Night Fall

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, Roxa

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, Giova

“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.