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 get him 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 is that?
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 3 A.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 4 A.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 5:29 A.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 7:32 A.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
&n
bsp; 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. . . . ?”
Night Fall Page 32