Night Fall (40 page)

I got off the Expressway and headed north on Cedar Swamp Road. I saw no cedars, and I saw no swamps, which was good. I get nervous whenever I have to leave Manhattan, but after Yemen, I could vacation in New Jersey.

I was familiar with this area of Nassau County because there were some Nassau County detectives assigned to the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, and I’d teamed up with them to do surveillance on some Salami-Salami characters who worked, lived, and were up to no good out here.

I continued along Cedar Swamp Road, which was flanked by big houses, a country club, and a few surviving estates of Long Island’s Gold Coast.

I turned right onto Route 25A, which is the main east-west route through the Gold Coast, and headed east.

I had to assume that tomorrow at the latest, Ted Nash would be at the Bayview Hotel, talking to Mr. Rosenthal about my visit, and about Jill Winslow. So, I had to move fast on this, but the problem with speaking to Mrs. Winslow tonight-aside from the late hour-was Mr. Winslow, who most probably had no idea that Mrs. Winslow was into sex, lies, and videotape. Normally, I’d just wait until Mr. Winslow went to work on Monday-but with Ted Nash on the prowl, I didn’t have until Monday.

The village of Old Brookville, with a population of fewer people than my apartment building, has its own police force, located at the intersection of Wolver Hollow Road and Route 25A. Small white building on the northwest corner of the intersection-can’t miss it, according to Sergeant Roberts, the desk sergeant I’d spoken to.

At a traffic light, I turned left onto Wolver Hollow Road and into the small parking lot in front of the building whose sign said OLD BROOKVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT. The dashboard clock read 12:17.

There were two cars in the parking lot, and I assumed one belonged to the desk sergeant, and the other to Ms. Wilson, the civilian lady I’d first spoken to when I called.

If Ted Nash of the CIA or Liam Griffith of the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility had followed me, or planted a tracking device in my car, then they were on their way here.

The clock had already run out on this game, and so had the overtime; I was now on borrowed time.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

I walked into a small waiting room; to the left was a floor-to-ceiling Plexiglas wall. Behind the Plexiglas was a high bench desk, and behind the desk was a young and yawning civilian aide, whose desk sign said ISABEL CELESTE WILSON. Ms. Wilson asked me, “Can I help you?”

I said, “I’m Detective John Corey with the FBI.” I held up my credentials to the glass. “I called earlier and spoke to you and Sergeant Roberts.”

“Oh, right. Hold on.” She spoke on the intercom, and within a minute, a uniformed sergeant entered from a door in the rear.

I went through the rap again, and Sergeant Roberts, a muscular middle-aged man, looked at my Federal credentials with my photo, and I also showed him my NYPD duplicate shield with my retired ID card, and as we both knew, once a cop, always a cop.

He buzzed me in through a door in the Plexiglas wall, and escorted me into his office in the back of the stationhouse. He offered me a chair and sat at his desk. So far, I didn’t smell anything wrong, except my shirt.

He asked me, “So, you’re with the FBI?”

“I am. I’m working on a Federal homicide case, and I need to get some information about a local resident.”

Sergeant Roberts looked surprised. “We don’t get many homicides here. Who’s the resident?”

I didn’t reply and asked him, “Is there a detective available?”

He seemed a little put off, but in the world of law enforcement, detectives speak to detectives, and the chief of detectives speaks only to God.

Sergeant Roberts replied, “We have four detectives. One is out on a case, one is off-duty, one is on vacation, and the detective sergeant is at home on call. How important is this?”

“Important, but not important enough to disturb the detective sergeant’s sleep.” I added, “I’m sure you can help me.”

“What is it you need?”

Sergeant Roberts seemed to be the type of local cop who would extend the requisite professional courtesies, if you treated him right. Hopefully, he had no negative experiences with the FBI, which was sometimes a problem. I replied, “The homicide was in another jurisdiction. It’s international and possibly terrorist-related.”

He stared at me, then asked, “Is this resident a suspect?”

“No. A witness.”

“That’s good. We hate to lose a taxpayer. So, who’s the resident?”

“Mrs. Jill Winslow.”

“Are you serious?”

“You know her?”

“Sort of. I know her husband better. Mark Winslow. He’s on the village planning board. I’ve spoken to him a few times at meetings.”

I asked, “And her?”

“I’ve met her a few times. She’s a nice lady.” He smiled. “I stopped her once for speeding. She talked me out of a ticket and made me think she was doing
me
the favor.”

I smiled politely and asked, “Do you know if she works?”

“She doesn’t.”

I wondered how he knew that, but I didn’t ask. I said, “So, Mr. Winslow’s on the planning board? But my file shows he works for Morgan Stanley.”

Sergeant Roberts laughed. “Yeah. That’s how he makes most of his money. Village jobs pay a dollar a year.”

“Really? How do you get by on a dollar a year?”

He laughed again. “I have a real job. Most of the village government are volunteers.”

“No kidding?” This place was like Mayberry RFD, except most of the residents were rich.

Sergeant Roberts asked, “So, what’s with Mrs. Winslow? Where did she see this murder?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details. In fact, I’m not sure I have the right lady, so let me check a few facts. About how old is she?”

He thought a moment, then said, “About mid- or late thirties.” He asked me, “Did this homicide take place overseas?”

Sergeant Roberts asked too many questions, but I didn’t think he was suspicious, just nosy, and I had the feeling that gossip was Old Brookville’s main industry. Not knowing if Jill Winslow traveled overseas, or if Sergeant Roberts knew if she did, I replied, “The incident occurred in the continental United States.” I asked him, “Do the Winslows have children?”

He didn’t reply, but swiveled his chair toward his computer and hit a few keys, then said, “Two boys, James, age thirteen, and Mark Jr., fifteen. Never had a problem with them.” He added, “They’re both away at boarding school.”

I glanced at his computer screen and asked him, “You have all that in your computer?”

He replied, “We do a resident survey every year or so.”

“A resident survey?”

“Yes. Each police officer is given an area to survey-questionnaires are handed out and interviews are done, and we put the answers into the computer database. We have a file on everyone.”

“Hey, it worked in Germany and Russia.”

He gave me an annoyed look and informed me, “It’s all voluntary.”

“That’s a good first step.”

He further informed me, “Everyone benefits from this. For instance, we know if there are handicapped people in the house, if there are dogs on the premises, we know who works in the city, and we have contact phone numbers for everyone. All of this information is available in every police vehicle through a mobile data terminal.” He stated, “We have a low crime rate, and we want to keep it that way.”

“Right. Okay, can you tell me if there are any other Jill Winslows in the area?”

He went back to his computer and said, “They have a few Winslows listed as 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.”