“I need a make on a name.”
“Again? What happened to the names I gave you? Did you go to Philly?”
“I did. What I need now-”
“Now you’re in Westhampton Beach. Why don’t you go home?”
“Why don’tyou go home? Okay, the name is-”
“I tidied up your apartment. The cleaning lady will be there tomorrow. Fridays, right?”
“Unless she died. Listen-Jill Winslow.” I spelled it. “I’m thinking she’s maybe thirties, forties-”
“That narrows it down.”
“I don’t have anything solid on her, but she checked in here for a romp in the hay with a guy on a summer weekday-July 17, 1996.”
“Familiar date.”
“Yeah. The guy used an alias, so he’s probably married, and she may or may not be. But I think she is-”
“Married women are the safest if you’re married.”
“That’s what your wife says about her boyfriends. Okay, I’m thinking she lives on Long Island, but maybe Manhattan. How far would you drive for a romantic rendezvous?”
“I once drove to Seattle to get laid. But I was nineteen. What’s the farthest you’ve ever driven to get laid?”
“Toronto. Okay, so-”
“How about that FBI lady in D.C.? What’s farther? Toronto or Washington?”
“Doesn’t matter. You win with Seattle. Okay,listen — First, tap into DMV-there’s a tan Ford Explorer involved, at least five years old, but it may be his, not hers, and it could be sold by now. Then, tap into ChoicePoint and LexisNexis for a property search, divorce records, and so forth. I’m thinking upscale neighborhood on Long Island, so also check utility records with Long Island Power Authority for Winslows. But she could live in Manhattan, so also check Con Ed. Obviously get into telephone records, but they’re probably unlisted. Remember, all this stuff may not be inher name, but in her husband’s, so-”
“Here it is. Jill Winslow, Number 8 Maple Lane, Locust Valley, Long Island, New York, 1996 Ford Explorer, tan, husband’s name Roger. Just kidding. You should play with your computer, too. I’ve got homicides to solve.”
“This may be the biggest homicide you ever helped solve.”
There was a silence, then Dom Fanelli said, “I understand.”
“Good. And also check death records.”
“You think she died? Was she offed?”
“I hope not.”
“What are you on to? Tell me, in case you get killed.”
“I’ll leave you a note.”
“No joke, John-”
“Call me tomorrow at this number. Room 203. Leave a message if I’m not in. You’re Mr. Verdi.”
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 Roxanne had said, and I thought I knew why Don Juan or Jill Winslow took that videotape. When I spoke to Jill Winslow, I’d ask her if I was right.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Peter called at 7A.M., and I thought I detected a malicious tone in his voice when he announced the time.
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 sunny windows reading newspapers and magazines.
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.”