Night Fall

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 pla

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 pla

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-questio

“Hey, it worked in Germany and Russia.”

He gave me an a

“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?”