Night Fall

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 7:32A.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

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 su

“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…?”

“Corey. I’m just doing some follow-up.”

She took two coffee cups from the cupboard, put them on a tray, turned to me and asked, “And you’re with the county police?”

“Not exactly.”

She didn’t reply.

I said, “I’m with the FBI.”

She nodded, and I could see she wasn’t surprised or confused. We looked at each other for a few seconds, and I had no doubt that I was talking to the Jill Winslow who swipedA Man and a Woman from the Bayview Hotel five years ago.

I asked her, “Have any other Federal agents called or come by recently?”

She shook her head.

I said to her, “You know why I’m here.”

She nodded.

I said, “Something new has come up, and I thought you could help me out.”

She replied, “We’ve been through all of this.”

She had a distinctly upscale accent, soft but clear as a bell. And her big eyes looked right into me. I said, “We need to go through it again.”

She kept looking at me, and the only thing that moved was her head, which she shook, but not in a negative way; more like a gesture of sadness.

Mrs. Jill Winslow carried herself well, and even at this hour, without makeup or clothes, she appeared to be a well-bred woman who belonged in this house.

And yet, maybe because I knew she was into sex, lies, and videotape, therewas something about her that suggested a wilder side to her patrician demeanor.

She turned away and set a tray with cream, sugar, napkins, and utensils.

I couldn’t see her face, but her hands seemed steady enough. With her back to me, she said, “A few months ago… in July… I watched the memorial service on television. It’s hard to believe it’s been five years.”

“It is.” I blew into my hand to check my breath, which was beyond bad at this point, and I discreetly sniffed my shirt.

Mrs. Winslow turned and carried the tray with a carafe of coffee to the table and set it down as I stood. She said, “Please help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

We both sat, and I said, “I’ve actually just returned from Yemen, so I’m a bit… rumpled.”

I saw that she noticed the scab and bruise on my chin, then she asked, “What were you doing in Yemen? Or can’t you say?”

“I was investigating the bombing of the USS Cole.” I added, “I do counter-terrorism work.”

She didn’t respond, but she knew where this was going.

I poured two cups of coffee from the carafe, and she said, “Thank you.”

I turned off the police radio, then drank some coffee. Not bad.

She said to me, “My husband is golfing this morning. I’m going to church at ten.”

I replied, “I know that. We should be finished before you need to get ready for church. As for Mr. Winslow, this business, as promised five years ago, will not concern him.”

She nodded and said, “Thank you.”

I had another cup of coffee, and Mrs. Winslow sipped hers. I said, “Last night, I spoke to the man who was originally assigned to this case-Ted Nash. Do you remember him?”

She nodded.

I continued, “And some weeks ago, I spoke to Liam Griffith. Do you remember him?”

Again, she nodded.

I asked, “Who else interviewed you at that time?”

She replied, “A man who identified himself as Mr. Brown from the National Transportation Board.”

I described Jack Koenig to her, including the impression that he had a steel rod up his ass, and she replied, “I’m not sure. Don’t you know?”

I ignored the question and asked, “Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Did you sign a statement?”

“No.”

“Was a video or audio recording made of anything you said?”

“No… not to my knowledge. But the man called Griffith took a few notes.”

“Where were these interviews conducted?”

“Here.”

“Here in this house?”

“Yes. While my husband was at work.”

“I see.” Unusual, but not unheard of with a friendly or secret witness. Obviously, they didn’t want to log her in at a Federal facility. I asked, “And the gentleman with you at that time?”