotic dream in which I was in an oasis in the Yemen desert, and my harem consisted of Kate, Marie, Roxanne, and Jill Winslow, who was wearing a veil, so I couldn’t see her face. There wasn’t anything too subtle about the dream, and it didn’t need much analysis, except for the part where Ted Nash showed up on a camel.

Back at the hotel, my message light was blinking, and I called the front desk. The clerk said to me, “Mr. Verdi called. He asked that you call him back. He left no number.”

“Thank you.”

Using the room phone, I called Dom Fanelli’s cell phone.

He answered, and I said, “Mr. Corey returning Mr. Verdi’s call.”

“Hey, Giovanni, you got my message?”

“I did. How’d you make out?”

“I spent all day banging away at my computer for you. It’s Saturday. I want to spend some quality time with my wife.”

“Tell Mary it was my fault.”

“No problem. Anyway, she went to her sister’s in Jersey. Factory outlet houses. You ever go to one of those places? Mama mia! These broads are practically changing clothes in the aisles. The more you spend, the more you save. Wrong. The more you spend, the more you spend. Right?”

“Right.” I knew by now that he’d gotten a hit.

“Anyway,” he said, “I found some Winslows for you, and I think I narrowed it down to one Jill Winslow who might fit. You want it?”

“Sure.”

“First, you tell me what this is about.”

“Dom, I can get the same shit you just got. What you want to know is something you should not know. Trust me on that.”

“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, “EightP.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-3:18P.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 youmust 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 wasnot 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 7P.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 7:17P.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 7:15P.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 8:05P.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 turned 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 meetme 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 annoyingyou. How annoyed do you thinkI 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 tome, 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 name, 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.

I didn’t hear him over the sound of the surf, but I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my left eye as he moved abreast of me, about ten paces away. He said, “We need to talk.”

I kept walking. Ahead I could see the first beach house outside the park.

He tried again and said, “It’s better if we talk here, unofficially. It’s either this, or you’ll be questioned at a hearing.” He added, “You may face criminal charges. And Kate will, too.”

I turned and started walking toward him.

He said, “Keep your distance.”

“You’re the one with the gun.”

“That’s right, and I don’t want to have to use it.”

I got about five feet from him, and he backed up and pulled his Glock. “Don’t make me use this.”

I stopped and said, “Take the magazine out of the gun, Ted, clear the chamber, and put the gun back in your holster.”

He didn’t do as I instructed, but better yet, he didn’t shoot. I said, “Men with balls don’t need guns to talk to other men. Unload it, and we can talk.”

He seemed to be struggling with his options, then he raised the gun, released the magazine, and put it in his pocket. He pulled back the slide and a round ejected and fell to the sand. He holstered the Glock and stood there, glaring at me.

I said, “Throw me the magazine.”

“Come and get it.”

I closed the distance between us. I had no doubt that this guy could give me a good fight if we got into it. I reminded him, “The magazine.”

He said again, “Come and get it, tough guy.”

“Come on, Ted. Don’t make me beat the shit out of you. I haven’t gotten laid in forty days, and I’m feeling mean.”

“I’m glad Yemen did you some good. One of my colleagues told me you were becoming a fat drunk.”

He didn’t have a loaded gun, so I had to give him some credit for balls. Or maybe he had backup, and I was in the crosshairs of a sniper rifle. I looked back toward the dunes, but didn’t see the telltale green glow of a nightscope. There was a fishing boat a few hundred yards offshore, but maybe it wasn’t a fishing boat. I said to him, “I know you don’t have the balls to talk to me like that without your gun, so you must have your little helpers here, like the fucking coward you are.”

He surprised me with a left hook that I didn’t see coming, but I managed to snap my head back in time, and he just clipped my jaw. I fell back into the sand, and he made the mistake of diving at me. I planted both my feet in his solar plexus and heaved him up into the air and over me. I flipped around and scrambled across the sand toward him, but he was on his feet and backpedaling fast as he pulled his gun from his holster and the magazine from his pocket. Before he could put Tab A into Slot B to make bang-bang, I rose into a sprinter’s stance and sprung forward. But the damned sand was too soft, and I lost traction and couldn’t get to him before he got the Glock loaded. He was pulling back the slide to chamber a round when I got my hand on his ankle and yanked hard.

He tumbled to the sand, and I was on top of him, my left hand clamped around the barrel of his gun, and my right hand delivering a roundhouse punch to the top of his head.

This stunned him, but not enough to keep him from planting his knee in my groin, which took the wind out of me.

We started rolling together down the slope of the beach into the surf. A few breakers smacked us as we grappled and locked together, and the undertow began to carry us out farther.

Each of us was trying to find some traction on the ocean floor so we could get in a good punch, but I wasn’t letting go of the gun in Ted’s hand, so we were locked together as the tide and the undertow took us farther out.

Every time I thought about him and Kate together, I butted my head into his, and we were both becoming dazed. He must have realized by now that I hated him so much that I’d become psychotic, and I didn’t care if we both drowned.

After about a minute of wrestling, we’d both swallowed a lot of salt water, and Ted was being weighed down by his heavier clothes. I was in very good shape-thanks to Yemen-and I knew I could drown him if I wanted to. He knew it, too, and he suddenly stopped struggling. We both looked at each other, our faces only about a foot apart, and he said, “Okay…” He let go of the Glock and swam a few yards to where his feet hit solid ground, then he stumbled up on the beach, walked a few more yards, then turned and flopped down in the sand. He’d lost his shoes, and he was barefoot and covered with wet sand.

I scrambled up on the beach and stood about five feet from him, breathing hard. The salt water was burning my jaw where he’d clipped me, my balloons ached where he’d kneed me, and my head was throbbing from butting him. Other than that, I felt great.

It took about a minute for him to get to his feet, and he stood bent over, taking deep breaths, and coughing up seawater. Finally, he stood up straight and I noticed a stream of blood running from his nose. He congratulated me on my win by saying, “Asshole.”

“Come on, Ted. Be a good loser. Didn’t they teach you sportsmanship at that Ivy League school you went to?”

“Fuck you.” He wiped his nose with his hand. “Asshole.”

“I guess they didn’t.” I ejected the magazine and put it in my pocket, then pulled back the slide, and saw that indeed he’d gotten a round into the chamber, though he hadn’t squeezed it off while we were having a dispute over who should hold the gun. I ejected the round, and I stuck the Glock in my waistband.

He said, “I could have blown your head off about six times.”

“I think once would have been enough.”

He actually laughed, which made him cough, then he wiped the salt from his eyes, and said, “Give me my gun.”

“Come and get it.”

He staggered toward me and held out his hand for the gun. I took his hand and shook it. “Good fight.”

He pulled his hand away and gave me a push.

He still had some fight left in him, which I admired, but I was getting tired of his act. I shoved him hard and said, “Don’t do that again, asshole.”

He turned and began walking away. I stood there, watching him as he approached the dunes. He turned back to me and said, “Follow me, stupid.”

How could I resist an invitation like that? I followed him, and we climbed the same sand dune that Kate and I had climbed back in July.

We stood at the top of the dune, and he said to me, “I’m going to tell you what happened here on the night of July 17, 1996.”

He could have done that a half hour ago and saved us both a dunk in the ocean. But there had been other issues to settle first, which still weren’t fully settled. I said to him, “No lies.”

“The truth,” said Mr. Nash, quoting from his company motto, “shall set you free.”

“Sounds like a good deal.”

“It’s a better deal than I wanted to give you. But I follow orders.”

“Since when?”

“Look who’s talking.” He stared at me and said, “We have something in common, Corey-we’re loners. But we get the job done better than the team players we work with and the political wimps we work for. You and I don’t always tell the truth, but we know the truth, and we want the truth. And I’m the only guy who will tell you the truth, and maybe I’m the only guy who you’ll believe.”

“You were doing okay there for a minute.”

“I’m not going to insult your intelligence with more bullshit.”

“Ted, from the first minute I met you, and through two major cases, all you’ve ever done is bullshit me.”

He smiled and said, “Let me try again.”

I think I detected a double meaning there, but I said, “Talk.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Ted Nash stayed silent awhile, still catching his breath, then said, “Okay, this couple left the Bayview Hotel, at about sevenP.M., carrying a hotel blanket. In their SUV was an ice chest with wine, and a video camera with a tripod.”

“Yeah, I know all that.”

“That’s right,” he said, “you’ve spoken to Kate, and you’ve done some snooping on your own. What else do you know?”

“I’m not here to answer questions.”

He said, “Kate’s in some trouble, too, for telling you about this.”

“And how about you? Are you in some trouble now because you blabbed to her about this five years ago? Is that why you were resurrected and dusted off? To deal with your screw-up?”

He stared at me awhile, then replied, “Let’s just say that I’m the best man to handle this breach of confidence and set matters straight.”

“Whatever.” I glanced at my watch, which was still working, and said, “Say what you’ve got to say. I have a long ride back to Manhattan.”

Ted looked annoyed because I didn’t seem very interested in his bullshit. He said to me, “What you don’t know is that after they had sex”-he pointed down into the small valley between the dunes-“there on the blanket, she wanted to go skinny-dipping, and she wanted it recorded, so he moved the camera and tripod up here, and pointed it out there, set it on infinity and aimed at the beach, which from this height includes a good piece of the sky.”

“How do you know this?”

“I spoke to them. How the hell else would I know that?”

So, if I was to believe him so far, this couple had been found, and she was alive-at least she was at the time. I said, “Continue.”

“All right, so they ran down to the beach, as the camera recorded them, and they skinny-dipped awhile, then came back to the beach and had sex again, on the shore.” He sort of smiled and said, “You can assume correctly that they weren’t married to each other.”

“And if this guy had two erections in one night, he wasn’t CIA.”

Ted let that one slide, and he pointed to the beach. “As they were having sex on the beach, they wouldn’t notice anything in the sky, but they didhear the explosion, which would have reached them about forty seconds after it happened. By the time they turned toward the sound of the explosion, the aircraft had already come apart, and the nose section was already in the ocean, and the main fuselage was still climbing, then it began its descent. Interestingly, they thought they saw a streak of light rising toward the aircraft atthis point in time-afterthe destruction of the aircraft. But they realized it was a reflection of a stream of burning fuel that they saw mirrored in the glassy ocean, which they confirmed later when they watched the tape.” He looked at me. “Understand?”

“Sure. Smoke and mirrors. Isn’t that what you guys are all about?”

“Not in this case.” He continued his story. “All right, realizing that there would be people descending on the beach within minutes, they ran back to this dune, dressed quickly, and grabbed the camera and the tripod before running to their vehicle, a Ford Explorer, and heading back to the Bayview Hotel.” He added, “Unfortunately for them, they left the hotel blanket and video camera lens cap, which told us two things-where they were staying and what they were doing here. They also left the ice chest, wine bottle, and two glasses, from which we lifted two perfect sets of prints.”

I thought about that, and I couldn’t find any holes in Nash’s story. In fact, it was what I, Kate, and everyone else surmised, with a few added details as a result of Ted actually speaking to this couple. I asked, “What was on the videotape?”

“Not what you’d like to be on the tape.”

“Look, Ted, I have no wants or needs about this either way. I’m not a conspiracy theorist, and I’m not professionally locked into the official conclusion, as you are. I’m just an open-minded guy, looking for the truth. And for justice.”

His mouth formed that little sneer, which I hate, and he said, “I know you are, John. That’s why we’re here. That’s why I gave up my Saturday night for this.”

“Hey, you can miss one church bingo game now and then. What was on the tape?”

He replied, “The lady played the tape through the viewfinder on the ride back to the hotel. She couldn’t see much, but shedid see what they didn’t see while they were having sex-she actually saw the aircraft, captured on tape at the moment it exploded. She said to me that it was bizarre that the aircraft was exploding on the upper-right-hand side of the frame, while she and her companion were making love in the lower-left-hand side of the frame, and they didn’t even look up. Of course, the sound hadn’t reached them yet, and they continued to have sex as the aircraft was exploding into a huge fireball, then breaking up and beginning its final moments of flight.” He paused, thought, and said, “The man said to me that when he watched the videotape with her, he had to explain to her the vast difference in the speed of sound and of light, which was why they were still making love as the aircraft exploded.”

“Thank God for the laws of physics, or you guys would have had trouble making an animation that none of the eyewitnesses recognized as what they’d seen with their own eyes.”

He seemed a little annoyed with me and said, “The animation was very accurate, based on those laws of physics, eyewitness interviews, radar sightings, the dynamics of flight, and the knowledge of what an aircraft does when there is a catastrophic explosion on board.”

“Right. Can I see their videotape?”

“Let me finish.”

“You’re finished. I want to see the tape and talk to the couple.”

“I’ll finish.” He continued, “The couple got back to the Bayview Hotel and hooked up the video camera to the VCR and watched the tape through the TV set. They both saw what she had seen through the viewfinder. It was a sound tape, and they could now clearly hear the explosion, about forty seconds after they saw it on the videotape.” He looked at me and said, “The entire accident was recorded, start to finish, in color, with sound, with good quality film, and with the video camera on a twilight setting. On the videotape, they could actually see the blinking lights of the 747before the explosion.” He stared at me intently and said, “There was no streak of light rising toward that aircraft before the explosion.”

Why did I know that was coming? I said, “That’s good news. I need to see the tape and talk to the couple.”

He didn’t reply directly and said, “Let me ask you a question: If you were this couple, and you were having an affair, and you videotaped yourself engaged in several sexually explicit acts, what would you do with that tape?”

“Put it on the Internet.”

“Youmight. They, obviously, destroyed it.”

“Yeah? When? How?”

“That night. As soon as they left their hotel room. They pulled off to the side of the road, the man ran over the cassette, then he burned the tape.”

“Where did he get the matches or the lighter?”

“I have no idea. Maybe one of them smoked.”

They didn’t, according to Roxanne, but I didn’t say that to Nash. Also, it was very convenient of Nash to say that the guy physically destroyed the tape rather than erased it, because an erased tape can be restored in a lab, and Ted didn’t want me pursuing that thought.

I said, “Okay, so they burned the videotape. Then what?”

“They drove into Westhampton village where she had parked her car. By now, both their cell phones were ringing as people tried to contact them about the accident. They’d told their spouses they were out in the Hamptons-he was fishing, she was shopping in East Hampton, then having dinner with a girlfriend and staying overnight.”

“His story wasn’t bad. Hers might make a husband suspicious.”

Mr. Nash informed me, “Most spouses trust each other. Didn’t you trust Kate in Tanzania?”

“Ted, if you mention Kate’s name one more time, I’m going to shove your gun up your ass, butt first.”

He smiled, but didn’t reply. Why does this guy get to me?

Getting back to the business at hand, he said, “They drove back to their respective homes in their cars, then spent the rest of the evening with their spouses, watching the news coverage of the crash on television.”

I commented, “That must have been an interesting evening at home.”

He looked at me and said, “That’s it. As many people suspected and surmised, therewas a couple on the beach, theywere having an affair, and theydid inadvertently videotape the accident. But there was no smoking gun, no smoking rocket on that tape.”

“That’s what you’re telling me that they told you.”

“Well, obviously I asked them both to take a polygraph test, and they both did perfectly.”

“Great. Then I need to also see the polygraph results plus their written or recorded statements before I speak to them.”

Ted of the CIA obviously didn’t like dealing with a police detective because detectives want to establish a chain of evidence, while the CIA deals with abstractions, conjectures, and analysis, which are the main ingredients of bullshit.

Ted explained patiently to me, “They both told the whole truth about their sexual activities on the beach, and this is where you’d expect to see some lies on the polygraph because people become embarrassed-but they told us exactly what they did on the beach. Then, when we asked about what they saw with their own eyes on the beach, then on the videotape, they were again truthful. No streak of light.” He added, “The polygraph sessions were almost as good as us having the actual videotape.”

I wasn’t quite buying that, but I said, “Okay. I guess that’s it.”

He knew me too well from when he was alive the first time, and said, “I don’t think you’re convinced.”

“I am. By the way, how did you find this couple?”

He replied, “I had an easier time than you’re having. The man had once been printed for a job, and we had his fingerprints on the wine bottle and the wineglass. We ran them through the FBI databank, and on Monday morning we called on him at his office. He, in turn, gave us the name of his married girlfriend.”

“That was easy. I hope you lifted his prints from the registration card at the Bayview so you could connect him between the beach and the hotel.”

“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 nocrime 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 afterI question the couple. Do you have a pen and paper on you?”

“You maynot 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 therewas something to hide, you’d already be dead.”

“You’re threatening me again. Let me tellyou 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 reallywere 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 Brookville, 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 doingme 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 contact 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.”

His radio, I noticed, had been very quiet, but then his phone buzzed, and he picked it up and spoke to Ms. Wilson out front.

I wanted to say to him, “If it’s the CIA, I’m not here.” I listened for any indication of a problem, but he said to his civilian aide, “Put her on. I’ll handle it.” He said to me, “Loud lawn party.” He took the call and chatted with someone about the loud lawn party.

Truly, this was a different beat, and I tried to get a mental picture of Jill Winslow’s world. As I’d guessed, she was upper-middle-class and had a lot to lose if her husband discovered she wasn’t shopping for clothes every time she went out.

I speculated that Mr. Mark Winslow, investment banker for Morgan Stanley, was a bit boring, probably enjoyed a cocktail or two, golfed at the local country club, and spent a lot of time in the city, at work or with clients. Maybe he had a lady in the city. Boring, busy, and rich men tend to have full-time girlfriends who find them fascinating.

I knew from Sergeant Roberts that Mr. Winslow had a sense of duty to his community and sat on the planning board. This was very altruistic, and had the added benefit of getting him out of the house at least one more time a month, not to mention putting him in a position to help keep the riffraff out.

Mrs. Winslow, in a word, was most likely bored. She probably did volunteer work and went into the city for theater, museums, and shopping, and lunched with the ladies, when not committing adultery.

I tried to conjure up a picture of her lover, but without any information other than Nash’s confirmation that he was married, all I could conclude was that he was fucking Mrs. Winslow.

Don Juan apparently owned the tan Ford Explorer, and one of them owned a video camera that they used to capture a romantic moment on the beach, and maybe other such moments, so they obviously trusted each other, or there wouldn’t have been a video camera to record potentially devastating acts of infidelity. Possibly they came from the same social set, and this affair had begun with a mild flirtation at a cocktail party or a club dance, and progressed to lunch, then dinner, then fucky-wucky.

Another thought: Though they were engaged in reckless behavior, they were not themselves reckless people. This affair was, or had been, very controlled, a calculated risk whose rewards-whatever they were-were worth the risks.

A final thought: The lovers were not in love. If they had been, they would have had an epiphany on the night of July 17, 1996, when they saw that aircraft explode-it would be to them a sign that life was short, and they needed to be together, and to hell with their spouses, their families, and their well-ordered world. And Jill Winslow would not still be living at 12 Quail Hollow Lane with Mark Winslow.

Having said that, for all I knew, Mr. Mark Winslow was an interesting and attractive man, a loving and attentive spouse, and Mrs. Jill Winslow was the town slut, and her lover was the guy who cleaned the swimming pool.

The point of trying to get a handle on Mrs. Winslow and her world was to determine if I could convince her to tell me exactly what happened and what she’d seen and videotaped that night. If she’d told Nash the truth, then that was the end of it, and I could go home to my La-Z-Boy recliner. If there was more to what Nash told me, or something she hadn’t told him, then this was not the end-it was the beginning of a re-opened case. I wasn’t sure which outcome I was rooting for.

Sergeant Roberts hung up and said to me, “Typical Saturday night. Lots of house parties-usually the kids when their parents are away.” He used the police radio to call a patrol car and directed the guy to the address of the loud party. He said to me, “I have four cars out tonight. Sometimes I get a call from these central station monitoring companies reporting a burglar alarm, then I get a road accident, then the old ladies who hear a prowler-same two old ladies.”

He went on awhile about the problems of policing a small town where the residents thought the cops were an extension of their household staff. It was not that interesting, but it was giving me an idea.

I asked Sergeant Roberts, “Do you know if the Winslows are out of town?”

He played with the computer and said, “I don’t have any information that they’re out of town.”

“Would you have their phone number?”

He hit a few keys and said, “I have most unlisted numbers, but not all…” He looked at the screen and said, “I have theirs. You need it?”

“Thanks.”

He scribbled the number on a piece of paper and gave it to me. I had to remember to tell Dom Fanelli about local village police, and this neat Orwellian database.

Sergeant Roberts said to me, “If you phone them or pay a house call, you should know that Mark Winslow is the kind of guy who wouldn’t answer a question on a TV game show without his lawyer present. So, if you need to talk to her, you’ve got to gethim out of the picture, unless you want his lawyer there. But you didn’t hear that from me. Okay?”

“I understand.” In fact, I had a more compelling reason for not wanting him around. I said to Sergeant Roberts, “Do me a favor and give them a call.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. I need to be sure they’re home.”

“Okay… you want me to say anything? I mean, their Caller ID will come up ‘Brookville Police.’”

“Tell Mr. Winslow there’s an emergency meeting of the planning board. You just got word that a Spanish social club is opening on Main Street.”

He laughed. “Yeah. That will get the whole town out.”

I smiled at our little shared politically incorrect joke and suggested, “How about telling him there’s a prowler in the neighborhood. Someone’s central station monitoring just went off.”

“Okay…”

He dialed the number, and I said to him, “Put it on speaker.”

He hit the speaker button, and I heard the phone ringing. On the fourth ring, a male voice answered, “Hello?”

Sergeant Roberts asked, “Mr. Winslow?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Winslow, this is Sergeant Roberts at the Old Brookville police department. Sorry to bother you at this hour, but we’ve got a report of a prowler and a neighbor’s alarm going off in your area, and we wondered if you’ve seen or heard anything.”

Mark Winslow cleared his throat and his mind and replied, “No… just got in… let’s see… about two hours ago…”

“All right. Don’t be concerned. We’ll have a car in your area. Make sure your doors and windows are locked, and your alarm is set. And call us if you see or hear anything.”

“Okay… yes, I will…”

I thought that Mr. Winslow sounded like Mr. Rosenthal at one in the morning. I motioned Sergeant Roberts to let me speak. He said to Mr. Winslow, “Here’s…”

“County police,” I prompted.

“Here’s an officer from the county police, who would like to speak to you.”

I said to Mr. Winslow, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re investigating a series of home burglaries in this area.” I needed to cut to the chase before he woke up and started to think this might be a little screwy, and I asked him, “Will you be home in the morning if I came by?”

“Uh… no… golfing…”

“Tee time?”

“Eight.” He added, “Breakfast at seven. At the club.”

“I see. And will your wife be home?”

“She goes to church at ten.”

“And your children?”

“They’re at school. Is there any cause for concern?”

“No, sir. I need to check out the neighborhood and yards in the daylight, so please tell your wife not to be alarmed if I come by. Here’s Sergeant Roberts.”

He said to Mr. Winslow, “Sorry to call so late, but I wanted to make sure everything was okay there.”

“No need to apologize. I appreciate the call.”

Sergeant Roberts disconnected and said to me, in case I wasn’t paying attention, “Okay, he’s golfing tomorrow.”

“Right. Call him about six-thirty this morning and tell him you got the burglar and the county police will be looking for evidence after sunrise.”

Sergeant Roberts made a note of it and asked me, “You going there in the morning to talk to her?”

“I am.”

He asked me, “Is this a bust?”

“No. Just a witness interview.”

“Sounds like more than that.”

I leaned toward him and said, “I’m going to confide something to you, but it can’t leave this room.”

He nodded, and waited for me to continue.

I said, “Jill Winslow may be in some danger because of what she saw.”

“Really?”

“Really. What I’m going to do is stake out the Winslow house tonight. You tell your PDs not to worry about a gray Ford Taurus parked on Quail Hollow Lane. Okay? You and I will keep in touch during the night in case I need backup. You got an extra radio?”

“I have a handheld you can use.”

I wanted to ask him if he had an extra gun lying around, but that might be imposing too much on his hospitality. I asked, “What time do you get off?”

“Eight. Midnight to eight.”

“Okay. I’ll call you before then if Mr. Winslow doesn’t leave the house for his breakfast at the club-then you’ll need to get him out of the house somehow. Okay?”

“Okay…”

I stood and asked, “How do I get to 12 Quail Hollow Lane?”

Sergeant Roberts gave me a Realtor’s map of Old Brookville and used a highlighter to mark the way. He loaned me a handheld radio and said, “Frequency is set. I’m HQ Desk-we’ll make you Car Zero.” He smiled.

“Roger.” I added, “If any other Federal agents call you or come by, call me on the radio.”

“Will do.”

We shook, and I said, “I’ll make sure you’re recognized for your cooperation. I’ll drop off the radio later.”

I exited the little Old Brookville police department. God, am I full of shit, or what? Maybe I could even get Sergeant Roberts to arrest Ted Nash if he showed up.

It was a cool, clear night, and you could see the stars out here, and no Black Helicopters. A few cars passed by on Route 25A, but otherwise it was very quiet, except for some tree frogs croaking.

I got in my rental car, drove back to Cedar Swamp Road, and headed north as instructed by Sergeant Roberts.

Assuming that Ted Nash had not yet spoken to Mr. Rosenthal and discovered that I had the name of Jill Winslow, and assuming this was the right Jill Winslow, then sometime after Mr. Winslow’s tee time, I would have the answers to questions that I didn’t even know existed before Kate was kind enough to share with me. Since then, I’d been rewarded with a trip to Yemen, the resurrection of Ted Nash, and the Gospel According to Ted. How good isthat?

When I picked up Kate at the airport on Monday-assuming I wasn’t back in Yemen, or in jail, or dead-I could say to her, “Welcome home. I have good news and bad news. The good news is that I found the lady on the beach. The bad news is that Ted Nash is alive, and he’d like to kill me.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

I passed the wrought iron gates of Banfi Vintners, then turned onto Chicken Valley Road as instructed by Sergeant Roberts. The road was dark, and I slowed down and hit my brights in case there were chickens on the road. After a few minutes, I spotted a signpost that said Quail Hollow Lane. I turned right and followed the narrow, winding road.

I could barely see the houses, let alone the house numbers, but there were mailboxes on posts, and I spotted Number 12. I pulled off onto a gravel shoulder, shut off the lights and engine, and got out.

Up a long tree-lined driveway, I could make out an impressive red-bricked Georgian-style house sitting on a rising slope. There was a light on in one of the upstairs windows, and as I watched, it went out.

I got back in my car, switched the key to accessories, and turned on the radio. It was 2:17 on the dashboard clock, and I settled in for a long, uncomfortable night.

The demented DJ, who called himself Werewolf Jack, was growlin’ and howlin’, and I wondered if this could be Jack Koenig doing some moonlighting.

Werewolf Jack was taking calls from listeners, most of whom, I suspected, were calling from the county mental institution. One guy shouted, “Hey, Werewolf, this is Dave from Garden City!”

Werewolf shouted back, “Hey, Dave! What can I do for you, buddy?”

Dave replied loudly, “I wanna hear All I Want Is You by U2, and I wanna dedicate it to my wife, Liz, who’s pissed at me.”

“You got it, Dave! Liz, you listenin’? This is from your lovin’ husband, Dave, just for you darlin’.”

U2 started crooning, “All I Want Is You.”

I was tempted to change the station, but I realized that Werewolf Jack was just what I needed tonight.

Every once in a while, my police radio crackled, and one of the four patrol cars called the civilian aide or she called them. I did a radio check with Roberts and reminded him to call me if any other Federal agents showed up, though I knew it was unlikely that I’d ever get that call if Nash and company did actually think to go to the Old Brookville police department. Most likely, they’d show up here and take me away.

I yawned, drifted off, woke up, and drifted again. Werewolf Jack signed off at 3A.M., but promised to be back the next night to rip out his listeners’ throats. The station signed off with the National Anthem, and I sat up straight until it was finished. I switched channels to an all-news show. At about 4A.M., an Old Brookville patrol car drove by slowly and we waved to each other.

I drifted off again, and when I awoke, a faint dawn was coming out of the southeast. It was 5:29A.M. I called Sergeant Roberts on the radio and said to him, “Call Mr. Winslow at six-thirty and tell him the prowler has been caught. All is well in Pleasantville. It’s a good day for golf.”

Sergeant Roberts chuckled and replied, “Good luck with Mrs. Winslow.”

“Thanks.”

At 6:45, an automatic garage door slid open in the Winslows’ three-car garage, and a gray Mercedes sedan pulled out and started down the long driveway. At the end of the driveway, the car turned toward me, and I got a glimpse of Mark Winslow, who radiated a blinding dullness through his windshield. I slid down in my seat until he passed.

I didn’t want to roust Jill Winslow out of bed too early, so I waited awhile.

A ground mist rose off the sweeping lawns of the big houses around me, birds sang, and the sun rose over a distant line of trees. A weird wild animal crossed the road. Maybe a fox. I looked for a quail, but I wasn’t sure what a quail looked like, or how you could tell it was hollow. It was hard to believe that Midtown Manhattan was only about thirty miles from this dangerous primeval forest; I couldn’t wait to get my feet back on concrete.

I looked at the Winslow house. I really hoped Mrs. Winslow hadn’t come completely clean with Nash and Griffith-despite Nash’s bullshit about the polygraph-and that Mrs. Winslow was ready to cleanse her soul and her conscience, even if it meant giving up all of this. Not likely. But you never know until you ask.

A few cars passed by, and people looked at me. So, before they called the cops, I started my engine and pulled into the long driveway. I stopped in a cobblestone parking area in front of the house. It was 7:32A.M. I took my police radio, got out, walked up the steps, and rang the doorbell.

How many times had I done this as a homicide cop? How many doorbells had I rung to inform someone of a tragedy, or asked if I could come in for a minute for some routine questions? How many search warrants had I executed, and how many arrest warrants had I enforced?

Now and then, I’d pay a condolence call, and sometimes I arrived with some good news.

It never got old, but it never got good, either.

I had no idea what was going to happen here, but I was certain that some lives were going to change in the next hour or so.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

I heard an electronic squawk, and what sounded like a woman’s voice came out of an overhead speaker whose sound quality was slightly worse than the speakers at Jack in the Box. The voice said, “Who is it?”

I looked up and saw a security camera pointing at me. I replied, “Detective Corey, Mrs. Winslow.” I held up my creds to the camera and almost said, “Jumbo Jack with cheese,” but caught myself and said, “I spoke to your husband last night on the phone.”

“Oh… yes. I’m sorry, he’s not in.”

I’m not sorry. I said, “I need a few minutes of your time concerning this prowler.”

“Well… all right… just a minute.”

I waited, and a few minutes later, the big front door opened.

Jill Winslow was indeed an attractive woman. She was in her late thirties and had brown hair, which she wore in what I think is called a pageboy cut. She had big brown eyes and nice facial features, which would photograph well, and she had a good tan, but mine was better.

Mrs. Winslow was wearing a modest ankle-length white cotton robe, tied at the waist, and my X-ray vision and X-rated mind saw a good body. She wasn’t smiling, but neither was she frowning, so I smiled, and she forced a smile in return. I held up my Federal credentials again and said, “I’m sorry to call so early, but I won’t keep you long.”

She nodded and motioned me inside.

I followed her through a large formal foyer, then into a big country kitchen. She indicated a round table in a breakfast area near a sunny bay window and said, “I’m having coffee. Would you like some?”

“Yes, thank you.” I sat and put my radio on the table.

She moved to the counter and began making coffee.

From what I could see of the house, it had that old-money look-lots of antique furniture, which I personally think is verminous, worm-infested hunks of dry-rotted wood held together by mold. But what do I know?

As she set up the coffeepot, Jill Winslow said to me, “Ed Roberts from the Old Brookville Police called before, and he said they’d caught the prowler.”

“That’s right.”

“So, what can I do for you, Mr…?”

“Corey. I’m just doing some follow-up.”

She took two coffee cups from the cupboard, put them on a tray, turned to me and asked, “And you’re with the county police?”

“Not exactly.”

She didn’t reply.

I said, “I’m with the FBI.”

She nodded, and I could see she wasn’t surprised or confused. We looked at each other for a few seconds, and I had no doubt that I was talking to the Jill Winslow who swipedA Man and a Woman from the Bayview Hotel five years ago.

I asked her, “Have any other Federal agents called or come by recently?”

She shook her head.

I said to her, “You know why I’m here.”

She nodded.

I said, “Something new has come up, and I thought you could help me out.”

She replied, “We’ve been through all of this.”

She had a distinctly upscale accent, soft but clear as a bell. And her big eyes looked right into me. I said, “We need to go through it again.”

She kept looking at me, and the only thing that moved was her head, which she shook, but not in a negative way; more like a gesture of sadness.

Mrs. Jill Winslow carried herself well, and even at this hour, without makeup or clothes, she appeared to be a well-bred woman who belonged in this house.

And yet, maybe because I knew she was into sex, lies, and videotape, therewas something about her that suggested a wilder side to her patrician demeanor.

She turned away and set a tray with cream, sugar, napkins, and utensils.

I couldn’t see her face, but her hands seemed steady enough. With her back to me, she said, “A few months ago… in July… I watched the memorial service on television. It’s hard to believe it’s been five years.”

“It is.” I blew into my hand to check my breath, which was beyond bad at this point, and I discreetly sniffed my shirt.

Mrs. Winslow turned and carried the tray with a carafe of coffee to the table and set it down as I stood. She said, “Please help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

We both sat, and I said, “I’ve actually just returned from Yemen, so I’m a bit… rumpled.”

I saw that she noticed the scab and bruise on my chin, then she asked, “What were you doing in Yemen? Or can’t you say?”

“I was investigating the bombing of the USS Cole.” I added, “I do counter-terrorism work.”

She didn’t respond, but she knew where this was going.

I poured two cups of coffee from the carafe, and she said, “Thank you.”

I turned off the police radio, then drank some coffee. Not bad.

She said to me, “My husband is golfing this morning. I’m going to church at ten.”

I replied, “I know that. We should be finished before you need to get ready for church. As for Mr. Winslow, this business, as promised five years ago, will not concern him.”

She nodded and said, “Thank you.”

I had another cup of coffee, and Mrs. Winslow sipped hers. I said, “Last night, I spoke to the man who was originally assigned to this case-Ted Nash. Do you remember him?”

She nodded.

I continued, “And some weeks ago, I spoke to Liam Griffith. Do you remember him?”

Again, she nodded.

I asked, “Who else interviewed you at that time?”

She replied, “A man who identified himself as Mr. Brown from the National Transportation Board.”

I described Jack Koenig to her, including the impression that he had a steel rod up his ass, and she replied, “I’m not sure. Don’t you know?”

I ignored the question and asked, “Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Did you sign a statement?”

“No.”

“Was a video or audio recording made of anything you said?”

“No… not to my knowledge. But the man called Griffith took a few notes.”

“Where were these interviews conducted?”

“Here.”

“Here in this house?”

“Yes. While my husband was at work.”

“I see.” Unusual, but not unheard of with a friendly or secret witness. Obviously, they didn’t want to log her in at a Federal facility. I asked, “And the gentleman with you at that time?”

“What about him?”

“Where was he interviewed?”

“I think his interviews were done in his office. Why do you ask?”

“I’m checking procedures and guidelines.”

She didn’t reply to that and asked me, “What new information has come up, and what do you need from me?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss what new information has come up. And what I need from you are some clarifications.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for instance, I need an update on your relationship with your gentleman friend.” And his name.

She looked a little annoyed or exasperated and replied, “I don’t know what relevance that has now, but if you must know, I haven’t been involved with Bud since that happened.”

Bud. “But you see and speak to him.”

“Now and then. We run into each other at parties, or at the club. It’s unavoidable and awkward.”

“Oh, I know. I run into my ex-wife and ex-girlfriends all over Manhattan.” I smiled, and she smiled in return.

She asked me, “Have you spoken to him?”

“No. I wanted to speak to you first. He’s still at the same address?”

“Yes. Same address. Same wife.”

“Same job?”

“Same job.”

“Would you know if he’s in town?”

“I think so. I saw him at a Labor Day barbeque…” She looked at me and said, “When I see him… I don’t know why…”

“You don’t know what you saw in him.”

She nodded. “It wasn’t worth it.”

“It never seems to have been worth it afterward. But at the time, it seems like a good idea.”

She smiled. “I guess.”

“You’re probably disappointed that he gave your name to the FBI. You think he should have protected you.”

She shrugged and said, “I don’t think he could have. They were very persuasive… almost threatening… but a stronger man might have…” She laughed and said, “I think he held out for about three minutes.”

I smiled and said, “Well, don’t be too hard on Bud. He was doing the right thing as a citizen.”

“Bud does what’s right for Bud.” She thought a moment, then said, “If the FBI had come to me first, looking for him, I’d have probably done the same thing. But it’s what happened afterward that made me realize he was…”

“A wimp.”

She laughed. “Yes, a wimp. And a coward-and not a gentleman.”

“Why?”

“Well… for instance, I wanted to come forward and contact the FBI about what we’d seen and videotaped. He didn’t. Then he told the FBI, after they’d found him, that it wasme who didn’t want to come forward. It was just awful… he wasn’t exactly comforting, and he was thinking only of himself.”

“He must be a lawyer.”

Again, she laughed, a soft, throaty sound. I think I was establishing a rapport, which might be the right way to go. The other way is intimidation, but Jill Winslow had undoubtedly been the subject of that five years ago and had probably built up some resentment.

I touched the scab on my chin, and Jill Winslow said, “That looks raw. Do you want something for that?”

“No, thanks, I soaked it in salt water.”

“Oh… how did that happen?”

“I was jumped by assassins in the casbah in Aden. That’s in Yemen.” I added, “Just kidding. Actually, do you have a Band-Aid?”

“Yes. Just a moment.” She stood and went to a cupboard, removed a first-aid kit, and came back to the table with a Band-Aid and some antibiotic ointment, which she gave me.

I said “Thank you” and smeared some of the ointment on the scab, then took the Band-Aid out of its wrapper. She stood there, as though she was considering helping me place it, but I got it on.

She sat down and said, “You need to keep that clean.”

She was a nice woman, and I liked her. Unfortunately, she wasn’t going to like me in about ten minutes. I put the Band-Aid wrapper on the table, and she glanced at it.

I stayed silent for a while, and finally she asked me, “Why do you want to know about Bud, and my relationship with him?”

“There are some apparent inconsistencies between your story and what he said at the time. For instance, tell me what happened to the videotape after you watched it in your room at the Bayview Hotel.”

“What didhe say?”

“You tell me.”

“All right… after we watched the tape,he insisted that we erase it. Not me. So, we erased the tape, and left the hotel.”

This was not consistent with what good old Ted had told me. But it was all coming together now. I said to her, “I’d like you to take me through this in some detail. Okay? You left the beach, and on the way back to the hotel-what?”

“Well… I looked through the viewfinder on the video camera, and I saw what we’d recorded… the aircraft exploding…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “It was just awful. Awful. I never want to see anything like that again.”

I nodded and looked at her as she stared down into her coffee cup. I had the feeling that she might have been a different woman five years ago. Probably a little happier and maybe more spirited. What had happened on July 17, 1996, had traumatized her, and what happened afterward had disappointed her and made her resentful, and perhaps fearful. And then there was Mark Winslow, whose face I could see behind the windshield of his Mercedes. And she was still here, five years later, and she knew she’d be here for a long time. Life was a continuing series of compromises, disappointments, betrayals, and what-ifs. Now and then, you get it right the first time, and more rarely, you get a chance to do it over and get it right the second time. I was going to give Jill Winslow a do-over, and I hoped she took it.

She seemed composed again, and I said to her, “So you saw the explosion through the viewfinder.”

She nodded.

“And Bud was driving.”

“Yes. I said to him, ‘Pull over. You have to see this,’ or something like that.”

“And he said?”

“Nothing. I said to him, ‘We have the whole thing on tape.’”

I sat there for a while, wanting to ask. And not wanting to ask. But I was here to ask, so I asked, “Did you see the streak of light on the tape?”

She looked at me and replied, “Of course.”

I looked out her bay window, which faced the backyard. There was a big slate patio, then a swimming pool, then about an acre of landscaped gardens. The roses still looked good.Of course.

I poured myself another cup of coffee, cleared my throat, then asked her, “And this streak of light was not a reflection of a stream of burning fuel on the water?”

“No.” She added, “I saw the… whatever it was rise from the ocean… I mean, I saw it inperson, before I saw it again on the videotape.”

“You were standing on the beach?”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “I was sitting on the beach, and… I saw this streak of light rising into the sky… I said something to Bud, and he sat up and turned toward it. We both watched it as it rose, then a few seconds later, there was this huge explosion in the sky… and pieces of burning debris or something started falling… then this huge fireball started to fall… then, maybe a minute later, we actuallyheard the explosion…”

This was not quite what Mr. Bullshit Artist had told me about what this couple had seen. But I wasn’t exactly shocked to discover a major discrepancy. I said to her, “The report I read said you were still making love on the beachwhile the plane was exploding, and it was thesound of the explosion, about forty seconds later, that caught your attention.”

She shook her head and said, “We’d finished making love. I was sitting”-her face flushed-“on top of him, looking out to sea.”

“Thank you. I know this must be uncomfortable for you, and I’ll only ask those kinds of details if I need to.”

She nodded, then said, “It was very embarrassing five years ago answering these questions, and describing it all, but I’m over it now… It’s almost as though it didn’t happen, or happened to someone else.”

“I understand. Okay, so after the aircraft exploded, you did what?”

“We ran back to the sand dunes where our things were.”

“Because?”

“Because we knew the explosion would bring people to the beach, or to Dune Road… we were naked, so we ran to the dunes, got dressed, grabbed the camera and tripod, and ran to the car.”

“Bud’s Ford Explorer.”

“Yes.” She thought a moment, then said, “In retrospect, if we’d taken just a few more minutes to gather up the blanket, ice chest, and all of that… and we didn’t realize we’d left the lens cap on the blanket… we really weren’t thinking about anything except getting out of there.”

I replied, “I’m sure Bud has thought about that many times since then.”

She smiled and nodded.

Apparently me making uncomplimentary remarks about Bud made Jill happy, so I added, “He might as well have left his business card.”

She laughed.

And more important, I didn’t have to divide and conquer; Jill and Bud were already divided, and there were no issues of loyalty to worry about, which made my job easier. I asked her, “What were your thoughts when you looked in the viewfinder and realized you’d videotaped everything you’d seen?”

She stayed quiet a moment, then replied, “Well, I was stunned to see… to see it all on tape. Then… I know this sounds self-serving, but I wanted to go back and see if we could help…”

“You were fairly sure you’d seen an aircraft exploding?”

“Yes… not positive, but I wanted to go back, but Bud said no. Then, when I was watching the tape through the viewfinder, I said that this was evidence, and that someone, meaning the authorities, needed to see this. And he said no. No one has to see us having sex on videotape. He wanted me to erase it, but we decided to play it on the TV in the hotel room, then decide.”

“Okay. So you got back to the room.”

“Yes. And we played the tape-”

“From the video camera through the VCR?”

“Yes. We’d brought the cable with us to do this… for later, when we got back to the room after the beach… so, we played the tape, and we could see it all very clearly on the TV screen, with the sound…”

“And you saw this streak of light again?”

“Yes. And we saw ourselves on the beach, watching the streak of light as it rose in the air… then the explosion… and we jumped to our feet and watched this huge fireball as it rose higher, then the fireball and pieces started to fall… then we heard the explosion, and we turned toward the camera and began running back to the sand dune. On the TV, in the background, we could see what we hadn’t seen when we were running… the flames spreading on the water…” She again closed her eyes and sat motionless. With her eyes still closed, she said, “You can see Bud running right up to the camera, then the image shifted all over the place…” She opened her eyes and forced a smile and said, “He was so panicky, he never shut off the camera as he ran to the car and threw the camera and tripod in the rear seat. You can hear us on the tape, and we sound pretty scared.”

“So, the camera was running in the backseat of the Explorer.”

“Yes.”

“And recorded your conversation?”

“Yes. This is when I was trying to convince him that we should go back to see if we could help.” She added, “Sometimes I wish we hadn’t erased that tape.”

“Me, too.”

I played with the Band-Aid wrapper, and we looked at each other for a few seconds. I said, “So, you watched the tape on the TV screen, then erased it.”

She nodded and said, “Bud convinced me… and he was right… that dozens of other people had seen this… had seen the rocket, and the explosion… and that our tape wasn’t needed as evidence… so why should we give the videotape to the authorities…?” She paused. “It’s very explicit. I mean, even if we weren’t married and having an affair… even if we were single, or married to each other… why should anyone see this tape?” She asked me, “What would you have done?”

I knew that question was coming, and I said, “I’d have held off on erasing it that night. I’d have waited, I’d have discussed it with my partner, I’d have examined my own marriage and asked myself why I was involved in an affair, and I’d have followed the investigation, to see if my tape was a critical piece of evidence in a horrendous crime. Then I’d have made my decision.”

Jill Winslow sat staring out the window, then brought a tissue out of the pocket of her robe and dabbed her eyes. She took a deep breath and said, “That’s what I wanted to do.” She looked at me and said, “I really did… all those people… my God… and I did follow the investigation, and hundreds of people came forward saying they’d seen that streak of light, and everyone thought it was a missile attack… then… it started to change.”

I said, “At that point, when it was declared an accident, a mechanical failure, would you have turned over the tape if you had it?”

She looked down at her hands, which were shredding the tissue, and said, “I don’t know. I hope so.”

“Ithink you would have.”

She didn’t reply.

I let a few seconds pass, then asked her, “Whose video camera was it?”

She replied, “It was mine. Why?”

“Were you familiar with videotape technology at that time?”

“I understood the basics.”

“How about Bud?”

“I taught him how to use my camera. Why do you ask?”

“Well, the report I have says that Bud physically destroyed the mini-cassette. Is that true?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you left the Bayview Hotel, you pulled over to the side of the road, and Bud destroyed the tape by running over it, then burning the tape.”

She shook her head. “No. He erased it back in the hotel room.” She added, “That’s what I told the FBI, and that’s what Bud told them. No one said anything about destroying the tape.”

Well, someone did. Mr. Nash, to be more specific. I asked her, “Did the FBI ask you or Bud for this erased tape?”

“Yes. They asked me, and I gave it to them.” She looked at me and said, “I learned afterward that a magnetic videotape that has been erased can be… the images can be retrieved in some way… I don’t know if they were able to do that… I mean, they probably didn’t, because if they did, they’d be able to see what Bud and I saw… and they would have come to another conclusion…” She looked at me. “Do you know if they were able to restore the tape?”

“No, I don’t.” In fact, I did know. There was no doubt that the FBI lab could pull up the images on a magnetic tape that someone thought was erased for all time, assuming nothing else had been recorded over it. I asked her, “Was the tape blank when you gave it to them?”

She nodded. “It was still in the video camera. When they came here, it was one of the first things they asked me about. I went into the family room, got the video camera, and brought it out to them. They were sitting at this table.”

“I see. And they questioned you, and you told them what?”

“I told them the truth. About what Bud and I had seen. They’d already spoken to Bud, but I didn’t know what he’d said to them because they told him not to contact me and not to take my calls.” She added with a rueful smile, “And he didn’t, the wimp. The FBI showed up here on the Monday after the crash and said they wanted to question me, and my story had better not be different from his. Well, it turns out he lied about a few things, including the fact that we’d had sex on the beach-he said we were just walking and talking-but I told the truth, from beginning to end.”

“And they promised you that if you told the truth, your husband would never know?”

“They did.”

I asked, “And did they return for another visit?”

“Yes. They asked more questions, as though they knew more about what was on the tape. In fact, I asked them if the tape had been totally erased, and they said yes, it had been, and that I had committed a crime by destroying evidence.” She added, “I was terrified… I was crying… I didn’t know who to turn to. Bud wasn’t taking my calls, I couldn’t talk to my husband… I thought about calling my lawyer, but they had warned me not to call my lawyer if I wanted to keep this quiet. I was totally at their mercy.”

I said to her, “The truth shall set you free.”

She sobbed and laughed at the same time and said, “The truth will get me divorced with the worst prenuptial agreement ever signed in New York State.” She looked at me and said, “And I have two sons who were eight and ten at that time.” She asked me, “Are you married?”

I held up my hand with my wedding ring.

“Do you have children?”

“Not that I know of.”

She smiled and dried her eyes again with the shredded tissue. She said, “It’s very complicated with children.”

“I understand.” I asked her, “Did they ask you to submit to a polygraph?”

She replied, “On their first visit, they asked if I would, and I said yes, I’m telling the whole truth. They said they’d bring a polygraph tester here the next time. But when they returned, there was no polygraph. I asked them about it, but they said it wasn’t necessary.”

I nodded. It wasn’t necessary because by this time, they’d restored the tape, and everything they wanted to know was on that tape. What they didn’t want were signed statements by Jill Winslow or Bud, or taped interviews, or a polygraph test-all of which might come to light later if Mrs. Winslow or Bud came forward, or were found by someone else-like me.

In effect, Nash, Griffith, and whoever were not trying to discover credible evidence of a missile strike on TWA 800; they were trying to suppress and destroy the evidence, which is what they accused Jill Winslow of doing.

I asked Mrs. Winslow, “Did these gentlemen from the FBI swear you to silence?”

She nodded.

“But after the official conclusion was announced-that it was an accident-didn’t you wonder why your eyewitness statement and Bud’s wasn’t taken into account?”

“I did… but then this man, Nash, called, and we met here again, and he explained that without the videotape, my statements and Bud’s had no more importance than the hundreds of other eyewitness statements.” She took a deep breath and said, “Nash told me I should consider myself lucky, and get on with my life, and never think about this again.”

“But that didn’t happen.”

“No, it didn’t… I still see the rocket…”

“And you saw that CIA animation of the accident?”

“I did. It was completely wrong.”

“It would have been nice to have your tape.”

She didn’t reply.

We sat there awhile in silence. She stood, got a tissue from the counter, and blew her nose. She opened the refrigerator and asked me, “Would you like some bottled water?”

“No, thanks, I don’t drink pure water.”

She took a bottle of water and poured it into a glass. Real lady.

I digested what she’d said so far, and it distilled down to a few key facts: Bud had not physically destroyed the tape; the FBI and CIA had undoubtedly restored the erased tape and seen what two hundred eyewitnesses had said they’d seen-a rising streak of light.

Therefore, what? I had only two words to describe it: conspiracy and cover-up.

But why? There were a lot of reasons why. But I wasn’t going to try to fathom how people in Washington thought, what their secret agendas were, what their motives were, and what they gained by a cover-up. I was certain they had good security reasons for covering up what could be friendly fire, an experimental weapon, or a terrorist attack-but I was also certain that those reasons were wrong.

Jill Winslow looked exhausted, sad, and troubled, as though something was on her mind. I thought I knew what was on her mind, and I wanted to help her get it off her mind.

Still standing, she asked me, “Are you going to see Bud today?”

“Today or tomorrow.”

She smiled and said, “He’s part of a foursome with my husband today.”

“Are they friends?”

“Social acquaintances.” She sat down with her glass of water, crossed her legs, and said, “Cheating on your husband is bad enough, but if Mark ever found out it was with Bud, he’d feel like a complete fool.”

“Why?”

“Mark thinksBud is a fool. For once, Mark is right. Mark once said to me, ‘Jill, if you ever cheat on me, at least pick someone who you won’t be embarrassed by if it became public.’ I should have listened.”

I thought about that advice, and I agreed. I mean, you don’t want to be caught having an affair with someone who everyone else thinks is a loser or a geek, or who’s ugly and a few pounds overweight. I asked Jill Winslow, “Is he good-looking?”

“Yes. But that’s about it. It was all physical.” She smiled. “I’m so shallow.”

It actually wasn’t all physical-it had a lot to do with Mark Winslow, and Jill Winslow’s need to be less than a perfect wife, even if Mark didn’t know it. But I didn’t reply. As the expression goes, “You can’t feel sorry for a rich girl drinking champagne on a yacht.” But in a way, I felt sorry for Jill Winslow.

As for Bud, I could assume he was a member of the same country club as the Winslows, and it would take me about ten minutes to go to the club and ask about Bud. But I didn’t think I needed Bud. What I wanted was here.

She asked me, “Is there anything else?”

I replied, “That’s about it… except for a few details about your time in the hotel room when you came back from the beach. You watched the videotape. Take me through that.”

“Well… we watched it… we fast-forwarded through the part where we were in the dunes on the beach blanket… and began as we ran down to the beach… then we played this part from the time we were making love on the beach until the time when we saw the streak of light… we rewound that and played it in slow motion… you could see this glow on the horizon… then this light rising into the air… in slow motion, you can see the smoke trail, and we realized we could also see the blinking lights of the aircraft that was about to…”

“How long did the tape run?”

“The part on the beach ran for about fifteen minutes, from us walking down to the beach to when Bud ran back and grabbed the camera. Then about five minutes of darkness when the camera sat in the rear seat, and you could hear us talking.”

“Okay. And the part on the beach blanket when you first started recording?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe fifteen minutes. I didn’t even want to see that. There was no reason to see it.”

“Right. So you ran the tape, paused, rewound, ran it in slow motion, and so forth?”

“Yes. It was… unbelievable.”

“Hypnotic. Mesmerizing.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do after you finished with the tape?”

“Bud erased it.”

“Just like that? You said you didn’t want to erase it.”

“I didn’t… we argued, but… he wanted to erase it. He also wanted to get out of the room in case someone had seen us coming from the beach. I didn’t think this was possible, but he wanted to leave and go home. Our cell phones were starting to ring now because people were seeing this on TV, and people who knew we were out there were trying to contact us, but we weren’t taking any calls. Then Bud went into the bathroom to call his wife-he was supposed to be fishing with friends.”

I commented, “Maybe he sloshed water in the bathtub and yelled, ‘Make for shore, me hearties.’”

She smiled and said, “He’s not that clever. But hewas paranoid.”

I said, “It’s not paranoid to cover your butt.”

She shrugged and said, “At that point, I thought we’d be found out one way or the other. It was a bad piece of luck that we both were out east with cover stories when this happened. Mark called my cell phone once, but I didn’t answer. When I got in my car and started driving home, I played his message, which said, ‘Jill, did you hear about the airplane crash out there? Give me a call.’ I called my girlfriend first, who I was supposed to be with in East Hampton, and she hadn’t heard from him. So, I called Mark back and told him I was upset and I was coming home.” She smiled and said, “It wasn’t even a close call.”

I said, “If I may indulge myself in some amateur psychology-you’d like to get caught. Or, at the least, you don’t care about the consequences.”

“Of course I do.”

“I speak from some experience when I say that getting caught is easier than breaking up. The results are the same, but getting caught only takes a subconscious desire, while breaking up takes a lot of courage.”

She reverted to her lady-of-the-manor tone and asked curtly, “What does this have to do with why you’re here?”

“Maybe everything.”

She glanced at the wall clock and said, “I should get ready for church.”

“You have time. Let me ask you this-after you and Bud watched the videotape, I assume you showered before you went home?” I added, “You had sand and salt on you.” Not to mention bodily fluids.

“We did shower.”

“And he showered first?”

“I… I think so.”

“And you watched the tape again while he was showering?”

“I think so… it’s been five years. Why?”

I think she knew why I was asking, so I asked her a setup question, “That afternoon, what did you do from the time you checked in at four-thirtyP.M. until you drove to the beach at sevenP.M.?”

She replied, “We watched TV.”

“What did you watch?”

“I don’t remember.”

I looked at her and said, “Mrs. Winslow, you haven’t lied to me yet.”

She looked away from me, pretended to think, then said, “I remember. We watched a movie on TV.”

“A videotape?”

“Yes…”

“A Man and a Woman.”

She looked at me and didn’t reply.

I said, “You took it out of the hotel lending library.”

“Oh… yes…” She kept looking at me looking at her, then to break the silence, she said in a light tone of voice, “Very romantic. But I think Bud was bored.” She asked, “Have you ever seen it?”

“No. But I’d like to borrow yours, if I may.”

There was a long silence during which she stared down at the table, and I looked at her. She was obviously fighting an inner battle, and I let her fight it. This was one of those moments in life when everything turned on a single decision, and a few words. I’ve been here many times, with a witness or a homicide suspect, and they need to reach their own decision-which I’ve tried to make easier by all I’ve said up until that moment.

I knew what was going through her mind-divorce, disgrace, public humiliation, children, friends, family, maybe even Bud. And if she thought further into the future, she’d think about public testimony, lawyers, national media, and maybe even some danger.

She spoke, barely above a whisper, and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I replied, “Mrs. Winslow, there are only two people in this world who know what I’m talking about. I’m one, you’re the other.”

She didn’t reply.

I picked up the Band-Aid wrapper and scooted it across the table at her. I said, “We found one of these in Room 203. Did you cut yourself?”

She didn’t reply.

“Or did you use the Band-Aid to cover the missing plastic tab on the library videotape? That’s how you recorded your videotape over A Man and a Woman. While Bud was in the shower.” I let a few seconds pass, then said, “Now, you can tell me that’s not true, but then I have to wonder why you kept that movie that you took out of the hotel library. Or, you can tell me that it’s true, that you did record your videotape over the movie, but later destroyed it. But that’s not what you did.”

Jill Winslow took a deep breath, and I could see tears running down her face. She looked at me and said, “I guess… I guess I should tell you the truth…”

“I already know the truth. But, yes, I’d like to hear it from you.”

“There’s really nothing to say.”

She stood, and I thought she was going to show me out, but instead she took a deep breath and asked, “Would you like to see the tape?”

I stood, and I could actually feel my heart speed up. I replied, “Yes, I’d like to see the tape.”

“All right… but… when you see it… I hope you understand why I couldn’t show it… or give it to anyone… I’ve thought about it… many times… I thought about it in July when I saw the memorial service on television… all those people… but does it matter how they died?”

“Yes, it does.”

She nodded, then said, “Maybe if I gave you this tape, you could continue to keep this quiet… is that possible?”

“I could tell you it’s possible, but it’s not. You know that, and I know that.”

Again, she nodded, stood motionless for a while, then looked at me and said, “Follow me.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Jill Winslow led me into a big family room in the rear of the house and said, “Have a seat there.”

I sat in a leather armchair facing a plasma TV screen. She said, “I’ll be right back.”

She left the room, apparently to go to some secret hiding place. I should tell her that there are no secret hiding places in a house-I’ve never missed one in twenty years as a cop. But Mark Winslow was not a cop; he was a clueless husband. Or, as the old joke goes, “If you want to hide something from your husband, put it on the ironing board.”

I stood and walked around the sunlit room. There was a wall of framed photographs, and I saw their two sons, who were handsome, clean-cut young men. There were photos of family vacations from around the world, and a section of black-and-white photos of another generation standing in front of limousines, horses, and yachts, showing that the money went back a long way.

I studied a recent color photograph of Mark and Jill Winslow, taken at some black-tie affair, and you wouldn’t know they were a couple.

Mark Winslow was not a bad-looking guy, but he had so little presence, I was surprised that the camera even recorded his image.

On another wall were some stupid golf plaques, civic awards, business citations, and other evidence of Mr. Winslow’s many accomplishments.

The bookshelves held some popular fiction and mandatory classics, but mostly golf and business books. Interspersed with the books were golf trophies. I deduced that the man played golf. I noted there was no indication of any rugged pursuits such as deep-sea fishing, hunting, or military service. There was, however, a mahogany bar in the corner, and I could picture Mr. Winslow shaking up a few martinis so he could get blotto every night.

I mean, I didn’t dislike this guy-I didn’t even know him-and I don’t automatically dislike the rich. But I felt that if I met Mark Winslow, I would not ask him to have a beer with me and Dom Fanelli.

In any case, I think Jill Winslow had made her decision regarding Mark Winslow, and I hoped she hadn’t changed her mind while she was hunting for the videotape.

On a paneled wall was another trophy-an oil portrait of Jill, done maybe ten years ago. The artist had captured the big, watery brown eyes and the mouth, which looked both demure and sensuous, depending on how you wanted to interpret it, or what was on your mind.

“Do you like it? I don’t.”

I turned around, and she was standing at the door, still in her robe, but her hair was combed neatly, and she had on a touch of lipstick and eye shadow. In her hand was a videotape.

There was no right answer to her question, so I said, “I’m not a good judge of art.” I added, “Your sons are very handsome.”

She took a remote control from the coffee table, turned on the TV and VCR player, then slid the tape out of its jacket and slipped the cassette into the player. She handed me the cassette jacket.

I looked at it. It said, “Winner of two Academy Awards.A Man and a Woman.” Then, “Un Homme et une Femme.A film by Claude Lelouch.”

A sticker said, “Property of the Bayview Hotel-Please Return.”

She sat down on the couch and motioned me back to the leather chair next to her. I sat.

She said, “The man, Jean-Louis, is played by Jean-Louis Trintignant-he’s a race car driver who has a young son. The woman, Anne, is played by Anouk Aimee, and she’s a film script girl who has a young daughter. They meet while visiting their children’s boarding school. It’s a beautiful love story, but a sad one. It reminds me of Casablanca.” She added, “This is the English dubbed version.”

“Uh…” I thought I might have missed something in our earlier conversation, and I was about to see a French movie, but then she said, “That’s not what we’re going to see now. At least not for the first forty minutes or so that I recorded over. We’re going to see A Pig and a Slut starring Bud Mitchell and Jill Winslow. Directed by Jill.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.Bud Mitchell.

I glanced at her, and I could tell by her expression, and by her tone of voice, that in her short absence, she’d basically said to herself, “It’s time to come clean and the hell with the consequences.” She looked almost calm, and sort of relieved, like a heavy burden had been lifted from her soul. But I could also see a little nervousness, which was understandable considering she was about to watch an X-rated flick, starring herself, with a man she’d met less than an hour ago.

She sensed I was looking at her, and she made eye contact and said, “This is not a love story. But if you can get through this, you can watch the last hour of A Man and a Woman. It’s really better than the movie I made.”

I thought I should say something, so I said, “Look, Mrs. Winslow, I’m not here to be judgmental, and you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. In fact, you don’t need to sit here while I watch-”

“I want to sit here.” She hit a button on the end table and the window curtains closed. Neat.

We sat in the darkened room, and Jill Winslow hit a few buttons on the remote, and the tape began playing. There was some music, followed by the movie title in both languages, then the screen credits. About halfway through the credits, the image jumped suddenly to another, less clear image, with a poor quality audio, and it took me a second to recognize Jill Winslow sitting cross-legged on a dark blanket, wearing tan shorts and a blue top. On the blanket was an ice chest, and as I watched, she uncorked a bottle of wine.

In the lower-right-hand corner of the videotape was the date, July 17, 1996, and the time: 7:33P.M. The seconds counter was running, and then it was 7:34.

I recognized the locale, of course, as the valley between the sand dunes that I’d first seen with Kate on the night of the memorial service, then again by myself when I slept there and had the erotic dream of Kate, Marie, Roxanne, and Jill Winslow wearing the veil; the veil was off now. And finally, last night’s rendezvous with Ted Nash.

Jill said to me, “That’s Cupsogue Beach County Park. But I guess you know that.”

“Yes.”

The sunlight was fading in the scene, but it was still bright enough to see everything clearly. There wasn’t much audio, but I could hear the wind picked up by the camera’s microphone.

Then, I saw the back of a man walking into the frame, dressed in tan slacks and a sport shirt.

Jill said to me, “That’s Bud. Obviously.”

Bud took two wineglasses from the ice chest, sat down beside Jill, and she poured the wine.

I could see Bud’s face now as they clinked glasses, and he said, “To summer evenings, to us, together.”

Jill said to me, or to herself, “Oh, please.”

I looked at this guy closely. Hewas good-looking, but his voice and mannerisms were a bit wimpy. I was a little disappointed in Jill.

She must have read my mind because she asked, “What did I find attractive?”

I made no reply.

In the videotape, Jill looked at Bud and said, “So, do you come here often?”

Bud smiled and replied, “First time. How about you?”

They smiled at each other, and I could tell they were a little camera-shy.

Jill said to me, “I remember thinking to myself, ‘Why am I having sex with a man that I don’t think much of?’”

I decided to reply and said, “It’s safe.”

“It’s safe,” she agreed.

They had a second glass of wine, then Jill stood and pulled off her top. Then Bud stood and took off his shirt.

Jill dropped her khaki shorts and kicked them away and stood in her bra and panties watching Bud as he got undressed.

She said to me, “I’ve watched the part on the beach, where the plane exploded, twice… but I haven’t seen this part in five years.”

I didn’t reply.

On the screen, Jill took off her bra and slid her panties off. She faced toward the camera, threw her arms out, gyrated her hips, and yelled, “Ta da!” then bowed for the camera.

I reached for the remote on the coffee table, but she grabbed it and said, “I want to see this.”

“No, you don’t.I don’t. Fast-forward it.”

“Be quiet.” She held on to the remote.

They were hugging, kissing, and caressing each other.

I said, “I don’t have a lot of time, Mrs. Winslow. Can you fast-forward to the scene on the beach?”

“No. You need to see this-to see why I didn’t give this to the police.”

“I think I get it. Fast-forward.”

“It gets better.”

“Don’t you have to get to church?”

She didn’t reply.

On the screen, Jill moved Bud at right angles to the camera, then looked back into the camera and said, “Blow job. Take One.” She dropped to her knees and began to perform oral sex on Bud.

Well. I looked at my watch, but my brain didn’t record the time. I glanced back at the screen and stupid Bud was standing there, getting a blow job from this gorgeous woman, and it looked like he was trying to put his hands in his pockets, then realizing he had no pants, he put his hands on her head and ran his fingers through her hair.

Jill asked me, “How would that look as evidence?”

I cleared my throat and replied, “I think we could cut this part-”

“They would want the whole tape. See the time and date in the lower-right-hand corner? Isn’t that important to show when this was happening?”

“I suppose… but I think we could scramble your bodies and faces-”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I’ve had enough of that.”

On the screen, Jill rocked back on her haunches and looked at the camera. She waved and said, “That’s a wrap. Scene Two. Wine, please.”

As a detective, I know you can learn a lot about people from their dens and offices, by the books on the shelves, the photos on the wall, their film library, and all of that. This, however, was more than I needed to know.

I looked back at the screen, and saw that Jill was lying on her back as Bud reached behind him and retrieved the wine bottle. Jill thrust her legs in the air and said, “A wife-tasting party.” She spread her legs and said, “Pour.”

Bud poured, then went down on her. I could hear her loud breathing over the sound of the wind, and she said, “I hope you have that camera pointed right.”

He lifted his head, looked into the camera, and said, “Yeah.”

She took the bottle from him and poured the rest of the wine over her body and commanded, “Lick.”

Bud began licking her body.

Mrs. Jill Winslow seemed to me a classic passive-aggressive in the sex department; bossing Bud around on the one hand, then performing sex acts that were submissive, perhaps even demeaning if you considered the context.

Another way to look at this was that she was exerting power over a man, while simultaneously fulfilling all his desires, and hers-hers being a desire for both sexual degradation and sexual control. Meanwhile, Bud is both servicer and servant. It was all a little complicated, and I doubted if Bud understood much beyond the length of his erection, which I really didn’t want to see.

Using her first name, I said, “Jill. Seriously. Let’s move on.”

She didn’t reply, but kicked off her slippers and put her feet on the coffee table.

I sat back in the chair, pointedly not looking at the screen.

She asked, “Is this making you uncomfortable?”

“I think I said that.”

“Well, it’s making me uncomfortable, too. And if I give you this tape, how many people will see this?”

“As few as possible.” I added, “They will all be professional, trained law enforcement officers and Justice Department investigators-male and female-and they’ve seen everything.”

“They haven’t seenme having sex on videotape.”

“I don’t think they’re interested in the sex. They’re interested in the scene of the aircraft exploding, and that’s what I’m interested in, so if you can fast-forward to that, I’d very much like to see it. Now.”

“You’re not interested in seeing me having sex?”

“Look, Jill-”

“Mrs. Winslow to you.”

“Uh… sorry. Mrs. Winslow-”

“Jill is okay.”

I reallywas becoming uncomfortable, and I thought maybe I had a loony on my hands, but then she said, “You understand why I’m doing this?”

“I do. I completely understand why you didn’t want to come forward with this tape. Quite frankly, I’d have second thoughts myself if it was me. But we can and will edit this tape, scramble the faces, and do our best to protect your privacy. We’ll focus on the events surrounding the aircraft-”

“We’re getting to that. Pay attention.”

I heard Jill, on-screen, say, “I’m sticky. Let’s skinny-dip.”

I glanced back at the screen, and she was sitting up. Bud’s face had emerged from between Mrs. Winslow’s thighs, and he said, “I think we should go. We’ll shower at the hotel.”

Jill said to me, “I wish I’d listened to him.”

On the screen, she was standing on the blanket and looking up at the dune rising from the valley. She froze the frame, took her feet off the coffee table, and leaned toward the big screen. She said, “I look younger. Maybe a little thinner. Don’t you think?”

I looked at her perfect naked body in the last of the sunlight, which made her look golden.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked again.

I was a little tired of her ignoring my gentlemanly suggestions to skip the little bangs and get to the big bang, so I took another approach and said, “I don’t think your face has aged at all, and you’re a beautiful woman. As for your body, it looks great on videotape, and I’m sure it’s still great.”

She didn’t reply and kept staring at the screen. Finally, she said, “This was the first and last time we’d ever videotaped ourselves. I’ve never seen myself naked in a photo or on film. I certainly never saw myself having sex on film. Have you ever done that?”

“Not outdoors.”

She laughed. “Did you look foolish?”

“Yes.”

“How didI look?”

“No comment.”

“Do you want this tape?”

“I do.”

“Then answer my question. Did I look stupid having sex on videotape?”

“I think everyone looks a little silly having sex on film, except the pros.” I added, “This wasn’t bad for a first time. Bud, however, looked very uncomfortable. Now, may I have the remote?”

She handed it to me and said, “We were supposed to take this back to the hotel and play it to make us hot again. But I think this would have turned me off.”

This may have been the first time in my twenty years of law enforcement that I felt I needed a chaperone to look at evidence. I hit Play, and Jill Winslow’s perfect, naked body came to life. She started climbing the dune, then disappeared off-camera, but I could hear her voice say, “Come on. Set the camera up here and get us skinny-dipping.”

Bud didn’t reply, but walked toward the camera, then disappeared. The screen went black for a moment, then the scene on the screen was of a beautiful red and purple sky at dusk, the white sands of the beach, and the golden red ocean sparkling in the setting sun. I heard Jill’s voice say off-screen, “This is so beautiful.”

Bud, also off-camera, replied, “Maybe we shouldn’t go down to the beach naked. There could be people around.”

“So what?” Jill said, “As long as we don’t know them, who cares?”

Bud’s reply: “Yeah, but let’s take some clothes-” and she interrupted, “Live dangerously, Bud.”

Without realizing it, I said, “Bud’s a wimp.”

Jill laughed and agreed, “Wimp.”

There was no sound for a few seconds, and no one on the screen, then I saw her enter the picture to the far left of the screen, running across the beach toward the shore. Still no Bud. Then she turned her head back as she ran and shouted, “Come on!” But I could barely hear her at that distance from the camera, with the background noise of the wind and surf.

A few seconds later, he appeared on the screen running after her. His butt was a little flabby and bounced.

He caught up to her near the shore, and she stopped, turned around, then turned Bud around to face the camera on the dune. Jill shouted something, but I couldn’t make it out.

I asked, “What did you say?”

“Oh… something about swimming with the sharks. Pretty stupid.”

She took his hand and they waded into the water.

Bud, in my opinion, was being led around by his dick. He really never initiated anything, and didn’t seem to be enjoying himself as much as, say, I would in that situation. I asked Jill, “How long did this affair last?”

“Too long. About two years.” She added, “I’m not as embarrassed about the sex on tape as I am about who I did it with.”

“He’s very good-looking.”

“So am I.”

Good point.

They were cavorting in the calm sea, washing each other front and back, then looking out at the sea and sky. She seemed to be saying something, but it was totally inaudible. I asked her, “What did you say there?”

“I don’t remember. Nothing important.”

I looked at the running clock in the lower right of the screen. It was 8:19P.M. TWA Flight 800 from Kennedy Airport was just lifting off the runway and was about to begin its climb over the ocean.

Jill and Bud were talking as they stood waist deep in the water, and I could see by the expression on Bud’s face that something she said had annoyed him. Before I could ask, she said to me, “I think I was finally telling him that he was overly cautious about everything, and he got annoyed with me. In a few seconds, I grab his rear end… there… he was still annoyed, and he wanted to leave, but I wanted to do it on the beach, like in From Here to Eternity, so…”

She grabbed his thing-a-ma-jig and said something. He didn’t look as happy as he should have been at that moment, and began looking around as if to see if they were alone. She didn’t literally lead him by his dick, but figuratively she led him by his dick, although she was now holding his hand as she led him back to the shore.

The running clock said 8:23P.M. TWA Flight 800 was about three or four minutes into its flight and was banking left, toward the east, toward Europe.

Jill and Bud were standing on the shore, full frontal nude, but they seemed to have forgotten about the camera because neither of them looked up at where it was positioned on the dune about fifty yards away. The sun had set, but there was a little light left on the horizon and in the sky, and I could still see their naked bodies silhouetted against the sea and sky.

Jill said something to Bud, and he obediently lay down on his back in the sand. She got on top of him, and I could see her hand going between their bodies to put him into her.

Jill asked me, “Would my husband ever see this?”

I froze the frame at 8:27 and 15 seconds. I looked in the sky to the right, to see if I could make out any aircraft lights, but I couldn’t. I scanned the horizon, to see if I saw boat lights, but there weren’t any.

“Mr. Corey? Would my husband ever see this?”

I looked at her and replied, “Only if you want him to.”

She didn’t reply.

I hit the Play button and glanced at the bottom of the screen where the lovers were doing it on the beach with the surf rolling over them. I looked at the sky, but still no aircraft lights. For the record, it was 8:29 and 11 seconds when Mrs. Winslow climaxed. I could see it, but I couldn’t hear it.

Jill Winslow lay on top of Bud Mitchell, and I could tell they were both breathing hard, then she sat up and straddled him with her legs, facing southwest. I could now see the distant lights of an aircraft, far out over the ocean-eight miles, actually, and about twelve thousand feet above the water.

She said to me, “Stop it! Stop!”

I hit the Pause button and looked at her. She stood and said, “I can’t watch this again. I’ll be in the kitchen.” She walked barefoot out of the family room.

I sat there for a full minute, looking at the frozen screen-Jill Winslow sitting on top of Bud Mitchell, the surf caught in mid-motion, the stars no longer twinkling, a thin, wispy cloud frozen like a splotch of paint on a black ceiling. And almost opposite Smith Point County Park, two lights-one red and one white-were captured on the film. You wouldn’t think they were anything other than stars in a still photograph, but in a motion picture, you would see them blinking and moving from west to east.

I got up from my chair, sat on the coffee table, and leaned toward the big plasma screen. I hit the Slow Motion button and watched closely.

At 8:29 and 19 seconds, I saw a glow on the horizon to the right, and I froze the frame. The video camera at the top of the dune was about twenty feet high, including the tripod, and from this vantage point you could see a little more than most of the eyewitnesses who’d seen this from a boat, or from ground level, which on the south shore of Long Island was barely ten feet above sea level, if that. I looked at the glow awhile and decided it could be-could be-a missile launch.

From where I’d seen the glow, I could now see a tongue of bright, red-orange light rising into the sky. It rose quickly, even in slow motion, and I could now make out a white plume of what looked like smoke, trailing behind it. I glanced at Jill and Bud, but they hadn’t seen it yet. It was 8:30 and 5 seconds, and I hit the Pause, slid off the coffee table, and knelt in front of the TV screen, staring at the point of light until my eyes got blurry. I rocked back on my haunches and continued the tape in slow motion.

There was no mistaking what I was seeing now, and what over two hundred other people had seen, including Captain Spruck, who, to be honest, I had doubted. I could see why he was so obsessed with this now that I saw it myself, and I owed him an apology. More important, the American people were owed an apology, but I didn’t know from whom.

I thought of my meeting in Jack Koenig’s office and him looking me in the eye and saying, “There is no fucking videotape of a couple screwing on the beach with the plane exploding behind them,” then, “No fucking rocket either.”

Well, fuckyou, Jack. And fuck Liam Griffith, and fuck Ted Nash for starters. Lying bastards.

The streak of light, trailing its white plume of smoke, rose higher until it was about mid-frame on the TV screen. At this point, I saw Jill’s head turn toward the light, and she stared up at the sky, then Bud sat up quickly so they were face-to-face, then he turned and looked over his shoulder to where she was staring. The light was almost incandescent on the TV screen, and I could see it was gathering speed. I glanced at the lights of the aircraft, then back to the rising streak of light. I was too close to the TV to see the whole screen, so I stood quickly, backed up to the coffee table, and sat.

There was no audio in slow motion, but there was nothing to hear anyway, and I stared, mesmerized by what I was seeing, because I knew exactly what was going to happen.

The burning light seemed to make a sudden turn as it converged on the blinking lights, and I saw the evidence of the turn more clearly in the smoke plume, as it twisted.

A few seconds later, there was a flash of bright light in the sky, which looked strange in slow motion, like a Roman candle burst, then a few seconds after that, a huge fireball began to grow in the black sky-like a bright red flower, blossoming in a time delay film. I froze the frame at 8:31 and 14 seconds and stared at it.

Jill and Bud were caught in the freeze-frame almost standing up straight now, both facing the red sky burst. I hit Slow Motion and watched as the fireball grew larger. I could see that, indeed, the burning aircraft was rising, then I saw two streams of burning jet fuel descending toward the ocean, and as they got closer to the surface, I noticed the reflection of the burning fuel on the smooth, glassy surface, and yes, the reflections appeared to be two streaks of light risingupward, but there was no mistaking the burning fuel droppingdownward from the sky to meet its own reflection.This way is up.Right?

I watched the seconds counter, and about thirty seconds from when this series of events began, I hit the Play button and restored the audio.

Everything on the screen was moving at normal speed now, including Jill and Bud, who weren’t really moving much at all, but were staring, transfixed, at the fire in the sky.

I saw pieces of burning debris now, dropping from the sky. Then I heard the first explosion as it reached the camera microphone, a dull muffled bang, followed a second or two later by a much louder explosion. I saw Jill and Bud flinch a half second before I could hear the bigger explosion, which reached them before it had reached the camera microphone.

I went back to slow motion and watched the aftermath of the disaster: the main part of the aircraft, which had incredibly climbed another few thousand feet until the fuel ran out of its engines, now began to spiral downward. I couldn’t see or comprehend all that was happening, even in slow motion, and I never saw the nose of the aircraft fall away, but I thought I saw the left wing separate, and I could see the great mass of the 747 dropping out of the sky and falling into the sea.

The sky was clear now, except for smoke, which I could see illuminated by the burning fires on the smooth ocean.

The couple on the beach stood there, naked, frozen, as though someone had pushed the Pause button of the world, except that the surf rolled in slow motion on the beach, and the horizon glowed with orange and red fire.

I pushed the Play button, and the surf sped up, and the fire danced on the water.

In Bud’s first take-charge action of the night, he took Jill’s arm, said something, and they turned and began running back toward the camera on the dune. He was faster than she was, and he didn’t slow down for her or give her a backwards glance to see if she was okay. The man was a complete asshole, but that was the least important thing revealed by this videotape.

I stared at the burning fuel on the horizon, and neither Jill nor Bud could know it then, but 230 men, women, and children had perished in the blink of an eye. But I knew it, and I felt my stomach tighten, my mouth was dry, and my eyes were moist.

Bud and Jill had disappeared at the base of the dune, then their heads and shoulders reappeared as they scrambled up the sandy slope, Bud first, followed by Jill.

The camera had been set to maximum zoom, so their faces were blurry, but I could make out their features. I froze the frame and looked at him, his arms reaching for the camera. The man looked scared out of his mind. I looked at her, and she, too, looked frightened, with her eyes open wide, but I noticed also that she was looking at him, as though she wanted him to say something, to tell her what had happened and what they should do. I played the next few seconds in slow motion, and saw his stupid face right in front of the lens, filling the screen. That face, I thought, could be put on a Wanted Poster with the caption, “Have you seen this useless, self-centered piece of shit? Call 1-800-ASSHOLE.”

Bud had gotten a grip on the camera, though not his nerve, and the screen became a crazy kaleidoscope of images that were hard to follow as our hero ran down the dune into the valley and dropped the camera. I heard Bud say, “Get dressed! Get dressed!”

Then, someone picked up the camera, and I saw a flash of the night sky. I could hear them breathing hard as they ran, and I saw indistinct images bouncing around. A car door opened, then slammed shut, followed by two more doors opening and closing, then I heard the sound of the engine starting, and saw some bouncing on the nearly black screen, and then more hard breathing, but neither of them spoke. She was probably in shock, he was trying not to pee his pants. I wanted to scream at him, “Say something to her, you useless piece of shit.”

I waited through about five minutes of black silence, and I was about to turn the TV off and rewind the tape, then I heard her voice. “Bud, I think a plane exploded.”

He replied, “Maybe… maybe it was a giant skyrocket… fired from a barge. It exploded… you know… a fireworks show.”

“Skyrockets don’t explode like that. Skyrockets don’t burn on the water.” Pause, then, “Something big exploded in midair and crashed in the ocean. It was a plane.”

He didn’t reply, and she said, “Maybe we should go back.”

“Why?”

“Maybe… people… got out. They have life vests, life rafts. Maybe we can help.”

I said to no one, “You’re a good woman.” Bud said, “That thing just disintegrated. It had to be a couple miles high.” Pause. “The cops are already there. They don’t need us.”

I thought, “The passengers don’t need you, but the cops need your videotape, stupid.”

There was a long silence, then Jill’s voice said, “That streak of light-that was a rocket. A missile.”

No reply.

Jill continued, “It looked like a missile was fired from the water and hit a plane.”

Bud replied, “Well… I’m sure we’ll hear about it on the news.”

There was another silence, then a movement on the black screen, then a black stillness, and I knew that Jill had taken the video camera from the rear seat and was rewinding the tape so she could look at it through the viewfinder.

That was the end of this videotape, but then an image filled the screen as background music came through the speakers. Jean-Louis said something in dubbed English, but I wasn’t listening.

I stopped the tape and pressed Rewind. I sat on the coffee table awhile, staring at the blank screen.

I was completely overwhelmed by what I’d just seen and heard, and I knew it would take me a while to process these images that were so completely out of the realm of everyday reality.

I stood motionless for a few seconds, then walked toward the bar, found a glass, and picked a Scotch bottle at random. I poured a few inches into the glass and stared at it. It was early on a Sunday morning, but I needed something to steady myself and wet my mouth. I knocked back the Scotch, put the glass down, and went into the kitchen.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Jill Winslow was not in the kitchen, but I saw her through a set of French doors sitting in a chaise lounge on the patio. She was still wearing her robe, sitting upright in the chaise, eyes open, staring off at something in her mind.

I went out to the patio and sat in the chair beside her. Between us there was a table on which she had a bottle of water and two glasses. I poured myself some water and looked out over the expansive yard and the big swimming pool.

After a minute or so, she asked me, “Did you take the videotape?”

I replied, “No. I want you to give it to me.”

She asked, “Do I have a choice?”

“No, you don’t. It’s evidence of a possible crime. I can subpoena it. But I want you to give it to me voluntarily.”

“It’s yours.” She smiled. “Actually, it belongs to the Bayview Hotel.”

I replied, “Bud left a five-hundred-dollar deposit behind. It’s paid for.”

“Good. That always bothered me. Stealing the tape.”

It didn’t bother me; that’s why I was here.

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “You’re a very clever man. You figured it out.”

“It wasn’t that difficult,” I said modestly. Actually, Iam clever, and itwas difficult.

She said, “I was very frightened when the FBI arrived. I thought they’d ask me if I made a copy of the tape before Bud erased it… but why would they think that? And how could they know about the video movie…”

Actually, as I discovered, theydid know about Jill Winslow borrowing a movie from the hotel library, but they were focused on destroying evidence that she’d been there, and it had apparently never crossed their minds that the weepy little rich girl had copied her mini-cassette tape over the borrowed videotape.

She continued, “I wasn’t ready then to show that tape.”

“I understand.”

“Poor Mark. Poor Bud.” She sipped her water and said, “They’re going to be very angry with me. For different reasons.”

I informed her, “This is not about them anymore, if it ever was. It’s about you, and about doing the right thing, and about truth, and about justice.”

“I know… but Bud is comfortable in his marriage. And Mark… well, he’s comfortable, too.” She paused, then said, “He’s going to be devastated… humiliated…”

“Maybe you can all work this out.”

She laughed. “Are you serious?”

“No.”

She took some water, then said, “And then there’s Mark Jr. and James. My children.”

“How old are they?”

“Thirteen and fifteen.” She said, “Maybe someday they’ll understand.”

“Someday they will. Maybe sooner than you think.”

She looked at me and asked, “Will I go to prison?”

“No.”

“Didn’t I withhold-?”

“Don’t worry about it. They’ll want your cooperation.”

She nodded, then asked me, “And Bud? Is he in trouble for erasing the tape?”

“Maybe. But you’ll both cut a deal.” I added, “I suspect his major problem will be with Mrs. Mitchell.”

Jill said, “Arlene will make his life hell.”

I said to her, “Stop worrying about other people.”

She didn’t reply. Jill Winslow sat up and looked at her house, then across the landscaped grounds and the pool. She said, “This was a prison with a life sentence.”

I didn’t reply. As I said, it’s hard to feel sorry for a rich girl drinking champagne on a yacht-or by a pool. But I understood bad marriages, and it didn’t matter how much money or fame you had-a bad marriage was the common leveler of all classes.

She said, more to herself than to me, “What am I going to do now?” She looked at me and asked with a smile, “Do you think I have a career in film?”

I smiled in return, but didn’t reply. I looked at my watch. I needed to get out of here before the Black Helicopter landed on the Winslow lawn, or a car pulled up with Ted Nash and friends in it. But I also needed to let Jill Winslow decompress.

She seemed to be thinking, then asked me, “Why did it take five years?”

“I just got on the case.”

She nodded and said, “When I heard the case was closed, I felt some relief… but I also felt some guilt. When was the case reopened?”

Actually, about an hour ago, but I said, “The five-year anniversary in July reawakened some interest.”

“I see.” She asked, “Would you like to go to church with me?”

“Uh… actually, I would. But I’m afraid I have to get moving.” I asked her, “Do you have any way to copy that tape now?”

She replied, “The same way I copied it the first time-but in reverse. VCR player to the video camera. Are you technologically challenged?”

“Worse than that.” I stood and said, “Let’s make a copy.”

She stood, and we went into the kitchen where I snagged the police radio, then back into the family room.

She walked into a big storage closet filled with board games and other entertainment items and returned with a video camera, which she carried to the television, where she set it on the floor.

I offered to help, but she said, “Just have a seat if you want this done right.”

I had no intention of having a seat while she messed around with the evidence of the century, so I knelt beside her in front of the TV and VCR. I watched and asked questions as she connected the VCR player to the camera with a long cable, which she explained were for audio and video. She saw that I’d rewoundA Man and a Woman, and she pushed a button on the camera, then on the VCR, and said, “The videotape in the VCR is now being recorded onto the mini-cassette in the video camera.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Do you want me to play the mini-cassette through the TV for you?”

“No. I trust you.”

Still kneeling beside me, she said, “You should. I could have erased this five years ago. I could have told you it didn’t exist. I played it for you.” She added, “And I trust you.”

“Good.” I asked her, “How long is this going to take?”

“The same as the original tape, obviously, about forty minutes. Do you want breakfast?”

“No, thanks.” I was getting into a paranoid mode again, and I pictured Nash and friends pulling up to the house about now. Did I really need a copy of the tape? I asked her, “Can we fast-forward to the scenes on the beach where the aircraft explodes?”

“Are you in a hurry?” she asked.

“Actually, I am.”

She turned on the TV, and the tape appeared on the screen. We were up to the part where Mrs. Winslow was performing oral sex on Mr. Mitchell. Kneeling there next to the lady, I think I actually blushed. But she seemed strangely indifferent, and asked me, “Are you sure you don’t need me to copy this part?”

“I’m sure.”

She hit the Fast Forward on the VCR, and the action sped up. After the wife-tasting party, she hit Play, and the video resumed at normal speed. On the screen, Jill Winslow sat up and said, “I’m sticky. Let’s skinny-dip.”

She looked at me and asked, “From there?”

“Yes.”

She stood, and I stood also, glancing at my watch, then at the TV screen, which was still showing the tape. The copying should take about fifteen minutes from this point.

She asked me, “Why do you need two tapes?”

I replied, “I lose things.”

She glanced at me, but didn’t reply. She handed me the remote control and said, “I don’t want to watch the plane. You can sit and watch it again if you’d like, then when it’s finished-when A Man and a Woman comes on-hit this Stop button, then Eject. I’ll be on the patio. Call me if you need help getting the cassette out of the video camera.”

I replied, “I’d like you to get dressed, and come with me.”

She looked at me and asked, “Am I under arrest?”

“No.” I glanced at the TV screen and at the running clock superimposed on the videotape. There were twelve minutes left until the explosion at 8:31P.M., then more recorded images of the aftermath of the explosion, then Bud and Jill running back to the sand dune, and so forth.

I took Jill’s arm and led her into the kitchen. I said to her, “I’m going to be very honest with you. You’re in some danger, and I need to get you out of here.”

She stared at me and said, “Danger…?”

“Let me give this to you real quick. The Federal agents who came here five years ago and took your erased tape almost undoubtedly restored that tape-”

“Then why-?”

“Listen. Theyknow what was on that tape. They don’t want anyoneelse to know-”

“Why-?”

“I don’t know why. It doesn’t matterwhy. What matters is… there are two separate groups investigating this accident. The first group, Nash, Griffith, and others, are trying to suppress and destroy all evidence that points to a missile attack. The second group, me and some others, are trying to do the opposite. That’s all you need to know for now, except that the first group could be on their way here, and if they get here, they’ll destroy that tape, and… we need to get out of here, now, with those tapes. So you need to get dressed, quickly, and come with me.”

She stood staring at me, then out the bay window, as though there could be people out there. I really wanted her to move, but I let her digest. Finally, she said to me, “I’ll call the police.”

“No. These people are Federal agents, just as I am, and they are the official and authorized investigators. But they’re part of a conspiracy.” Even as I said this, I knew there was no reason for her to believe me, and in fact, she looked at me doubtfully.

I said to her, “What happened five years ago? Didn’t you tell me that you learned that an erased tape can be restored? Did you ever hear from those people again? Were you or Bud ever called into a government office? Did you ever see anyone except Nash, Griffith, and the third man?” I said, “You’re a bright woman. Figure this out.”

She stood looking down at her feet, then looked at me and said, “Everything you say makes sense, but…”

“Jill, if all I wanted was the tape, I could take it now and leave. If I wanted to hurt you, I could have done it long ago. You need to trust me, and come with me.”

We stared at each other, and finally she nodded. “All right.”

“Thank you. Get dressed. No shower. And don’t answer the phone.” I added, “Pack an overnight bag and take as much cash as you have in the house.”

“Where-?”

“Let’s talk about that later.” I asked her, “Do you keep a gun in the house?”

“No. Don’t you-?”

“You need to get moving.”

She turned and left the kitchen. As I went back to the family room, I heard her footsteps on the stairs.

I took the remote control and sat on the coffee table, watching Jill Winslow and Bud Mitchell making love on the beach. The time on the videotape was 8:27.

The phone on the end table rang, and I listened to five rings, then apparently the answering machine picked up. The Caller ID said “Private.”

I walked quickly to the front of the house and looked out the living room window, but as of this moment, there were no cars in the driveway or in the parking space except mine. I couldn’t see much of the street from here.

I went back to the family room just as the streak of light began rising off the distant horizon, trailing a plume of smoke. I watched it at normal speed, and there was no mistaking what it was. I thought that the two hundred eyewitnesses who’d seen that streak of light would recognize this videotape image a lot better than they had recognized the CIA animation.

I watched as the first flash of light appeared, followed by the huge fireball. I glanced at Jill, sitting with her legs straddled around Bud, who was now sitting up and looking over his shoulder. I counted to forty, and heard a boom from the speakers-a loud, muffled explosion, which trailed off, followed by silence.

The phone rang again, and again the Caller ID said “Private” and again the answering machine picked up after five rings.

It was 9:15A.M., not too early for friends or family to be calling on a Sunday morning, but still maybe a little on the early side for two calls in close succession.

Jill and Bud were running across the beach now, and I watched her as she got closer to the camera, and I noticed this time that she was looking at him as he outran her. What was this idiot thinking? Was he going to leave her on the beach if she didn’t move fast enough or if she didn’t get dressed fast enough or get into the vehicle when he was ready to go? The man was not cool and not brave.

I mean, friends and lovers sink or swim together. I didn’t even know Jill Winslow, and I was sitting here, waiting for her, while out there Ted Nash and his companions could be knocking on the door in the next five seconds. They were armed, and I was not. And I had no doubt that if they saw or understood what was going on here, they’d be desperate enough-not to mention pissed off out of their minds-to destroy the evidence as well as the two witnesses to the evidence. But here I sat, even now that I had the crucial piece of the tape copied, and I remained sitting. There can be life after mortal danger, as I discovered early as a cop, but you needed to make sure that your soul survived along with your body. If it didn’t, then the kind of life you were going to live wasn’t worth living.

I heard a car door slam, then another, and it took me two heart skips to realize it was coming from the television. On the screen, there was blackness now, and it was going to be about five minutes before Jill’s voice said, “Bud, I think a plane exploded.” I heard her footsteps out in the foyer, and I stopped the VCR, then knelt beside the video camera, found the Power button and turned it off. I surprised myself by figuring out how to eject the mini-cassette, which I put in my pocket.

Jill came into the family room carrying an overnight bag and wearing black slacks and a white blouse. She said, “I’m ready.”

“Okay. Let’s put everything back as it was.” I handed her the video camera, which she carried to the closet while I ejectedA Man and a Woman from the VCR and shut off the power. I scanned the array of lights and buttons until I was certain that no one could tell that anyone had been using the equipment. I stood and Jill was beside me, handing me the jacket forA Man and a Woman, which I slipped over the videotape and put in the side pocket of my blazer. I hit the button on the end table and the drapes opened.

I asked her, “Could you tell who just called?”

She replied, “It came up private, and there were no messages.”

“Okay… here’s the plan. My car is hot-it’s being tracked. We need to use your car.”

“It’s in the garage. But I need to leave a note for Mark.”

“No. No notes. You can call him later.”

She forced a smile and said, “For ten years I’ve been wanting to leave him a note on the kitchen table, and now that I’m really leaving, you tell me I can’t leave him a Dear Mark note?”

I said, “E-mail him. Let’s go.”

I carried her overnight bag and followed her out into a corridor near the kitchen, where she opened a door that led into the three-car garage. Two cars remained: the Lexus SUV and a BMW Z3 convertible with the top down. She asked me, “Which one would you like to use?”

I remembered from Dom Fanelli that the BMW was in her name, which might become important if we were pulled over by the police on a missing persons report from Mr. Winslow. I said, “BMW.”

I put her overnight bag in the back compartment of the BMW, and she asked, “Would you like to drive?”

“Actually, I need to get rid of my car. Where can I leave it around here?”

She asked me, “Where are we going?”

“Manhattan.”

“All right. Just follow me. About five miles south on Cedar Swamp. You’ll see a sign for SUNY College of Old Westbury on the right. You can leave your car there.”

“Good. Start the car, but don’t use your remote to open the door.” I went to the garage door and looked through the windows. I couldn’t see any vehicles out there, and I pushed the button for the garage door. As it opened, I stepped outside, and she backed out and used her remote to close the door. I handed her the mini-cassette from the video camera and said, “Hold on to this. If we get separated, you need to get yourself and this tape to someplace safe. Friends, relatives, a hotel. Donot go home. Call your lawyer, then call the police. Understand?”

She nodded, and I looked at her, but she didn’t seem frightened or confused, which made me calm down a little. I said, “Put your top up, and close your windows.”

She put the top up as I got into the Ford Taurus and started the engine.

I followed her down the long driveway and onto Quail Hollow Lane.

So far, so good. But this situation could turn on a dime, and I went through several scenarios and contingency plans in case the shit hit the fan.

It wasn’t like Ted Nash to cut me much slack, or to take Sunday off. But maybe I hit his head harder than I thought, and he was lying down in a dark room with a bottle of aspirin, trying to figure things out. Not likely, but whatever he was doing at this moment, he didn’t seem to be doing it here.

In retrospect, if I’d known that I was going to find Jill Winslow and a copy of the videotape, I would have had no hesitation about killing him there on the beach to avoid this situation. Pre-emptive strikes are okay when you know for sure what you’re pre-empting.

If I ran into Nash and friends now, I didn’t think I’d have the opportunity to correct my mistake, but I was fairly sure he’d take the opportunity to correct his.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Within a few minutes, we were back on Cedar Swamp Road, and I kept glancing at my rearview mirror, but it didn’t appear that anyone was following.

I was starting to believe I had pulled this off: Jill Winslow, the videotape, the name of Bud Mitchell, and with any luck, a clear run to Manhattan.

I unhooked the police radio from my belt, turned it on, and listened for a while, but there was almost no chatter, and what I heard had nothing to do with me. I turned off the radio, making a mental note to return it to Sergeant Roberts first chance I got, which could be a while.

Up ahead, I saw a sign for the College of Old Westbury where Jill made a right turn. I followed her down a tree-lined road into the campus of the small college, which was nearly deserted on a Sunday. She pulled into a parking lot, and I put my Ford Taurus into an empty space. I took my overnight bag and threw it into the rear compartment of her car. I said, “I’ll drive.”

She got out and came around to the passenger seat as I got behind the wheel.

The BMW was a five-speed manual, which I hadn’t driven in a while. I got it into first gear with just a little grinding, which made Mrs. Winslow wince.

We got back on Cedar Swamp Road, heading south. The BMW drove like a dream, and better yet, it could outrun anything that Nash and friends had picked up from the government car pool.

Within five minutes, I saw the sign for the Long Island Expressway, and Jill said, “You want to turn here for the city.”

“Hold on.”

I got within twenty feet of the entrance ramp, then hit the brakes and cut hard right onto the ramp, tires screeching and the anti-lock brakes pulsating. I checked out my rearview mirror, then downshifted and hit the gas. Within ten seconds, I was on the Expressway, and I shifted into fifth gear, swerved over two lanes, then put the pedal to the metal. This thing really flew.

I settled into the outside lane at eighty miles per hour, and checked my mirrors again. If anyone had been following, they were now about a half mile back.

Traffic was spotty, and I was able to weave around the Sunday drivers going too slow in the outside lanes.

Jill hadn’t spoken in a while, then she asked me, “Are we being chased?”

“No. I’m just enjoying the drive.”

“I’m not.”

I slowed down and got into the middle lane. We drove in silence, then she asked me, “What’s your first name?”

“John.”

“May I call you John?”

“Of course.” I asked, “May I call you Jill?”

“You already have.”

“Right.”

I turned on my cell phone and waited for five minutes, but there was no beep, and I shut it off. I asked Jill, “How are you doing?”

“Fine. How areyou doing?”

“Pretty good. Do you understand what’s going on?”

“Somewhat. I assumeyou know what’s going on.”

“Pretty much.” I glanced at her and said, “You should understand that you’re on the right side of this now-the side of truth and justice, and of the victims of TWA 800, their families, and the American people.”

“Then who’s after us?”

“Maybe no one. Or maybe a few bad eggs.”

“Then why can’t we call the police?”

“Well, maybe more than a few bad eggs, and I’m not sure yet who’s bad and who’s good.”

“What are we going to do while you’re trying to figure it out?”

“Do you have a hotel in the city that you usually stay at?”

“The Waldorf or the Union League Club.”

“Then let’s avoid those. Let’s pick someplace around Midtown.”

She thought a moment, then replied, “The Plaza.”

“Call them now and make a reservation. You need two adjoining rooms.”

“Are you staying with me?”

“Yes. Please use your credit card to hold the rooms, and I’ll see that you’re reimbursed.”

She got on her cell phone, called the Plaza Hotel, and reserved a two-bedroom suite.

I said to her, “I’d like you to turn off your cell phone.”

“Why?”

I explained, “You can be located by cell phone tower triangulation.”

She didn’t ask for any further explanation and shut off her cell phone.

We crossed the Nassau County line into the borough of Queens. We should be at the Plaza Hotel within half an hour.

Jill asked me, “How long will I have to stay at the hotel?”

“About two days.”

“Then what?”

“Then you change hotels. Or I find you a safe house. I need maybe forty-eight hours to line up the army of angels. After that, you’ll be safe.”

“Do I need to call my attorney?”

“If you’d like. But if you could wait a few days, that would be better.”

She nodded.

We continued on the Expressway through Queens, and she asked me, “When will you see Bud?”

“I, or someone else, will see him within the next forty-eight hours.” I added, “Please don’t call him.”

“I have no intention of calling him.” She poked my arm and said, “Why don’t you arrest him? I want to visit him in jail.”

I stifled a laugh, but then she laughed, and I laughed, too. I said, “I think we need his cooperation.”

“Do I need to see him again?”

“Maybe. But we try to keep witnesses separated.”

“Good.” She asked me, “Where do you live?”

“In Manhattan.”

“I lived in Manhattan after college, and before I got married.” She paused. “I married too young. How about you?”

“I’m on my second marriage. You’re going to meet my wife. She’s an FBI agent, currently overseas. Due home tomorrow, if all goes well.”

“What’s her name?”

“Kate. Kate Mayfield.”

“She kept her maiden name?”

“Not all to herself. She offered to let me share it.”

Jill smiled, then asked, “Is that how you met? On the job?”

“Yes.”

“Do you lead interesting lives?”

“At the moment, yes.”

“Is there a lot of danger?”

“There’s a distinct danger of dying from boredom.”

“I think you’re being modest, and understated. Are you bored now?”

“No.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“About a month and a half,” I said.

“And you were in Yemen?”

“I was.”

“What’s boring about that?”

“Go to Yemen and find out.”

“Where was she?”

“Tanzania. Africa.”

“I know where Tanzania is. What was she doing there?”

“You can ask her when you meet her.”

I had the impression that Mrs. Winslow didn’t meet that many interesting people at the club or at lunches or dinners. I had the impression, too, that she thought she’d missed the boat somewhere after college, and she saw this major catastrophe in her life as more of an opportunity than a problem. That was the right attitude, and I hoped it turned out well for her.

The Midtown Tunnel was about a mile ahead. I glanced at Jill Winslow, sitting next to me. She seemed pretty cool and composed, a product maybe of her breeding, or maybe she didn’t fully appreciate the immediate danger we were in. Or maybe she did, but she thought that danger was preferable to boredom. I agreed with that when I was bored, but when I was in danger, boredom looked good. I said to her, “I think you’ll like Kate. She and I will take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can. But you’ll need some help for a while.”

We approached the tollbooths of the Midtown Tunnel, and I reached up and removed Jill’s E-ZPass, which would record her license plate number, location, and time, none of which I wanted recorded. I paid cash at the booth and entered the long tunnel under the East River.

Jill asked me, “What should I do about Mark?”

“Call him later from your cell phone.”

“And say what?”

“Say you’re well and that you need some time by yourself. I’ll brief you later.”

“Good. I’ve never been briefed.”

I smiled.

She said, “Eventually, I want to tell him everything.”

“You should… before he finds out. You understand that this is all going to become public.”

She stayed silent awhile, and we watched the grimy white tiles zip by. She said to me, “There were so many nights… when we were sitting in the family room, him on the phone, or reading a paper, or telling me what I had to do the next day, when I wanted to pop that tape in…” She laughed and asked me, “Do you think he would have noticed?”

“I’m sure he would have.”

We emerged from the tunnel, and I was back in Manhattan, which I’d thought about a lot in Yemen, though not under these circumstances. I sniffed the exhaust fumes, marveled at the billions of tons of concrete and blacktop, and watched a taxi run a red light. It was Sunday, so traffic was light and pedestrians were scarce, and within five minutes, I was heading crosstown on 42^ndStreet.

I said to Jill, “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Like what?”

“Like what’s going to happen next. What to expect. That kind of stuff.”

“If I need to know anything, you’ll tell me. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Can I make a suggestion?”

“Of course,” I said.

“You’re keeping it in first gear too long.”

“Sorry.”

I turned right on Sixth Avenue and headed up to Central Park South, paying attention to my gear changes. Within a few minutes, we were in front of the Plaza Hotel, and I had the valet park the car. I carried our overnight bags into the opulent lobby and followed Jill to the reception desk.

I didn’t want her paying with her credit card, which could be traced, so she arranged to pay by check, which would be secured by her credit card imprint. I showed the desk clerk my Federal credentials and asked for the manager. He arrived in a few minutes, and I said to him and the clerk, “We are traveling incognito on government business. You will not tell anyone who inquires that Mrs. Winslow is checked in here. You will call the suite if anyone makes such an inquiry. Understood?” They understood and noted it in the computer.

Within ten minutes, we were in the living room of a two-bedroom suite. She found the bigger bedroom, which she claimed without saying a word, and we stood in the living room.

She said, “I’ll call room service. What would you like?”

What I liked was in the room bar, but I said, “Just coffee.”

She picked up the phone and ordered coffee and assorted pastry.

I said to her, “Will your husband be home yet?”

She looked at her watch and said, “Probably not.”

“Okay, what I need you to do is call home and leave a message for Mark. Say something that indicates that you need some time away from home and that you’ve gone to the country with a girlfriend or something. I don’t want him to be alarmed, and I don’t want him calling the police. Understand?”

She smiled and said, “He won’t be alarmed-he’ll be shocked. I’ve never left home before… well, not without a pre-arranged story. And he won’t call the police because he’d be too embarrassed.”

“Good. Use your cell phone.”

“You said-”

“You can keep it on for about five minutes-ten tops.”

She nodded, took her cell phone from her bag, turned it on, and dialed. She said, “Mark, this is Jill. I was bored today, and I decided to take a ride to the Hamptons and visit a girlfriend. I may stay overnight. Call my cell phone if you’d like and leave a message, but I’m not taking calls.” She added, “I hope you had a good morning of golf with the boys, and that Bud Mitchell didn’t aggravate you again.” She looked at me, smiled, and winked. “Bye.”

Clearly Mrs. Winslow was having some fun.

She asked me, “Was that all right?”

“Perfect.”

On the other hand, if Nash had gotten around to putting two and two together, he’d be at the Winslow house now, soon, or later, and Mr. Winslow would be hearing another story, and he’d be asked to help the authorities find his wayward wife. But I couldn’t worry about that now. I said to Jill, “Please turn off your cell phone and don’t forget to turn it off every time you use it.”

She turned it off and put it in her bag.

Mrs. Winslow went to her bedroom to freshen up.

The doorbell rang, and I let the room service guy in and signed the check.

I walked to the windows and looked out over Central Park.

I felt like a man on the run, which wasn’t surprising, since I was on the run. Ironically, my whole professional life had consisted of me chasing other people who were on the run, though most of them were so stupid that I never really learned much from them about how not to get caught.

But I learnedsomething, and I wasn’t stupid, so the odds of Messrs. Nash and Griffith or anyone finding me soon were in my favor for a while.

Jill came into the living room, looking like she’d done a powder-and-paint job, and we sat at the dining table and had coffee and pastry. I was actually hungry, but I didn’t hog the whole plate of sweets.

She asked me, “Your wife is arriving tomorrow?”

“That’s the plan. About fourP.M. ”

“Will you meet her at the airport?”

“No. I can’t show up at a pre-arranged place.”

She didn’t ask why not, and I could tell she was getting it. I said, “I’ll have her met and taken here. Neither she nor I can go back to our apartment.”

She nodded, looked at me, and finally said, “John, I’m frightened.”

“Don’t be.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I explained, then added, “I don’t need a gun.”

We made small talk awhile, and then I said to her, “Take the cassette tape I gave you, and have it locked in the hotel safe.”

“All right. What are you going to do with A Man and a Woman?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

She nodded, then said to me, “I’d like to go to church. Then take a walk. Is that all right?”

I said to her, “To be honest with you, if these other people somehow discover where we are, then it doesn’t matter what you do.”

I put her cell phone number into my cell and she put mine into hers. I said, “Remember, don’t keep it on more than five minutes.”

Actually, in Manhattan, with a few hundred thousand cell phone signals bouncing around, it could take fifteen minutes or more to triangulate a cell phone location, but better safe than busted. I continued, “And don’t use your credit cards or an ATM machine. Do you have cash?”

She nodded, and asked me, “Would you like to come with me?”

I stood and said, “I need to stay here and make some calls. I’ll call you a few times, so check for my messages every half hour and call me back as soon as you get my message.”

She said, “You’re worse than my husband.”

I smiled and said, “If you need to call here, call the room phone. But if I don’t answer the room phone, then try my cell. And don’t come back to the room if I don’t answer the phone. Understand?”

She nodded.

I said, “On your way out, don’t forget to have that video cassette put in the hotel safe. Then, put the receipt in a hotel envelope and have it sent up to this room.”

Again, she nodded.

I said to her, “Plan to be back here no later than fiveP.M. ”

“I think I’m going back to Mark.”

I smiled. “See you later.”

I went into the bedroom, sat on the bed, and dialed Dom Fanelli’s cell phone. He answered, and I said, “Sorry to interrupt your Sunday.”

“Hey. You’re calling from the Plaza?”

“I am. Where are you?”

“I’m at the Waldorf. What are you doing at the Plaza?”

“Can you talk?”

“Yeah. I’m at a family barbeque. Get me out of here.”

I asked him, “Do you have a drink in your hand?”

“Does the Pope eat kielbasa? What’s up?”

“You wanted to know what this was about. Right?”

“Right.”

“It’s a big, hungry, fire-breathing dragon, and it can eat you.”

There was a short silence on the phone, then he said, “Shoot.”

“Okay. It’s about TWA 800, which you know, and it’s about a videotape of the crash. And it’s about Jill Winslow, the lady you found for me.” I gave him a full, fifteen-minute briefing. He stayed uncharacteristically quiet the whole time, and I had to ask him a few times if he was still there.

After I finished, he said, “Jesus Christ Almighty. Jesus Christ.” Then he asked, “Are you shitting me?”

“No.”

“Holy shit.”

“You want in?”

I could hear loud people in the background now, and loud music, so he must have been moving his location. I waited, then it got quiet, and he said, “I’m in the toilet now. Shit, I need another drink.”

“Flush first. Dom, I need your help.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Anything. What do you need?”

“I need you with a patrol car and at least two uniformed officers to go with me to pick up Kate at the airport tomorrow.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Someone may be waiting there for her.”

“Who?”

“The Feds. Okay, so pick me up here at the Plaza-”

“Hold on. If someone may be waiting for her, then they’re definitely waiting for you, too, sport.”

“I know, but I’ve got to be there when she-”

“No, you don’t. You stay where you are. You’ve got a witness to protect.”

“You can send someone here to protect-”

“Hey, paisano, be brave and stupid on your own time. We’ll do this my way.”

I thought about that. Being a man of action, I didn’t like the idea of waiting around while someone else did the dangerous stuff for me. Dom was right, of course, but I said, “I’m not going to sit here while you go to JFK-”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll call you if I need you. End of discussion. What else?”

“All right… well, be prepared for some Federal bullying and bullshit. You’ve got to show some force. Okay? I don’t care if the whole fucking New York FBI field office shows up. You’re a New York cop, and this isyour town, not theirs.”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Make sure you’re not followed from the airport-”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

“And when you get to the Plaza, have a cop escort Kate to the Winslow suite.” I gave him the suite number and asked, “Are you okay with this?”

“Yeah… this is a fucking mind-blower.”

“Okay, here’s Kate’s flight info.” I gave it to him and made him repeat it, then asked him, “Are you happy now that I confided in you?”

“Oh, yeah. Fucking thrilled.”

“You asked.”

“Yeah, thanks for sharing.” He stayed silent a moment, then said, “Well, hey, congratulations. I always said you were a genius, even when Lieutenant Wolfe said you were an idiot.”

“Thank you. Anything else you need to know?”

“Yeah… like, who exactly is after you?”

“Well, this CIA guy Ted Nash for sure. Maybe Liam Griffith from the FBI. I have no idea who else is involved in this cover-up, so I don’t know who I can go to inside my office, or outside my office. So, I called the cops.”

He didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said, “And Kate… you can trust her. Right?”

“I can, Dom. She put me on to this.”

“Okay. Just checking.”

I didn’t reply.

He said, “Meanwhile, do you need any backup at the Plaza?”

“I’m okay here for a day or so. I’ll let you know.”

“Okay. If these guys come to get you, put a few caps in their ass, then call Detective Fanelli at Homicide. I’ll send a meat wagon to take them to the morgue.”

I said, “Sounds like a plan, but my piece is in a diplomatic pouch somewhere.”

“What? You’re not armed?”

“No, but-”

“I’m going to your apartment to get your off-duty piece and bring it-”

“Donot go to my apartment. They’re all over that. You could get into a pissing match with them, or you could be followed here.”

“The Feds can’t follow their own shadows with the sun behind them.”

“Right. But we’re not going to risk you going to my apartment today. You have a job to do tomorrow.”

“I’ll bring you my off-duty piece.”

“Dom, just stay away from the Plaza today. I’m okay.”

“Okay, your call.” He asked, “Hey, do you want me to have you taken into protective custody?”

I’d thought about that, but I didn’t think Jill Winslow wanted to spend the night in the slammer. More important, I could picture the Feds getting on to this if they were checking with the NYPD to see if I was in fact in protective custody. I had no doubt they could get me and Jill sprung into their custody within a few hours.

“John? Hello?”

I said, “I don’t want to start leaving a public records trail. Maybe tomorrow. For now, I’m missing in action. I’ll call you if I think I need to be arrested.”

“Okay. I guess the Plaza is more comfortable than the Metropolitan Detention Center. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Dom. I’ll protect you if the shit hits the fan.”

“Hey, if the shit hits the fan just right, we’re not the ones who’re going to be standing in front of it.”

“I hope you’re right. Enjoy your barbeque. Ciao.”

Jill had left me a note on the living room desk. “Left at 12:15P.M. -Be back about 5P.M. May I take you to dinner? Jill.”

I shaved, brushed my teeth twice, showered, and rinsed out my boxer shorts.

The hotel delivered the envelope with the safe receipt and I committed the receipt number to memory and burned it in the toilet.

I read the SundayTimes and watched TV. I checked my cell phone several times to see if Dead Ted had called about a meeting time, but he must have taken the day off. I hoped so. It was now 5:30, and Jill was still not back, so I called her cell phone, left a message, and had a beer.

At 5:48, she called the suite and said, “Sorry. I lost track of time. I’ll be back about six-thirty.”

“I’ll be here.”

She arrived closer to seven. What is it with women and time? I was about to say something about the importance of time, but then she handed me a Barneys bag and said, “Open it.”

I opened the bag and took out a man’s shirt. Considering my three-day-old shirt, I think this was more a gift for her than for me. But ever gracious, I said, “Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.”

She smiled and said, “I knew you’ve been traveling in that shirt, and itdid look a bit rumpled.”

Actually, it stunk. I unwrapped the shirt from its tissue and looked at it. It was… sort of pink.

She said, “Hold it up.”

I held it up to my chest.

She said, “That’s a good color for you. It brings out your tan.”

It was a good color if I switched teams. I said, “You really didn’t… thank you.”

She took the shirt from me and undid all five hundred pins in about five seconds, then shook the shirt open and said, “This should fit. Try it on.” It was short-sleeve, and it felt silky. I took off my offending shirt and slipped into the pink silk number.

She said, “It looks very good on you.”

“It feels great.” I asked her, “Did you get a cell phone message from your husband?”

She nodded.

“What did he say?”

She took her cell phone out of her bag, punched up her voice mail, and handed me the phone. I listened to a recorded voice say, “Message received at three-twenty-eightP.M. ” Then Mark Winslow said, “Jill, this is Mark. I received your message.”

There was almost no affect in his voice, and like his photo, I was surprised that his voice left an impression on the digital recording. He said, “I’m very concerned, Jill. Very concerned. I want you to call me as soon as you get this message. You must call me and tell me where you are. This was a very selfish act on your part. The boys missed your Sunday call, and they called here, and I said you were out with friends, but I think they detected some anxiety in my voice, and I believe they’re worried. So you should call them, and reassure them. And call me. I’m becoming concerned. I’ll speak to you when you get this message.”

I waited for him to say, “I love you,” or “Sincerely yours,” but the message ended, and I shut off the cell phone and handed it back to her.

Neither of us spoke, then she said, “I haven’t called back, of course.”

I replied, “How could you resist that heartfelt plea?”

She smiled, then her smile faded, and she said, “I really don’t want to cause him any pain.”

I said, “If I may say so, he didn’t sound like he was in much pain. But you know him better than I do.”

She said, “He’s called three more times with shorter messages saying, ‘Call me.’”

I thought about Mark Winslow’s message, and I concluded that Ted Nash had not been to Mr. Winslow’s house looking for Mrs. Winslow. Then, I thought about it again, and I concluded that maybe Ted Nash was standing in the room with Mark Winslow while he called his wife. I asked Jill, “Did your husband sound… normal?”

“Yes. That’s normal for him.”

“What I mean is, do you think he was being prompted by someone else? The police or someone?”

She thought about that and replied, “I suppose it’s possible… he wouldn’t normally mention the boys… but…” She looked at me and said, “I know what you mean, but I can’t say for certain.”

“Okay.” Just another paranoid thought, but a good one. Bottom line, it didn’t matter if Ted Nash was one step behind me, as long as he didn’t get one step ahead of me. I said to her, “How about a drink?”

We had a drink, and she mentioned taking me to dinner, but I suggested room service, partly because I always run into the wrong people when I’m out and about, and partly because the more doors between me and Jill Winslow and whoever was looking for us, the better.

We chatted awhile, and she confirmed that she’d had the video camera cassette locked in the hotel safe and I said I’d gotten the receipt. She also said that she’d kept her cell phone off all day, not used her credit cards, and not used the ATM machine.

She told me she’d gone to St. Thomas on Fifth Avenue, then walked along the park to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She’d gone to Barney’s, then did some window-shopping on Madison Avenue, and then walked back to the Plaza. A typical Sunday in New York, but a very memorable day for Jill Winslow.

We ordered room service, and it arrived at eight. We sat down at the dining table, lights low, candles lit, and soft music coming out of the speakers.

Despite all this, neither of us was trying to seduce the other, which was probably a relief for both of us. I mean, she was very good-looking, but there’s a time and place for everything. For me, that time had passed since my marriage; for her, that time was just beginning. Also, Kate was due to arrive here about 5P.M. the next day.

We had wine with dinner, and she got a little tipsy, and started telling me about Mark, and a little about her two-year affair with Bud. She said, “Even when I decided to be naughty, I did it with a man who I knew I’d never fall in love with. Safe sex. Safe husband. Safe marriage. Safe neighborhood. Safe vacations. Safe friends.”

“There’s really nothing wrong with that.”

She shrugged.

Later, she confided to me, “I had one brief affair since Bud. Three years ago. It lasted about two months.”

I didn’t want the details, and she didn’t offer any.

I’d ordered steak, not because I wanted steak, but because I wanted a steak knife. Jill excused herself at one point and went into her bedroom, and I put the steak knife in my room.

At about 10P.M., I excused myself with the explanation of jet lag and too much rich food and wine, which I wasn’t used to in Yemen.

She stood, and we shook hands. Then, I leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek and said, “You’re a trouper. This will all end well.”

She smiled and nodded.

“Thanks again for the shirt. Good night.”

“Good night,” she replied.

I checked my cell phone for messages, but there weren’t any. I left a wake-up call for 6:45, then I watched the news for a while, then popped in the videotape ofA Man and a Woman. I fast-forwarded through the beach blanket scenes, and played the last few minutes in slow motion from where I could see the glow on the horizon, followed by the light rising into air. I tried to be skeptical and to give it another interpretation, but the camera didn’t lie. I played it backwards, to see if that would reveal something that could be interpreted differently-but frontwards, backwards, slow motion, normal speed, it was what it seemed to be: a missile, with a fiery tail and a smoke plume, rising toward the lights of an aircraft. It was the small zigzag of the light and smoke right before the explosion that convinced me, if I needed more convincing-the fucking missile corrected its course, locked on, and hit its target. Mystery solved.

I took the tape out of the video player and put it under the mattress, and put the steak knife on my night table.

I fell into a restless sleep and kept replaying the videotape in my dreams, except it was me on the beach, not Bud, and it was Kate, not Jill, standing naked next to me, saying, “Itold you it was a missile. Can you see it?”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

My wake-up call came at 6:45, and I rolled out of bed, reached under the mattress, pulled outA Man and a Woman, and stared at it awhile.

I looked out the window toward Central Park. I’m not a Monday person, and the weather outside didn’t improve my mood; it was cloudy and raining, something I hadn’t seen in forty days in Yemen. Not that I wanted to be back in Yemen.

After I showered, I got dressed in my increasingly comfortable tan slacks, and put on the pink shirt. If I saw Ted Nash today, and if he made a comment about the shirt, I’d have to kill him.

Aside from that, today was going to be what’s called a Big Day. Today, I’d speak to Nash, and if he’d gotten his act together with Washington, we’d meet with the appropriate parties present. I had to think about who should be at that meeting, where it should be held, and if I should bring one of the videotapes. I’m not much of a meeting person, but I was looking forward to this one.

Most important, this was a big day because Kate was coming home.

I thought about the airport greeting committee, which could possibly include men with different agendas regarding who should take Kate into a waiting car. It could get very sticky, but Dom was good at going psychotic when anyone fucked with him. And Kate, as I’d found out, was no slouch, either, when it came to getting her way.

By now she was airborne, and maybe I should have e-mailed or called her last night, alerting her to a possible situation at the airport. But if she was under the eye-and she probably was after my meeting with Nash-then neither her e-mail nor her phones would be secure.

I checked myself out in the full-length mirror. The pink really did bring out my tan.

I went into the living room, and Jill was sitting at the dining table wearing a white Plaza robe, having coffee, and reading theNew York Times. I said, “Good morning.”

She looked up. “Good morning.” She added, “That shirt looks good on you.”

“It’s going to become one of my favorites. Did you sleep well?”

“No.”

I sat at the table, poured myself coffee, and said, “Yesterday was a stressful day for you.”

“That’s an understatement.”

I sipped my coffee and looked at her over the brim of my cup. She seemed relaxed, but I thought the reality of the situation was starting to sink in. I asked her, “Have you had second thoughts about any of this?”

“No. In fact, I feel more strongly that I did the right thing.”

“There’s no question that you did.”

She insisted that I needed breakfast, and we looked at the room service menu. Jill said she was going to have the healthy heart breakfast and suggested I have the same.

We chatted, read the papers, and watchedToday with Katie and Matt.

Breakfast came, and the healthy heart meal gave me acid.

After breakfast, Jill wanted to take a walk and wanted me to join her, but I said, “I need to stay here. I may have to go to a meeting. And you may need to join me. Call me every hour, and check your cell phone every half hour.”

“All right… what kind of meeting?”

“The kind you should have had five years ago.”

She nodded.

I said, “You won’t have to say anything. You just need to be there. I’ll do the talking.”

She replied, “I can speak for myself.”

I smiled at her. “I’m sure you can.”

She went into her bedroom, got dressed, then came back into the living room. She asked me, “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

I needed my Glock, but I said, “I’m running low on toothpaste.” I wasn’t, but she needed to do something. “Crest. And see if you can find another copy of A Man and a Woman. Also, don’t forget to call up to the room before you come back to the Plaza.” I took a pen from the desk and wrote Dom Fanelli’s cell phone number on my business card and gave it to her. I said, “If you can’t get me on the phone, or if you sense a problem, call Detective Fanelli at that number. He’ll tell you what to do.”

She looked at me and asked, “Is this your army of angels?”

I wouldn’t actually describe Dom Fanelli as an angel, but I replied, “Yes.” I added, “He’s your guardian angel if something happens to me.”

She said, “Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“No. Have a good day.”

She wished me a good day and left.

Maybe I should have kept her here, where it was marginally safer than out there. But I’ve baby-sat enough witnesses to know that they can start to become resentful, even hostile, if they’re kept cooped up too long. Also, in this case, it would be more difficult for Nash to snatch both of us if we were separated.

I checked my cell phone, but there were no messages from Ted Nash, or anyone.

I called my home answering machine, and there were a few messages, but none of them from Nash.

I called Dom Fanelli’s cell phone, and he answered. I asked, “How are you making out with the VIP airport escort?”

“I think I have it lined up. I had to call in all kinds of favors, make up a ton of bullshit, and promise the fucking world. I’ve got two uniforms and one borrowed PD. I’m going to meet them on the street at three, and we should be at the gate before Kate’s flight lands.”

“Sounds good. Here’s another thought-if the Feds are there waiting for her, they may decide to meet her before Passport Control. You need to get in there and avoid that possibility.”

“I’ll try… I know some Port Authority cops… I’ll see what I can do.”

“You have to do it. Also, don’t get on the scene too early, or you’ll tip your hand, and they’ll call up the reinforcements, and you’ll get into a pissing match that you may lose. It’s got to be like a snatch job. In and out before they can react.”

“You’re making a hard job harder.”

“You can do it. Unless they’ve got a Federal warrant for her, she’ll voluntarily go with you, who she knows.”

He laughed. “Yeah? She hates me.”

“She loves you. Okay, if one of her bosses is there, it could get even stickier.” And, I thought, if Ted Nash was there, it could get very weird when Kate saw a dead man walking. I said to Dom, “But I know you can convince Kate that her loving husband sent you.”

“Right. But I gotta tell you, John, she may be your wife, but she’s a Fed. Which comes first?”

Good question. I said to him, “Make her understand what this is about without saying too much in front of anyone else. Okay? Call me if you need to, and I’ll talk to her. If all else fails, threaten them with arrest for interfering with a police officer in the performance of his duties. Okay?”

“Yeah, but you and I know it’s bullshit. We don’t have any legal right to be there.”

“You want me to come with you?”

“No. Leave it to me.” He stayed quiet for a few seconds, then said, “No matter how it plays out at the airport, the bottom line is me getting Kate to the Plaza Hotel.”

“I know that. And make sure you’re not followed.”

“The Feds can’t follow a dog on a leash.”

“Right.” I said, “You understand why this is important?”

“I do. You wanna get laid by six-thirty latest.”

“Right. Don’t mess me up.”

He laughed, then asked me, “Hey, how are you doing with Mrs. Winslow? What’s she look like?”

“A nice old lady.”

“She’s thirty-nine. What’s she look like?”

“Pretty.”

“What did you do last night at the Plaza?”

“Had dinner.”

“That’s it?”

“We’re both married and not interested.”

“There’s a concept. Hey, when I bring Kate to the Plaza, how’s that going to play out when she sees you’ve been shacking up with the star of Beach Blanket Bimbo?”

“Dom… clean up your mind.”

“You’re no fun anymore. Where’s your witness now?”

“Taking a walk. I gave her your cell number in case the Plaza gets hot.”

“You sure you don’t want some backup at the Plaza?”

“No. We’re incognito here, and no one followed us or tracked us electronically, or we’d already be busted.” I added, “The Feds can’t find themselves in a mirror. But I will need a police escort from here to a meeting with the Feds today, or tomorrow.”

“Just give me an hour lead time.” He said to me, “You really got yourself into some deep shit this time, partner.”

“You think?”

“Hang in.”

“I always do. Call me when Kate’s in your car.”

“Will do. Ciao.”

I checked my cell again, but no messages.

The rain had stopped, but it was still overcast. I settled in for a long morning.

The cleaning lady came and went, and I ordered more coffee from room service.

Every hour, Jill called as promised, and I repeated that there was no news, and she told me what she was doing, which was mostly art galleries. She’d gotten a tube of Crest and found a copy ofA Man and a Woman at a video store. She said, “Mark has called about five more times and left messages. Should I call him back?”

“Yes. Try to determine if any Federal agent has called or visited him. In other words, see what he knows, and if he’s buying your story that you just need to be alone. Okay?”

“All right.”

“See if he’s at work. He works in the city, right?”

“Yes. Downtown.”

“Call him there. And don’t let him browbeat you into giving him any more information. Okay?”

She surprised me by saying, “Screw him.”

I smiled and said, “Call me back. And don’t forget, five minutes max on your cell phone, and don’t use a public phone because that will tell him on his Caller ID that you’re in Manhattan. Okay?”

“I understand.” She added, “You think of everything.”

“I try.” I hope so.

At about 12:30, I turned my cell phone on and waited a few minutes. It beeped, and I retrieved my message. The voice said, “John, this is Ted Nash. I need to speak to you. Call me.” He gave me his cell phone number.

I sat in an easy chair, put my feet up on a hassock, and called Mr. Ted Nash.

He answered, “Nash.”

I replied, “Corey.”

There was a half second pause, then he said, “As we discussed, I promised to get back to you about a meeting.”

“Meeting…? Oh, right. How’s your calendar look?”

“It looks open for tomorrow.”

“How about today?”

“Tomorrow is better. Aren’t you picking up Kate at the airport this afternoon?”

“Is that today?”

Nash replied, “I thought it was.”

Ted and I were doing our little dance, each trying to figure out who knew what, and who was leading whom. I said, “Okay, tomorrow.”

“Good. Morning works best.”

“Fine.” I said to him, “You need to have that couple at the meeting.”

There was a two-second delay before he said, “I can have the gentleman there.”

“Where’s the lady?”

He replied, “I think I know where she is. So she may be at the meeting. The man will be there, and he’ll confirm what I told you.”

“The man could be CIA for all I know. Another bad actor.”

He replied, “If the lady is at the meeting, she can verify the identity of her lover. Correct?”

“How would I know if the lady is not another impostor?”

He let a few seconds go by, then said, “I think you’ll know if the lady is real or not.”

“How would I know?”

“Because… I think you’ve met her.”

“Met her? I don’t even know her name.”

He didn’t reply to that, but asked me, “Where are you now?”

“I’m home.” He knew I wasn’t because he probably had a snatch team in my apartment waiting for me.

He said, “I called your apartment a few times, and no one answered.”

“I’m not taking calls. Where areyou?”

“I’m at 290 Broadway. In my office.”

I asked him, “Did you get home okay from the beach? You shouldn’t drive with a head injury.”

He didn’t say, “Fuck you” or “Eat shit,” but I knew he was biting his lip and snapping pencils. Also, he wasn’t alone, which was why the conversation was a little stilted, and very cautious. He asked me, “How areyou feeling?”

“Great. But I need to get off this phone in case someone is trying to triangulate my signal.”

“Who would want to do that?”

“Terrorists. My mother. Ex-girlfriends. You never know.”

“Then call me back from your apartment phone.”

“It’s way across the room. Let’s set up a time and place.”

“Okay. Who willyou have at the meeting?” he asked.

“Me.”

“Anyone else?”

“I don’t need anyone else. But I want you there, obviously, and Liam Griffith, and this guy who starred in the videotape, and the lady, if you can find her. Also, I want you to call Jack Koenig, if you haven’t already, and suggest strongly that he be there. And tell him to bring Captain Stein. And see if Mr. Brown is available.”

“Who?”

“You know who. And have someone there from the attorney general’s office.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Ted Nash made a little joke and said, “Let’s not make a Federal case out of this. This is just an informal, exploratory meeting to see how to proceed. But mostly to satisfy your curiosity and to assure you that there is nothing more to this than what I’ve already told you. This is a courtesy to you, John, not a big showdown.”

“Oh. Okay. I was getting myself worked up.”

“That’s been your problem.” He asked me, “Are you thinking about bringing Kate to the meeting?”

“No. She has nothing to do with this.”

“That’s not completely true, but if you want to keep her out of this going forward, then that’s understandable-but she may want to be there. Ask her when you pick her up at the airport.”

“Ted, is it possible that this conversation is being recorded?”

“It couldn’t be legally recorded without your knowledge or mine.”

“Oh, right. Why do I forget these things? It’s just that you sound so stilted-not like the old Teddy boy I know.”

He stayed quiet for a few seconds, then said, “You’re an asshole.”

“Thank God. I was worried about you. And you’re an asshole, too. Okay, asshole, what’s a good time for you tomorrow?”

“First thing. Let’s say eight, eight-thirty. We can meet here at 290 Broadway.”

“Yeah, sure. More people have gone into that place than have come out.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.” Nash suggested, “How about your ATTF office? Is that safe enough for you? Or is that part of your paranoia?”

I ignored him and thought about a meeting place. Now that Kate was going to be home, I knew she’d insist on being there, even though I didn’t want to drag her any further into this. But I could use some backup, and I’d feel better about bringing Jill to the meeting if Kate was coming along. I recalled my last night in New York before Kate and I parted, and I said to Nash, “Windows on the World. Power breakfast.”

Nash replied, “Isn’t that a little too public for what we’re discussing?”

“I said a public place, and you said this is just an informal, exploratory meeting-and a courtesy to me. What’s the problem?”

“I just told you. It’s too public.”

“You’re making me suspicious, Ted.”

“Paranoid is more like it.”

“Hey, didn’t I meet you alone on the beach at night? That’s not paranoid-that’s just stupid. But this time, I want to be smart.” I added, “It’s a great view.”

“I really want to do this in an office. Anybody’s office. Koenig. Stein. You pick.”

“Are you trying to keep me on the phone? See you tomorrow at eight-thirty. Windows on the World. You’re buying breakfast.” I hung up.Asshole.

It was a long afternoon. My wife was due to arrive at Kennedy with one, possibly two welcoming committees, and my star witness was out on the street.

Jill called me and said, “I spoke to Mark. He said the FBI had come to his office today inquiring about my whereabouts.”

“What time was this?”

“He didn’t say.”

I suspected that they’d actually come to his house yesterday, which prompted that strange phone call from him. Also, I wasn’t sure it was the FBI who came calling-more likely the CIA with FBI credentials.

Jill continued, “They wouldn’t tell him what it was about-only that I was a witness to something and that they needed to speak to me.”

“Did he ask you what it was that you witnessed?”

“He did. And I told him all about it. About Bud, and us on the beach, and the videotape.”

“How did he take that?”

“Not very well. But his five minutes were up, and I hung up on him.”

I said to her, “I want you to come back here, now. Shut off your cell phone.”

“All right. I’ll be about fifteen minutes.”

Things were moving a little ahead of my schedule, but it wasn’t such a bad thing that Ted Nash knew for certain that John Corey had found Jill Winslow, as long as he didn’t know where we were. Basically, Mr. Nash was having a very bad day. I couldn’t even imagine the phone calls between Nash and whoever it was who had decided five years ago to engage in a conspiracy and cover-up.

But Ted Nash thought he had a chance to turn this around-either at the airport by grabbing me and Kate, or tomorrow at the meeting.

Meanwhile, he was juking and jiving everyone involved with this, trying to do damage control, trying to find me, and going to the bathroom a lot. And when he found out that I had a copy of the videotape, he would wish he was dead again.

I checked my cell phone, and there was a message from the object of my ruminations, Mr. Nash. I called him back, and he said, “I spoke to a few people, and I just wanted to confirm our meeting tomorrow.”

He sounded a little more concerned than the last time I spoke to him. He’d obviously been conferencing with worried people. I said, “I’ll be there.”

He asked, “What… what will you want to discuss?”

“Whatever.”

“Let me ask you this-do you have any hard evidence to present that might cause this case to be re-examined?”

“Such as?”

“I’m askingyou.”

“Oh… well, I might have something. Why?”

“Will you bring that evidence tomorrow?”

“If you’d like.”

“That would be good.” He asked, “Do you have any witnesses who you would like to be present at that meeting?”

“I might.”

“Any witnesses you have would be welcome at that meeting.”

“Are you reading from a script?”

“No. I’m just telling you to bring whoever you want.”

“So, I can bring a guest to breakfast? Your treat?”

I could almost see him snapping a pencil. He said, “Yes, you should bring with you any evidence, and any person who you would like to speak.” He added, “There are offices available in the North Tower if we want to adjourn to a private venue.”

I decided to completely fuck up his day, and said, “I might want to make an audiovisual presentation. Can we have some equipment available?” I was sorry I couldn’t see his face.

He let a long second pass, then said, “I think you’re bluffing.”

“Call my bluff. Have a VCR and screen available.”

He didn’t reply for a while, then said, “I told you, the tape was destroyed.”

“Well, you were lying. It was only erased.”

“How do you know that?”

“You know how I know.”

He said, “You’re blowing smoke up my ass.”

I said to him, “Did you ever see that French film, A Man and a Woman?”

I waited for a reply while his head gears engaged and spun, but he didn’t say anything, so I said, “Think about it.” I added, “You and Griffith really stepped on your dicks.”

I could picture him in a room with a few people, all of them looking at him. If Griffith was also there, or Mr. Brown, they were probably all pointing their fingers at one another.

Nash said, “Either the lady is very clever, or you’ve made her more clever than she was that night.”

“Well, we knowI’m clever. I thinkshe’s clever. But I don’t know about you anymore, Ted. Or your friends.”

He reverted to his thuggish self and said, “Sometimes, when we make a mistake, we have to bury our mistakes.”

“Speaking of which, when can I expect your next death? Is this an annual event?”

He surprised me by saying, “Are you having fun?”

“I am.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I will. You, too. Gotta go.”

“Hold on. Tell me what you expect to happen after this meeting? What is the result you’re looking for?”

“Truth. Justice.”

“How about for yourself? And Kate?”

“I smell a bribe.”

“Are you willing to consider a compromise? A good deal for everyone?”

“No.”

“What if we told you what this is all about? Why we had to do some of the things we did? Would you be open to seeing the whole picture and considering the larger issues involved?”

“You know what? I don’t give a shit what this is all about, and you can take your moral ambiguities and shove them up your ass. There is not one fucking thing you or your friends could tell me that would make any of this legal, lawful, or right. Friendly fire accident? Terrorist attack? Space alien death ray? Or maybe you just don’t know. Whatever it was, the government owes the American people a full and honest answer. That’s the result I expect from this meeting.”

Ted Nash informed me, “You’re in way over your head, Mr. Corey.”

“And you’re up to your ass in shit.” I said, “I’m feeling triangulated. See you tomorrow.” I hung up, went to the bar, and got myself a cold beer.

Ted Nash is a master at alternating between death threats, compromises, and bribes to achieve his goals. In this case, his ultimate goal was to bury the evidence, and while he was at it, to bury me, probably Jill Winslow, and possibly Kate.

And this was the guy who Kate liked. I know the ladies like the bad boys, but Ted Nash was beyond bad; he was, to make an analogy, like a vampire-sometimes charming, mostly scary, and always evil. And he was now back from the grave to kill anyone who threatened to expose his dark secrets.

So, no matter what happened tomorrow, or the next day, this guy was not going to rest or feel safe until he killed me.

I felt the same way about him.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Jill returned with a few shopping bags, one of which contained a tube of Crest toothpaste, and the other a VHS tape ofA Man and a Woman.

She sat down, took off her shoes, and put her feet up on a hassock. She commented, “I’m not used to this much walking.”

I said, “If you’re going to live in Manhattan, you’ll do a lot of walking.”

She smiled and replied, “You don’t think Mark will give me a car and a chauffeur as part of our divorce?”

“Can’t hurt to ask.” I was glad to see she still had an upbeat attitude. Starting a new life was exciting, but eventually the scary part started to sink in. It was time to brief Mrs. Winslow, and I pulled up a chair across from her and said, “I have a meeting tomorrow morning at eight-thirty-to discuss you, the videotape, and related matters.”

She nodded.

I continued, “Bud Mitchell is scheduled to be at that meeting.”

“I see. And you’d like me to be there.”

“I would.”

She thought a moment, then said, “If that’s what you want, I’ll be there.” She asked, “Who else will be there?”

I replied, “I’ll be there, of course, and probably Kate. On the other side will be Ted Nash and Liam Griffith, who you met five years ago. The third man you met, Mr. Brown, may or may not be there.”

She nodded and said, “I didn’t particularly like Ted Nash.”

“Most people don’t-me included.” Kate did, but not for much longer. I continued, “I’ve asked that my boss, Jack Koenig, be there, and perhaps a police captain named David Stein.”

“Whose side are they on?”

“That’s a very good question.” I said, “I think of this as a game between two teams-the Angels and the Demons. The players are choosing up sides now, and there could be some defections from one team to the other. The captain of the Demons is Ted Nash, and he’s not changing sides. Everyone else is waiting to see what happens at this meeting.”

“Who’s the captain of the Angels?”

“Me.”

She smiled and said, “I’m on your team. And so, too, of course is your wife.”

“Of course.” I added, “I’ve asked that a person from the attorney general’s office be there-he or she will be the referee. To continue the analogy, there may be people there who are only spectators, but who may want to get in the game.” I further added, “The videotape is the game ball.”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said to me, “I still don’t understand why this is a problem. That aircraft was shot down. The people who took my erased tape and restored it know that. Who is keeping this information secret? And why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will we know tomorrow?”

“They may tell us why, but it doesn’t matter why. They’ll never tell us who. And it doesn’t matter right now why or who. It only matters that this tape, and your testimony, and Bud’s testimony become public. The rest, I can assure you, will sort itself out.”

She nodded, then asked, “They’ve actually gotten Bud to come forward?”

“If that’s what they want, then Bud will do what they want.”

“But how about the promise made five years ago that if Bud and I answered their questions, they would never reveal our names or what happened that night?”

“A lot of things have happened since then. Don’t worry about Bud-he’s not worried about you.”

“I know.”

“And don’t feel awkward or guilty when you meet him tomorrow. You need to get up for this game.”

She looked at her feet on the hassock, and asked me, “Will the videotape be shown?”

“Probably, but neither you nor Bud need to be present.”

She nodded.

I said, “This meeting will be held in a public place-Windows on the World in the Trade Center. We may then adjourn to a Federal office in that building where the tape will be played.” I looked at her closely. She’d understood all of this as an abstraction-divorce, public exposure, and all of that-but as we got into the specifics-Windows on the World at 8:30A.M., parties present, and so forth-she was becoming somewhat anxious. I said to her, “No matter how bad any of this gets, in the end, only good will come out of this.”

“I know.”

I said, “Something else you should know. This first meeting is, quite frankly, the most dangerous.”

She looked at me.

I said, “I think that these people are desperate and therefore dangerous. If they have any chance to squash this before it gets bigger and out of their control, then their time and place for that are tomorrow, before, during, or after the meeting. Understand?”

She nodded.

I said, “I’ve taken some precautions, but I need you to be aware that anything could happen. Stay alert, stay close to me, or to Kate, or to Dom Fanelli. Don’t even go to the ladies’ room without Kate along. Okay?”

“I understand…” She asked me, “Why don’t we call the news media?”

“After tomorrow, we won’t have to call them-they’ll call us. But for now… there’s an unspoken rule in my business about going to the media. We don’t do that. Ever.” I smiled and said, “That’s a worse crime than treason or conspiracy.”

“But-”

“Trust me. By the end of the week, you’ll have all the news media you can handle for the rest of your life.”

“All right.”

I said, “Sometime tomorrow or the next day, Kate will discuss with you the Witness Protection Program, and the new identity program, if you’re interested in that.”

She didn’t reply.

I stood and said, “I need to make a phone call. You can listen.” I turned on my cell phone, canceled the anonymous feature, and dialed. I said to Jill, “My boss, Jack Koenig.”

Koenig answered his cell phone. “Corey?”

“I’m back.”

“Well… how are you? How was Yemen?”

“It was great, Jack. I wanted to thank you for the opportunity.”

“You’re quite welcome. I heard you did a good job there.”

“Well, then, you heard wrong. No one’s allowed to do a good job there.”

He said, “I’m not used to so much honesty.”

“That’s too bad. If we all started to get honest about the problem, we could find a solution.”

“We’re all doing the best we can.”

“No, we’re not. But that’s not why I called you.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Have you heard from Ted Nash?”

“No… I… what are you talking about? He’s dead.”

“He’s not, and you know it.”

There were a few seconds of silence, then Koenig asked me, “Where are you?”

“Jack, don’t waste my five minutes of untriangulated phone time with questions that I’m not going to answer. Answer my question-have you heard from Nash?”

“I have.”

“Will you be there tomorrow?”

He didn’t answer and said, “First of all, I don’t like your tone of voice. Second, you’ve gone from career problem to career over. Third, I gave you a direct order not to-”

“Answer my question-are you in on this or not?”

“I’m not.”

“You are now.”

“Who the fuck do you think-?”

“Jack, you can get on the right side of this now, or I swear to God you’re going to wind up in jail.”

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, you’re either in so deep, you can’t get out, or you’re waiting to see how this plays. If you wait past eight-thirty tomorrow, you’re going to miss this boat, and the next boat goes straight to jail.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Look, I’m giving you a chance because I actually like you and respect you. What you need to do is to conference with your bosses in New York and Washington. Lay it all out and come to an intelligent decision. I’d like to see you at that meeting tomorrow, and I’d like you to be wearing a halo.”

He was obviously thinking fast and hard, which is difficult when you started with your mind someplace else a few minutes before. He said, “I’ll be there.”

“Good. Don’t forget the halo. And bring David Stein.”

He said to me, “You understand, John, that there’s a fifty-fifty chance you won’t make that meeting, or if you do, it’s about fifty-fifty that you won’t get to your next destination.”

“I’ll give you ten-to-one odds that my odds are a lot better than that.”

“I’m not threatening, I’m warning. You know I’ve always respected your honesty and your work… and on a personal level, I like you.”

Actually, I didn’t know any of those things, but I sensed a small change in the direction of the wind, which was the purpose of this call. I said, “I feel the same way about you, Jack. Do the right thing. It’s never too late.”

He didn’t reply.

I said, “Gotta go. But one more thing…”

“Yes?”

“Therewas a fucking videotape, and therewas a fucking rocket.”

He didn’t respond to that, but said, “Welcome home.”

“Thanks. Now it’s time for you to come home.” I hung up.

Jill said to me, “Do you always talk to your boss like that?”

“Only when I have him by the balls.”

She laughed.

It was mid-afternoon, and Jill and I were having tea in the room. Somehow, in some way that I couldn’t verbalize, the tea and finger sandwiches went with the pink shirt.

Jill checked her cell phone, and there were two messages. She listened, then replayed the messages, and handed me the phone. The first message said, “Hello, Mrs. Winslow? This is Ted Nash, who I’m sure you remember from our meetings five years ago. I understand that there have been some new developments regarding the matter we discussed at that time. It’s important for you to understand that the agreement we made then is in jeopardy as a result of your speaking to a person who is not lawfully authorized to deal with this matter. It’s extremely important that you call me as soon as possible to discuss this before you do or say anything that will compromise you, your friend, your personal life, and your legal safeguards.” He gave Mrs. Winslow his cell phone number and said, “Please call me today to discuss this urgent matter.”

I glanced at Jill, who was looking at me. I said to her, “I’m sure he sounds more polite this time than he did five years ago.”

She forced a smile.

The next message said, “Jill, this is Bud. I got a very upsetting call here at my office about what happened five years ago. You remember, Jill, that we both promised each other, and we promised other people that we’d keep that between ourselves, and that they’d do the same. Now, someone tells me that you want to talk to other people about that. You can’t do that, Jill, and you know why you can’t do that. If you don’t care about yourself, or about me, then think about your boys, and about Mark, and also about Arlene, who I know you like, and my kids, too. This would be a complete disaster for lots of innocent people, Jill. What happened, happened. It’s in the past. No matter what you say to anyone, or to the news media, I’ll have to say you’re not telling the truth. Jill, if you made a copy of that tape, you should destroy it.”

Bud went on awhile, his voice sometimes strident, sometimes panicky, then a little whiny. This guywas a complete asshole. But to be fair, his life was about to come crashing down around him and like most guys who have diddled, he didn’t think his diddling should have such a high price. Bottom line, Bud’s worst nightmare just became real.

Bud ended with, “Please, Jill, call me. Call me for your sake, and for our families’ sake.” As with Mr. Winslow, I waited for something like, “Take care of yourself” or “I still think about you,” but this was really all about Bud, and he just said, “Bye.”

I shut off the cell phone and looked at Jill. It occurred to me that two significant men in her life were real schmucks. I said to her, “Typical guy-only calls when he wants something.”

She smiled, stood, and said, “I’m going to lie down awhile.”

I stood and said, “I can promise you one thing-the pressure you’re getting from other people to stay silent will disappear as soon as you make your first public statement.”

She replied, “I don’t feel any pressure. I just feel a lot of disappointment… in Mark and in Bud. But I expected that.”

“Maybe they’ll both come around to seeing that this isn’t about them.”

“I’m not holding my breath.” She smiled. “See you later.” She went into her bedroom.

I walked to the window and looked down into the park. The sky had cleared a bit, and people were in the park.

I’d set the dragon loose and pointed it toward Ted Nash and his friends, who were trying to get it back into the cage, or kill it, or point it back toward me.

Meanwhile, the dragon was snacking on Bud, Mark, and their families-but I couldn’t concern myself with collateral damage.

I never thought this would be easy, or pleasant-but in the beginning it was only an abstract problem. Now, with all the players assembled-Kate, Griffith, Nash, Koenig, and a lot of supporting players, like Dom Fanelli, Marie Gubitosi, Dick Kearns, and others-it had become personal and very real.

For the people on Flight 800 and their families, it was always real.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

It was 4:32P.M., and I was sitting in the living room of the Plaza suite, waiting for a call from Dom Fanelli, saying, “Mission accomplished,” or words to that effect.

Kate’s Delta flight from Cairo was on time, according to the airline recording, and had landed at 4:10. So, I thought I should have heard something from him by now. But the room phone was silent. I checked my cell phone for messages, but there weren’t any.

Jill said to me, “Why don’t you call him?”

I replied, “He’ll call me.”

“What if there’s a problem?”

“He’ll call me.”

She said, “You looktoo calm.”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you want a drink?”

“I do, but I’ll wait for the phone call to see if I need one or two.”

She said, “I’m looking forward to meeting Kate.”

“Me, too. I mean, seeing her again.” I added, “I think you’ll like her.”

“Will she like me?”

“Why wouldn’t she? You’re very nice.”

She didn’t reply.

At 4:36, I decided to give it until 4:45, then I’d call Fanelli.

At 4:45, I imagined Dom Fanelli in Federal custody, Kate in a car with Ted Nash, and a call from Nash informing me that he’d trade Kate for Jill and the videotape. I could almost hear his voice saying, “John, Kate and I are going to spend some quality time in a safe house until you give up Mrs. Winslow and her home movie.”

I felt, for the first time in many years, a real fear gripping me by the throat.

I thought about my response to a ransom demand from Ted Nash, knowing that this bastard didn’t play by any rules. His endgame was to go for a total shutout-he wanted Jill, the videotape, Kate, and me. So, no matter how I responded to his demands, he’d cheat and lie, and there would be no exchange of prisoners; there would be only a massacre. Therefore, my only possible response to him would be “Fuck you.”

I looked at Jill. I wasn’t giving her up to Ted Nash.

I thought of Kate. She’d understand.

Jill said to me, “You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

She picked up her cell phone and said, “I’m calling Detective Fanelli.”

“No.” I said, “I’ll call.” I turned on my cell phone and waited for a message beep, but there was none. I shut off the cell phone and reached for the room phone just as it rang. I let it ring twice, then answered, “Corey.”

Dom Fanelli said, “Up his ass.”

“Dom-”

“What a total prick. How do you know this asshole? Here’s Kate.”

My heart started beating again, and Kate said, “John. I’m all right. But what a scene that was. Ted-”

“Where are you now?”

“In the back of a police car with Dom.”

I looked at Jill and gave her a thumbs-up, and she smiled.

Kate said, “John, Ted Nash isalive. He was at the airport-”

“Yeah. I know. But I’ve got some good news, too.”

“Why do you think it’s bad news that he’s alive? What the hell is going on?”

“Did Dom tell you anything?” I asked.

“No, but I was able to figure out some of it. Dom says he doesn’t know anything except that he was told by you to pick me up and take me to where you are. Why aren’t you here?What is going on?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you.”

“Where are you?” she asked.

“You’ll see when you get here. It’s best if we don’t talk over the phone.” I said, “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. I didn’t expect quite this kind of reception. What the hell was Ted-?”

“It’s really a long story for later.”

“Did you find-?”

“Later.”

“Areyou all right?”

“I am. But the situation is a little dicey.”

“Which must mean it’s critical. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m all right. You’re all right. Put Dom back on. See you shortly.” I said, “I love you.”

“I love you.”

Fanelli came back on the line and said, “How do you work with these people? They have no respect for the law or the police-”

“Dom, are you being followed?”

“We are. But I called in some more PDs, and in a few minutes these assholes behind us are going to be pulled over for failing to signal.”

“Good work. I owe you one.”

“One?You owe me mucho. Hey, Kate looks great. Nice tan. Did you get a lot of exercise there? You lost some weight. I mean, you always looked great, but I can see you lost weight.”

I realized, of course, he was talking to her, not me. I asked him, “What kind of force did they turn out?”

“Huh? Oh, just four guys, but they made enough noise for forty. One guy keeps yelling, ‘FBI! FBI! You’re interfering with blah, blah, blah!’ And I’m going, like, ‘Police! Police! Step aside. Get back!’ and all that. I had these two Port Authority cops, and they turned it around with the jurisdiction thing.” He added, “It was fun, but it got a little hairy for a while. Kate completely turned it around by saying, ‘Unless you have a Federal arrest warrant for me, or a Federal subpoena, Idemand — ’ get it?‘Demand that you let me pass.’ Well, by now, we’ve got Customs people there, and some airport security cops, and who the fuck-sorry-who knows who else? So, then-”

“Okay. I get it. How many cars are behind you?”

He didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “There were two… I don’t see any now. You gotta signal when you change lanes. Sometimes peoplethink they signal, but-”

“Okay. What’s your ETA?”

“I don’t know. Rush hour… rookie driver behind the wheel-”

I heard a male voice say, “Rookie? Who’s a rookie? You wanna drive?”

I heard some bantering in the car from three males, who had perfected the art of the insult, and I could picture Kate rolling her eyes. I said, “I’ll see you when you get here.” I gave him the suite number again and said, “Tell Kate to shut off her cell phone and beeper, if they’re on.”

“Gotcha. See you later, partner.”

“Thanks, again.” I hung up.

Jill came over to me and gave me a big hug. She said, “You must be so relieved.”

I returned the hug and said, “One less thing to worry about.”

She took my hands and looked at me. She said, “I understand what could have happened if it didn’t go well at the airport.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “I’m going to leave you alone so you can greet your wife without company.”

“No. Stay. I want you to meet Dom Fanelli-”

“Some other time. Meanwhile, you need one drink.”

She went into her bedroom.

I contemplated the bar for a few seconds, then got myself a Scotch and carried it to the window.

A low blanket of clouds lay over the city, but the TV weatherman had predicted brilliant sunshine for tomorrow morning.

It was odd, I thought, that what had started out as a half day off from work in July to accompany my wife to a memorial service had turned into this.

Kate always had an inkling of where this would go, but I had been clueless. Almost clueless.

And for Jill Winslow and Bud Mitchell, what had started out as a tryst on the beach had become a classic case of doing something wrong in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And now, a little over five years later, all these paths had converged, and they’d meet tomorrow at the crossroads of the Windows on the World.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

The doorbell rang

I peeked through the peephole and saw Kate standing there looking, I thought, tense. I opened the door, and she broke into a big grin. She tossed her overnight bag into the foyer, then threw her arms around me. We kissed, hugged, and said all sorts of stupid things.

After about a minute of this, I picked her up off her feet and carried her into the living room.

She looked around the room and asked me, “Did you hit the lottery while I was away?”

“Actually, I did.”

We went back to the kissing and hugging and old Willie Peter was trying to break out of the teepee.

She grabbed my hand and pulled me down on the couch on top of her. Probably it was a good thing that Jill was in her room.

After a few minutes of couch frolic, I said, “You must need a drink.”

“No. I want you to make love to me. Right here. Remember the first time we did it on my couch?” She began unbuttoning her blouse.

I said, “Hold on… I’m sharing this suite.”

She raised her head and looked around. “With who?”

I said, “That’s my bedroom there. And that door leads to another bedroom.”

“Oh…” She sat up, and I stood. She buttoned her blouse and asked, “Whose bedroom is that?”

“Let me make you a drink.” I went to the bar and asked, “Still vodka?”

“Yes. John, what’s happening? Why are you here?”

“Tonic?”

“Yes.” She stood and came over to the bar. I handed her her drink, took mine, and said, “Welcome home.”

We clinked glasses, and she looked around the room again. She asked me, “Is anyone in that bedroom?”

“Yes. Have a seat.”

“I’ll stand. What’s going on? What was that all about at the airport?”

I said, “I’ve been busy since I got home.”

“You said you were taking R amp; R at the beach.”

“I was. Westhampton Beach.”

She stared at me and said, “You were looking into the case.”

“I was.”

“I said we should drop it.”

She looked at me a long time, and I said, “You don’t seem overly thrilled.”

“I thought we agreed to let it alone and get on with our lives.”

I replied, “I promised you I’d find that couple, and I have.”

She sat down on the couch and said, “Youfound them?”

“Yes.” I pulled up a chair, and sat facing her. I said, “First, you have to understand that we may be-actually, weare in some danger.”

She said, “I sort of figured that… at the airport. My second clue was when Dom shoved a.38 Special in my handbag.”

“I hope you didn’t give it back.”

“I didn’t. Am I sleeping here tonight?”

“Sweetheart, if you’ve got the gun, you can sleep here with me.”

She smiled. “You’re so romantic.”

I asked her, “Where is Dom Fanelli and the other two cops?”

“Dom left. He said he didn’t want to butt in on our reunion. The two cops are at the elevators on this floor. They said at least one of them would be there through the night.”

“Good.”

“Tell me why we need them.”

“Because your friend Ted Nash would like to get rid of me, you, and Jill Winslow.”

“What are you-? Who is Jill Winslow?”

“The star of the videotape.”

She nodded. “Why would Ted…? Well, I guess I can figure that out.” She looked at me and said, “I’m sorry if I’m not taking this all in as quickly as I should…”

“You’re doing fine.”

“I’m jet-lagged, but that’s the least of it-I expected something else when I got home. I expected you at the airport, then we’d go back to our apartment. Instead, all hell breaks loose when I step out of the jetway… and now you’re telling me that we’re in danger, and you found-”

“Kate, let me start at the beginning-”

“How did you find them? Did they have a videotape of-?”

“Let me take it from the top.”

She pulled her legs up on the couch. “I won’t interrupt.”

I looked at her and said, “First, I love you. Second, you have a nice tan, and third, I missed you.” Fourth, you lost some weight.

She smiled and said, “Youhave a nice tan, and you lost alot of weight. Where did you get that shirt?”

“That’s part of the story.”

“Then tell me.”

I began at Kennedy Airport and my return from Yemen, then Dom Fanelli, Philadelphia, and Roxanne Scarangello.

Kate sat motionless except to bring her drink to her lips. She kept eye contact with me, but I couldn’t tell if she was impressed, incredulous, or so jet-lagged that she wasn’t taking it all in. Now and then she nodded, or opened her eyes wide, but she never said a word.

I continued on, through my midnight ride to the Bayview Hotel, Mr. Rosenthal’s archives, and the discovery of the name of Jill Winslow.

At this point, she asked me, “Did you find the guy?”

“I know who he is-a guy named Bud Mitchell-but he’s not under my control.”

“Where is he?”

“Ted has him. He’ll be all right for now, but if Ted determines that Bud Mitchell is more of a liability than an asset, then he goes.”

“Goes where?”

“Goes to where Ted came from.”

She didn’t reply.

I recounted my meeting with Ted Nash on the beach, but downplayed the physical confrontation by saying, “We got into a shoving match.”

She looked at the bandage on my chin, but didn’t say anything.

I told her Ted’s version of the story about how he found Bud Mitchell through fingerprints, then Jill Winslow through Bud, and how Ted and Liam Griffith and the mysterious Mr. Brown visited both these people and learned that the videotape had been physically destroyed. I related Ted’s story to me about the polygraph tests, and his claim that he was convinced that the videotape didn’t show anything that pointed to a missile attack. I said to Kate, “As shocking as this sounds, I think Ted was lying to me.”

She ignored my sarcasm, and asked, “Did Ted say that these people were actually doing it on the videotape?”

“They were. Which was one reason they didn’t want to come forward.”

She looked at me and asked, “So, you could find Jill Winslow?”

“I did.”

“And where is she now?”

“Behind that door.”

She looked at the door, but said nothing.

I continued, “So that night, knowing that Ted Nash was on my case, I went to Old Brookville, where Dom said a Jill Winslow lived.”

I went on with the briefing, trying to stick to the facts while giving her a little of my thought processes that went into this. I mean, I wasn’t blowing my own horn, but as I told the story, even I was impressed with my detective work.

I got to the part where I asked Jill Winslow aboutA Man and a Woman. I said to Kate, who was sitting up straight now, “That night at the hotel, she copied the beach cassette onto the videotape of A Man and a Woman that she borrowed from the hotel library.” I added, “She used a Band-Aid to cover the slot. Clever lady.” Clever John.

She stared at me, then said, “Did she still have the copied tape?”

“She did.”

“Did you see it? Do you have it?”

“I saw it, and I have it.”

“Where is it?”

“In my room.”

She stood. “I want to see it. Now.”

“Later. Let me finish.”

“What does it show?”

“It shows a fucking missile blowing that 747 out of the sky.”

“My God…”

She sat down and said to me, “I still don’t understand why Jill Winslow decided to confide in you after all these years and admit that she copied that tape and still had it.”

I thought about that question, and said, “I think I won her confidence… but more important, she’s a good person who was haunted by this event. I think she was waiting for an opportunity or a sign that the time had come to do the right thing.”

Kate nodded. “I understand. But doesshe understand what’s going to happen? I mean, her marriage, her life, her friend Bud…?”

“She understands. Bud’s the one having a problem.”

“But she’s a stand-up witness?”

“She is.” I continued and told Kate about coming to the Plaza, and about my various phone calls from Dead Ted, and Jill’s phone calls from her husband, and Bud Mitchell, and also Jill’s call from Ted.

Kate remarked, “That poor woman. How is she holding up?”

“Pretty good. She’ll be better now that you’re here. She needs another woman to talk to.”

“That’s uncommonly sensitive of you. Is your new shirt in any way related to the new you?”

“No.” I said to her, “I also called our boss, and I have to tell you, Kate, Jack Koenig knows something about this, and he’s sitting on the fence.”

She seemed surprised, then incredulous, and asked, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure something is not right there.”

She didn’t respond to that, but asked me, “All right, what happens next with Mrs. Winslow and the videotape?”

“I’ve arranged a meeting for tomorrow morning with Ted Nash, Liam Griffith, someone from the attorney general’s office, Jill Winslow, maybe Bud Mitchell, and maybe others like David Stein, and also Jack Koenig, who wanted to take a pass on the meeting, but who I convinced to be there.”

She asked, “Where is the meeting?”

I replied, “I was thinking about you, and our last night together in New York, so I made it for breakfast at eight-thirty at Windows on the World.”

She thought about that and said, “I guess that’s a good place… public…”

“And we said we’d return there.”

She said, “I don’t think we’re going to have as good a time as last time.” She asked me, “Are you sure that’s the right way to handle this?”

“How would you handle it?”

“I’d go right to the top. To FBI Headquarters in Washington.”

“I don’t know anyone in Washington.”

“I do.”

“You don’t know who you can trust there.”

“That’s a little paranoid.”

“Whatever. Washington’s a stretch. Let’s meet the devils we know here on our turf before we go meet the devils we don’t know in Washington.”

She thought about that, then asked me, “Who do you think could be involved in a cover-up? And why?”

“I don’t know. That’s not my problem at the moment. But when the shit hits the fan, we’ll see who runs for cover.”

She processed all this and said, “I hope it’s not Jack.”

“Kate, I don’t give a shit who’s involved. They all have to go down.”

She looked at me and said, “This… I guess you can call it a conspiracy… may go right to the top.”

“Not my problem.”

“It could be. That’s the point I’m making. It could be so big, and reach so high, that it’s not going down.We could go down.”

“You don’t have to get involved.”

She gave me an angry look and said, “Don’t evensay that.” She gave me a hug and said, “I started it. We’ll finish it together.”

“We will.” Kate, like me, was already in so deep that the only way out was to keep digging until we reached daylight on the other side.

She said to me, “Let’s see the tape.”

“Maybe you should meet Jill Winslow first.”

“Well… what do you think?”

If you have both evidence and a witness, you usually see the evidence before you talk to the witness, but this situation was a little more complex. I decided that I should take it in the order that I got it-Jill, then the tape. Or should I show Kate the tape, then introduce her to the star of the tape, who was my suite mate?

“John?”

“Uh… well, I think you should meet Jill Winslow so you can put the tape into context. Perspective.”

“All right. She’s in her room?”

“Yes. Unless she went to church again.” I went to her door and knocked. “Jill? Mrs. Winslow?”

I heard her say, “Yes?”

“Are you available-?”

She opened the door, and I said, “Jill, I’d like you to meet my wife, Kate.”

Jill smiled, walked over to Kate, and they shook hands. Jill said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. John was a little worried about you at the airport.”

Kate replied, “And with good reason, as it turned out.” She smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

I checked out the situation, and it seemed to be cool. Kate’s not the jealous type, and she’s a professional, and Jill Winslow was every bit the lady-except, of course, for her sexual escapades on the beach. But that was long ago.

Kate said to Jill, “John has been telling me a little about the last few days. How are you doing?”

“Very well, thank you. Your husband is like a rock.”

Perhaps not a good choice of words considering the shared suite, but Kate replied pleasantly, “You can count on him.” She added, “I want to thank you for coming forward, and for being so honest about everything. I can’t imagine how this is affecting you.”

Jill replied, “I actually feel better than I’ve felt in five years.”

I suggested, “Why don’t we have some bubbly?”

I opened a bottle of champagne, poured, and we all clinked glasses. I said, “To Kate’s homecoming and to Jill’s being here.”

Kate added, “And to a great detective.”

Jill added, “And to… justice for those who lost their lives…”

We drank in silence, then Jill said, “I feel like I’m interfering with what should be a private reunion.”

Kate replied quickly, “Not at all. John and I already hugged and kissed. We can swap war stories later.”

Jill said, “That’s very nice of you, but-”

Kate interrupted. “No. Youmust stay. I have so many questions to ask you, I don’t know where to begin.”

Jill replied, “It’s actually not that long a story, and it comes down to me doing something I shouldn’t have-and I don’t mean having an affair. I mean, I should have been brave enough to come forward five years ago. If I had, a lot of lives may have been ruined, but more lives, including my own, would have been better.”

Kate looked at Jill awhile, and I could tell she was as impressed with Mrs. Winslow as I had been since we’d met Sunday morning. Kate said to her, “Sometimes we can’t make the hard decisions when they have to be made. Sometimes we have to come to those decisions after a lot of soul searching.”

Jill replied, “Your husband showing up on my doorstep was like a sign that the time had come.” She glanced at me, smiled, and said, “Also, he’s very convincing. But I still feel that I didn’t do the right thing on my own.”

I said, “You could have shown me the door, but you didn’t. I’ll tell you something else-had you given up that tape five years ago, it probably would have been destroyed. So, in some way, through fate or chance, it worked out for the best.”

We sat there awhile and chatted. This is called putting the witness at ease, winning their confidence, and convincing them that they’re doing the right thing.

Also, I hoped that Jill and Kate would bond a little, and that seemed to be happening. I envisioned Kate being designated as Jill Winslow’s hand-holder, as we say. The fallout from all this would go on for a long time, and I was glad to see that they were getting along.

At some point, Kate asked Jill, “Did you pick out that shirt for John?”

“Yes, I did. He couldn’t leave the hotel room, and I was able to go out, so I got him a fresh shirt.”

Kate said to Jill, “He looks good in coral. It brings out his tan. He never wears anything bold or trendy. Where did you get it?”

“Barneys. They have wonderful things for men.”

I felt excluded from this conversation, so I stood and said, “I’m going to talk to the patrolman at the elevator. I’ll be about an hour. If you’d like, you can watch the videotape while I’m gone. It’s under my mattress.”

I left the suite and went down the hall to the elevators.

The uniformed cop was sitting in one of the upholstered chairs in the small elevator lobby reading theDaily News. I introduced myself to him, and showed him my Fed creds and my NYPD retired detective ID.

I sat in the empty chair and asked him, “When do you get off duty?”

The young officer, whose name tag said Alvarez, replied, “Three hours ago. Hey, who is this guy Fanelli? He’s got more pull than the police commissioner.”

“He is a man who trades favors. Favors are the currency of the police department. You can’t take money, so you pay in favors, and you collect favors. That’s how things get done, and how you get ahead, and how you keep your ass out of hot water.”

“Yeah?”

“Let me tell you about it.”

I sat there with Patrolman Alvarez, telling him how his world actually worked.

At first, he seemed bored, but then he got interested when he realized he was in the presence of a master. After half an hour, he was asking questions quicker than I could answer them. I thought he was going to kneel at my right hand, but instead he pulled his chair around to face me so I had to keep my eye on the elevators.

He was getting a lot out of his overtime, but to tell you the truth, I was getting more out of it.

After an hour, I stood and asked him, “When do you get relieved?”

“At midnight.”

“Okay, I want you to do me a favor and be back here at seven-thirtyA.M.”

“There’ll be another guy-”

“I wantyou.”

I gave him my card and said, “Be alert, and be careful. The guys who may be coming out of those elevators are not ordinary scumbags. They’re trained professionals, and to make this real for you, I’ll tell you they’d shoot you in a heartbeat if they had to. Take your piece out of your holster and keep it tucked in your belt, with your newspaper on your lap. If you smell trouble, pull it. If you have to, shoot.”

Patrolman Alvarez’s eyes were wide open.

I slapped him on the shoulder, smiled, and said, “Don’t shoot any paying guests.”

I went back to the suite, which was dark because Kate and Jill were watching the last few minutes of the videotape.

I went to the bar, poured a club soda, and waited.

The lights came on, but no one said anything.

I suggested, “Why don’t we order room service?”

Kate, Jill, and I were at the dining table having a light supper. I didn’t bring up the subject of the videotape, and neither did they.

I suggested that no one check their cell phones, because as far as I was concerned, anyone who called had nothing to say that would change anything. The only person I needed to hear from was Dom Fanelli, and he’d call on the room phone.

We talked mostly about Yemen, Tanzania, and Old Brookville. Thankfully, no one had slides to show.

Jill was very interested in Kate’s assignment in Tanzania, and her work on the embassy bombing. Jill was also interested in my assignment in Yemen, and the USSColecase. In our business, we tend toward understatements, as we’d been taught, and to watch for security breaches, but this usually makes people more interested. I thought about telling the story of the desert tribesmen on horseback attacking my Land Rover on the road to Sana’a, but I didn’t have a good ending for it yet.

Kate seemed genuinely interested in hearing about life on Long Island’s Gold Coast, but Jill said, with the same understatement that Kate and I had affected, “It’s not as interesting or as glamorous as you might think. I got tired of the charity balls, the parties, the designer showcases, the country club, and the displays of affluence. I even got tired of the juicy gossip.”

I said, “I love gossip, and I could get used to affluence.”

By all outward appearances, it was pleasant enough dinner conversation, but hanging over us was the future, which would begin at 8:30 the next morning.

At about 10P.M., the room phone rang. I picked it up and said, “Hello.”

Dom Fanelli said, “Hey, did I catch you in the saddle?”

“No. What’s up?”

“Well, for one thing there’s some fallout from my snatch job this afternoon. It’s like I pissed on a hornets’ nest or something. These guys got some friends high up.”

“Not for much longer.”

“Right. If you can’t beat ’em, and you can’t join ’em, I say kill ’em. Right? Anyway, here’s for tomorrow-I got three PDs each with two uniformed cops, including a patrol sergeant. I could get detectives and plainclothes guys, but I’m thinking the uniforms are the way to go. Right?”

“Right.”

“You got an eight-thirty at WTC North, so these guys are coming on duty at eight and they can get to you maybe eight-fifteen, and will meet you at the hotel entrance on the Central Park South side. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You pick how you want to go-separate cars, all in one with a lead, or backup car-whatever. Your call. If it was me, and I got three cars, I’d split it up. You don’t want all your cannolis in one pastry box.”

I glanced at Jill and Kate and said to Dom, “Right.”

“Okay, tomorrow is primary day. Second Tuesday of September. Did you know that? Don’t forget to vote. So, the traffic patterns in theA.M. may be a little different with people coming in a little late after they do their civic thing. But if you all get there a little late, you know they’re not starting without you.”

“Right.”

“Okay, so you want these guys to stay with you all the way up to the 107^thfloor. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“You want them to take you someplace afterward. Right?”

“Yeah. Probably back to the Plaza, and I’ll need people at the elevator here all through tomorrow and tomorrow night until we see how this plays out.”

“That could be a problem. I’ll tell you why-someone from the commissioner’s office gave me a call tonight, and he inquired politely about what the fuck I was doing. I, of course, said I didn’t know what this guy was talking about. So, we seem to have this problem, and it’s coming from Washington, according to this guy, who was totally clueless about why he got a call from some guy in D.C. who he wouldn’t ID for me. Bottom line, partner, I don’t know how long I can supply you with city cops for what they’re telling me is a Federal witness protection thing. Capisce?”

“Capisco.”

“I mean, we don’t want to step on Federal toes or anything, and I’m just providing you a courtesy, but the Feds are saying they are happy to provide people to take care of your witness.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“So, you deal with that at your meeting. But for tomorrowA.M., we’ll be there, take you to WTC North, get you out of there, then back to the hotel. That’s all I can promise you, John. After that, I don’t know. You gotta get this straightened out at your meeting.”

Again, I glanced at Kate and Jill, and they were looking at me closely. I said to Dom, “Just get us back here without a tail, or to someplace else that I’ll think of. I’ll take care of the rest.”

He said to me, “Maybe you should go to the newspapers. Like, we can take you right from WTC to the Times. I’ll call ahead and have nosy investigative reporters waiting for you.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think about it too long. I gotta tell ya, buddy, these bastards are going to play hardball. If I was them, I’d hit the lady with a material witness warrant as soon as I saw her.”

I glanced at Jill and said to Dom, “Serving a warrant is one thing-trying to enforce it is another.”

“I know. We’ll have the muscle there. But why get into it?”

I didn’t reply.

He said, “Look, you gotta get to the right people with this, and I’m not sure the people at WTC are the right people. Understand?”

“I understand. But it’s a good place to start.” In fact, it had more to do with a personal confrontation between me, Nash, Griffith, and maybe Koenig. If you want to confront the lion, you go to the lion’s den. I said, “It’s a public place, Dom. Windows on the World. You can’t get much more public. I want to see who shows, and what they have to say.”

“Okay. That’s your call, partner. If it was me, I’d talk to a dozen reporters before I saw the first guy from the government. But that’s not you. Maybe you should talk to Kate.”

“She feels the same as I do.”

“Okay.” He said, “I’ll be at Windows about eight, having breakfast with a few guys at another table. Okay?”

“Thanks.”

“It’s expensive.”

“I’ll buy.”

“No shit. Is Kate taking care of my gun? I want it returned clean. No makeup crap from her handbag.”

I smiled. “You can tell her.” I said, “By the way, Patrolman Alvarez outside my door is a guy you might want to take under your wing. I want him back in the morning.”

“Yeah? We’ll see how he does protecting your ass. Hey, how’d it play out with Kate and your roommate?”

“Fine.”

“No scenes? No claws coming out?”

“No.”

“You lead a charmed life.”

“You think?”

“Iknow. Don’t sweat tomorrow. It’s all set.”

“Good. See you at Windows.” I hung up.

Kate asked me, “Is everything set?”

“It is.”

Jill asked me, “Is there a problem?”

“No.” I smiled at her and said, “We have a three-car, six-man police escort to the World Trade Center. That’s more than the commissioner or mayor gets.”

She smiled.

I said, “Well, we have an early morning.” And I’m very horny. “So, I think we should turn in and get some rest.” Sex.

Everyone stood, and Jill said, “I’m sure you two have a lot of catching up to do. Good night.”

She went into her room, and Kate said to me, “She’s very nice.”

“She’ll make a good witness.”

“I think she has a little crush on you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“She hung on your every word and kept stealing glances at you.”

“I didn’t notice.” I took the videotape out of the VCR player and said, “Let’s hit the sack.”

I took Kate’s overnight bag, and she took her purse with the gun, and we went into my bedroom. I closed the door and said, “I amextremely horny.”

“That works.” She put the gun on the nightstand, then started undressing and said, “I don’t even have a nightie. My luggage is somewhere at the airport.”

“You don’t need a nightie, sweetheart.”

She was pulling off her blouse by the time I was naked in bed. She looked at me and laughed. “That’s a record.”

She finished undressing and crawled into bed next to me. She rolled on her side and looked at me, then pulled the bandage off my chin and asked, “How did that happen?”

“Your friend Nash sucker-punched me.”

She said, “He didn’t look too good at the airport himself. His face was all bruised and swollen.”

That was the best news I’d had in a long time. I said, “Well, we got it out of our systems.”

“I don’t think so.”

I changed the subject and said, “Sex.”

But before I could make my first move, she said, “That tape was very graphic.”

“Yeah. You see why Bud erased it, and why Jill never came forward with the duplicate.”

“I do… it couldn’t have been easy for her to show it to you.”

“I tried to make it easy.” I added, “When you have sex and murder on the same videotape, the murder is more important. She knew that.”

“Well,we know that in theory. But if it’s you on the videotape… anyway, I couldn’t believe it was the same woman.”

“People are very complex.”

“You’re not. That’s what I like about you.”

“Thank you. I think.”

Kate stayed quiet for a few seconds, then asked me, “Is there going to be a problem tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so.” I related some of what Dom said and concluded, “The NYPD trumps the FBI in these kinds of local pissing matches.”

She replied, “And what am I supposed to do as an FBI agent? Stand there and look confused?”

I said to her, “Do what you think you have to do, and if you think you have to leave, then leave. I’ll understand.”

She looked at the ceiling for a long time, then said, “Why did I marry a cop?”

“Hey, why did I marry an FBI lawyer?”

She didn’t say anything for a while, then laughed. “You make life interesting.” She asked me, “So, is that my gun under the covers, or is that you?”

“Darling, that is my thirty-eight caliber, eight-inch barrel Police Special.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

I stood outside the Central Park South entrance to the Plaza, and looked down the street. It was 8:11A.M., and no sign of the patrol cars.

I glanced back through the glass doors and saw Kate and Jill standing near the entrance of the Oak Bar, waiting for me to give them a signal to come outside. With them was Patrolman Alvarez.

Across the street was a line of hansom cabs waiting for customers. The doorman said to me, “Can I get you a taxi, sir? Or are you waiting for a car?”

“I’m waiting for a horse.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was a beautiful day, and I realized I hadn’t been out in the sunshine and fresh air since Sunday morning.

It was now 8:13, and the patrol cars from Midtown North should have been here if they’d hustled. This is the point in a pickup that’s the most dicey-between the safety of wherever you were holed up and the street where you’re waiting for your people to arrive.

At 8:15, three police cars, without lights or sirens, appeared up the block. I signaled to Kate, then stepped off the curb and put up my hand. The lead car flashed his lights and accelerated, then came to a quick halt in front of me. The other two cars stopped at close intervals. I showed my creds to the two cops in the first car and said, “WTC, North Tower, as instructed, no bells or whistles. Loose formation. We’re shooting for an eight-thirty, eight-forty arrival.” I added, “Keep an eye out for company, and don’t stop for anything but a traffic light.”

They both nodded, and the female officer in the passenger seat said, “We’re all briefed.”

“Good.”

Kate, Jill, and Patrolman Alvarez were out on the sidewalk now, and I said to Jill, “Your car is here, madam.”

She smiled and said, “I’ve never ridden in a police car.”

I didn’t want to say “You’ll get used to it,” but I did say, “As discussed, we’ll all meet in the lobby of Windows on the World. You’ll have at least two patrolmen with you at all times.”

Jill said to me and to Kate, “I’ll see you there.”

Jill, I thought, looked composed, and I hoped she stayed that way if it got ugly later. I signaled to Alvarez, and he escorted Jill Winslow into the backseat of the middle car, then returned to where I was standing, as instructed.

Kate and I looked at each other. There wasn’t much left to say at this point, so we just kissed, and she said, “See you later.” She got into the lead car.

I stood there with Patrolman Alvarez and asked him, “Are you feeling mean this morning?”

He smiled. “Yes, sir.”

I took the videotape ofA Man and a Woman out of my jacket. It was the one that Jill had recorded over, but it didn’t have the jacket on it. I handed it to Alvarez and said to him, “Guard this with your life. And I mean your life.”

He put the tape in the oversized back pocket of his pants, which was made to hold his memo book, and he said to me, “Did you ever hear of anyone taking anything from a New York City cop?”

I slapped him on the shoulder and said, “See you there.”

Alvarez got into the backseat of the middle car, next to Jill.

I walked to the third car and got in. From the trail vehicle, I could see what was going on, and from the lead vehicle, Kate could make any changes to the plans, if necessary. Jill, in the middle car, with Alvarez and two other cops, was in the protected position.

The cop riding shotgun in my car was a sergeant, and he said a few words into his portable radio. The lead car made a U-turn on Central Park South, which not many people can get away with, and off we went in a three-car convoy.

I said to the sergeant, “What’s the route?”

He replied, “We’re going to shoot over to the West Side, unless you have a preference.”

“Sounds good.” I said to him, “Do you understand that some folks might want to fuck with us?”

“Yeah. They can fuck away all they want.”

“Everybody on this detail knows the drill?”

“Yup.”

“So, what do you think of the FBI?”

He laughed and said, “No comment.”

“How about the CIA?”

“Never met one.”

Lucky you. I sat back in the seat and looked at my watch. It was 8:21, and depending on traffic, we’d be maybe fifteen minutes late, which was fine. Nash, the control freak, and his breakfast club would be at least fifteen minutes early anyway, thinking we’d be early. They could sit and sweat into their caffe lattes.

Most meetings are mind-fucking games, and this one was going to be an orgy.

We made our way through traffic, and within ten minutes, we were heading south on Joe DiMaggio Highway, also known as Twelfth Avenue, and while we’re at it, West Street. Whatever, it ran along the Hudson River, and it was a nice drive on a sunny day. The three-car convoy was weaving around traffic, and making better time than the civilians, who’d get a ticket for driving like that.

It was about a five-mile run down to the Trade Center, whose Twin Towers I could see long before we got there.

In my jacket was the video store tape ofA Man and a Woman, which I’d put inside the cardboard case from Jill’s tape that said, “Property of the Bayview Hotel-Please Return.” If the Feds had any kind of warrant when I got there, they could serve the warrant on me, or Kate, or Jill, and try to take the tape, or us-or the tapeand us-to another location. But they couldn’t serve a warrant on Patrolman Alvarez, even if they had a clue that he had the X-rated version of the tape.

In any case, I didn’t think Nash and company wanted a major scene in a public restaurant where about three hundred people would be having breakfast. But maybe, if I was in one of my perverse moods, I’d give them my R-rated version ofA Man and a Woman.

I looked through the windshield, and I could see the patrol car with Jill and Alvarez, but I couldn’t see the lead car with Kate. Traffic was moving, but it was erratic, and a lot of truckers were driving badly this morning.

I looked at my watch. 8:31. We’d just passed the 30^thStreet Heliport, and the Chelsea Piers were coming up. About another three miles at this speed, and we’d be pulling up to the Vesey Street side of the North Tower at about 8:45, give or take.

I actually wasn’t expecting any problems on the ride there, or during the walk into the lobby, or in the elevator that went directly to Windows on the World on the 107^thfloor. In fact, I didn’t expect any problems at the breakfast meeting, which was basically a show-and-tell, to see whose dicks were bigger, and whose balls weighed the most.

I know how Nash’s mind works, and the guy is patient, cunning, and sometimes smart. He wanted to see who I showed up with. He wanted to hear what I had to say. He wanted to get a reading on Jill Winslow, and he wanted to see if we actually had the tape with us. Nash wasn’t going to bring anyone to that meeting who wasn’t already part of a conspiracy, so there wouldn’t be anyone there from the attorney general’s office, unless it was someone who was in on this, or an impostor, which is part of the CIA culture. I mean, Ted Nash often poses as an FBI agent, and when I first met him, he said he was an employee of the Department of Agriculture. Then, for a while, he made believe he was dead. And sometimes he poses as a possible ex-lover of Kate Mayfield. The only time he’s not acting is when he’s being an asshole.

Maybe, too, Nash, because he was a sick prick, had invited Mark Winslow to breakfast for the purpose of messing with Jill’s mind. Same with Bud Mitchell, who I was fairly sure would be there.

In any case, the breakfast meeting was, for Nash, a voir dire-a look-and-talk. The problem would come after the meeting, at which time, I was sure, Nash would make his move. Or, to put it another way, it was like the banquet where you invited your enemies to sit, talk, and eat, then killed them afterward. Actually, breakfast was my idea, but you get the point.

Nash must know, if he had half a brain, that I would mobilize some muscle for this, and that the muscle would be NYPD. Therefore, he had a counter-force waiting in the wings. But as the sergeant in the front of me had said, “They can fuck away all they want.”

I understood, of course, that I was having a personal problem with Mr. Ted Nash, and that some of this had to do with that. But even if I didn’t know the guy, or even if I liked him (which I didn’t), I don’t see how I could have handled this any differently.

The sergeant in front said to me, “My instructions are to wait for your meeting to end, then take you and your party out of the building into the patrol cars. Correct?”

“Correct. This is where you might run into some Federal types with different plans.”

He said to me, “I had a situation like that once-Feds wanted this guy on a drug charge, and I had an arrest warrant for the same guy on the same charge.”

“Who got the guy?”

“We did. But the Feds got him later.” He added, “In the end, they get their way. You know, the FBI always gets their man, blah, blah, blah. But in the beginning, on the spot, we get first dibs.”

“Right.”

He asked me, “Where to afterward?”

“I’m not sure yet. Anyplace but the Federal Detention Center.”

He laughed.

I looked out the window at the river and the Jersey shore. Tomorrow, or this afternoon, I expected to be at the ATTF offices at 26 Federal Plaza with my feet up on Jack Koenig’s desk, and his office filled with good guys. The FBI, for all my personal problems with them, were straight shooters, professionals, and very letter-of-the-law men and women. As soon as this case got transferred from John Corey’s part-time, off-duty hobby to the FBI, I could go on vacation with Kate. Maybe she wanted to see where I’d spent a month and a half in Yemen.

The traffic got snarled around the Holland Tunnel, and I said to the guys in front, “Do you have the middle car in sight?”

The driver replied, “Not anymore. You want me to call them?”

“Yeah.”

He called both cars, and the lead car with Kate replied, “We’re here. Parked on Vesey and going into WTC North.”

“Ten-four.”

The second car reported, “We’re turning off West. ETA about two minutes.”

“Ten-four.”

I looked at my watch. It was 8:39. We should be about five minutes from the Vesey Street side of the big pedestrian plaza that surrounded the Trade Center complex. A few minutes walk to the North Tower lobby, then up the high-speed elevator to the lobby of Windows on the World. I said to the sergeant, “I need both of you to come with me.”

He nodded and said, “We got one guy from the lead vehicle watching the cars. We’re with you.”

“Good.”

We turned onto Vesey Street, and at 8:44 we pulled up beside two double-parked patrol cars. I got out, and the two cops with me followed. They spoke to the cop watching the vehicles, who just got off his portable radio, and he said to us, “Two civilians”-meaning Kate and Jill-“with four officers inside.”

I climbed the steps from the sidewalk to the raised plaza and began walking toward the entrance of the North Tower. It was 8:45A.M.

As I crossed the busy plaza, I heard what sounded like a low rumble off in the distance, and I could see a few people around me looking up. The two cops with me also glanced up, and one of them said, “Sounds like an aircraft coming in too low at Newark.”

We continued walking, then I stopped and turned around to see what everyone was looking at.

Coming from the north was a huge two-engine passenger jet flying much too low directly over Broadway and coming toward me. The engines got very loud, and the aircraft accelerated as if the pilot had pushed the throttles forward.

I glanced back over my shoulder and looked up at the North Tower of the World Trade Center, confirming that the tower was higher than the aircraft and that the aircraft was headed into the tower.

People around me were screaming now, and several people dropped to the ground.

A woman next to me said, “Oh, my God…”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

The sun had been up for an hour or more, but the sunlight was obscured by smoke from the burning fires.

From up here on the balcony of my apartment, facing south, I could see where the two huge plumes of black originated, and I could also see the glow of the emergency floodlights, illuminating the blackness where the Twin Towers had stood until yesterday morning.

Sometime in the night, I’d lost my jacket during the search-and-rescue operation, and my remaining clothes and skin were black with an oily soot that I knew stunk, but that I couldn’t smell any longer.

I looked at my watch, rubbed the soot off the crystal, and saw that it was 7:32. It was hard to comprehend that almost twenty-four hours had passed. There were periods through the day when time seemed to pass quickly, and what I thought was an hour was many hours; but time seemed frozen through the night, which seemed endless, even after the sun rose.

I coughed up a glob of black into my blackened handkerchief, and stuffed it back into my pocket.

I had understood what was happening before it actually happened because of the business I was in, but most of the people around me, including emergency service personnel, and the two cops I was with, thought it was an accident. When the second aircraft hit the South Tower at 9:03A.M., everyone understood the unbelievable.

I’d spent the first hours after the attack looking for Kate, but as the enormity of the tragedy and the loss of life became evident, I just looked for anyone who might be alive in the smoldering rubble.

I remembered the last radio transmission of one of the cops, “Two civilians with four officers inside.”

I had tried to call Kate on my cell phone, but all cell phones were down, and they were still down.

As of 6:30A.M. this morning, when I’d left what had been the North Tower, no survivors had been found, and few were expected to be found.

As surreal as the site had been, the trip back home had been more surreal. The streets downtown were nearly deserted, and the people who I did see looked like they were in shock. I’d found a taxi about twenty blocks north of the site, and the taxi driver, a man named Mohammed, cried when he saw me, and cried all the way to East 72^ndStreet. My doorman, Alfred, also cried when I got out of the taxi.

I looked back at the billows of rising smoke, and for the first time I felt tears running down the grime on my face.

I vaguely remember riding up the elevator with Alfred, who had a passkey, and I remember entering my apartment. After nearly two months away, it looked unfamiliar, and I stood there for a few seconds, trying to figure out why I was there, and what I should do next. Then I walked toward the balcony door because I could see the black smoke outside, and I was drawn to it because it was more familiar than my home.

As I passed through the living room, something on the couch-a blanket-caught my eye, and I walked over to it. I knelt beside Kate, who was sleeping, wrapped tightly in the blanket, which covered everything except her blackened face and one arm, which lay on her chest. In her hand was her cell phone.

I didn’t wake her, but watched her for a long time.

I left her sleeping on the couch and went out on the balcony, where I now stood, watching the smoke, which seemed endless.

The door slid open behind me, and I turned around. We looked at each other for a few seconds, then took a few tentative steps toward each other, then literally fell into each other’s arms, and wept.

We sat, half asleep in the two chairs on the balcony, and stared out at the darkness that shrouded Lower Manhattan, the harbor, and the Statue of Liberty. There were no planes flying, no phones ringing, no horns honking, and hardly a soul in the streets below.

It was difficult at this point to grasp the scope of the disaster, and neither of us had seen or heard any news because we’d been there where the news was happening, and aside from a few radios and too many rumors on the scene, we knew less than people living in Duluth.

Finally, though I knew the answer, I asked Kate, “How about Jill?”

Kate didn’t answer for a few seconds, then said, “I got to the Windows express elevator first, and decided to wait for her… she came into the lobby with Patrolman Alvarez and another officer… I put them on the elevator… then I decided to wait for you…”

I didn’t reply, and Kate didn’t continue. A few minutes later, she said, “Before I put Jill on the elevator, she said to me, ‘Should I wait here with you until John gets here?’ And I said to her, ‘No, you’re in good hands with those police officers. I’ll be up in a few minutes.’” Kate said to me, “I’m sorry…”

I said, “No, don’t be sorry.”

I wondered, of course, who else had gotten up to the 107^thfloor before the plane hit. What I knew for sure, because I had asked a hundred cops and firemen, was that almost no one on the upper floors had gotten down before the North Tower collapsed at 10:30.

Kate said, “I stayed in the lobby to help, then the firemen ordered us out, and I looked for you… then the building collapsed… I remember running… then I must have passed out from the smoke… I woke up in an aid station… about midnight, I went back to look for you, but I’d lost my creds, and they wouldn’t let me through the cordon.” She wiped her eyes and said, “I checked the hospitals and aid stations… I kept calling your phone, and the apartment… then I walked home, and you weren’t here…” She sobbed and said, “I thought you were dead.”

I took her blackened hand in mine and said, “I thought you were… in there…”

I closed my eyes, and I could see that huge jetliner coming down Broadway, and I realized now that it must have passed right between the Federal Building at 290 Broadway and our offices across the street at 26 Federal Plaza. Everyone in those offices must have seen it, and I wondered if they understood that they were seeing the first shot in what was going to be a long war that would change us forever.

Kate asked me, “Are you going back?”

I nodded.

She said, “Me, too.”

We both stood, and I said, “You shower first.”

She brushed my new shirt with her fingers, and said, “I’ll try to get that clean for you.”

She went through the door and into the living room, and I watched her as she walked, almost in a trance, into the bedroom.

I turned again and looked at the empty skyline, and I thought of Jill Winslow, and my friend and partner Dom Fanelli, Patrolman Alvarez, and the other police officers with them. I thought, too, of Ted Nash, truly dead this time though not how I would have chosen his death, and David Stein, Jack Koenig, Liam Griffith, Bud Mitchell, and whoever else had been up there. I thought, too, of all the people I knew who worked there, and those I didn’t know who had been there yesterday morning. I grasped the rail of the balcony and for the first time, I felt the anger. “You bastards.”

It wasn’t until Friday that I returned to the Plaza Hotel to pick up our things in the suite, and to have the safe opened to claim Mrs. Winslow’s package.

The assistant manager was accommodating, but informed me that there was nothing of Mrs. Winslow’s in the safe.