Night Fall

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 Roxa

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

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

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 su

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 Roxa

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 ru

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.”