If I ran into Nash and friends now, I didn’t think I’d have the opportunity to correct my mistake, but I was fairly sure he’d take the opportunity to correct his.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Within a few minutes, we were back on Cedar Swamp Road, and I kept glancing at my rearview mirror, but it didn’t appear that anyone was following.
I was starting to believe I had pulled this off: Jill Winslow, the videotape, the name of Bud Mitchell, and with any luck, a clear run to Manhattan.
I unhooked the police radio from my belt, turned it on, and listened for a while, but there was almost no chatter, and what I heard had nothing to do with me. I turned off the radio, making a mental note to return it to Sergeant Roberts first chance I got, which could be a while.
Up ahead, I saw a sign for the College of Old Westbury where Jill made a right turn. I followed her down a tree-lined road into the campus of the small college, which was nearly deserted on a Sunday. She pulled into a parking lot, and I put my Ford Taurus into an empty space. I took my overnight bag and threw it into the rear compartment of her car. I said, “I’ll drive.”
She got out and came around to the passenger seat as I got behind the wheel.
The BMW was a five-speed manual, which I hadn’t driven in a while. I got it into first gear with just a little grinding, which made Mrs. Winslow wince.
We got back on Cedar Swamp Road, heading south. The BMW drove like a dream, and better yet, it could outrun anything that Nash and friends had picked up from the government car pool.
Within five minutes, I saw the sign for the Long Island Expressway, and Jill said, “You want to turn here for the city.”
“Hold on.”
I got within twenty feet of the entrance ramp, then hit the brakes and cut hard right onto the ramp, tires screeching and the anti-lock brakes pulsating. I checked out my rearview mirror, then downshifted and hit the gas. Within ten seconds, I was on the Expressway, and I shifted into fifth gear, swerved over two lanes, then put the pedal to the metal. This thing really flew.
I settled into the outside lane at eighty miles per hour, and checked my mirrors again. If anyone had been following, they were now about a half mile back.
Traffic was spotty, and I was able to weave around the Sunday drivers going too slow in the outside lanes.
Jill hadn’t spoken in a while, then she asked me, “Are we being chased?”
“No. I’m just enjoying the drive.”
“I’m not.”
I slowed down and got into the middle lane. We drove in silence, then she asked me, “What’s your first name?”
“John.”
“May I call you John?”
“Of course.” I asked, “May I call you Jill?”
“You already have.”
“Right.”
I turned on my cell phone and waited for five minutes, but there was no beep, and I shut it off. I asked Jill, “How are you doing?”
“Fine. How areyou doing?”
“Pretty good. Do you understand what’s going on?”
“Somewhat. I assumeyou know what’s going on.”
“Pretty much.” I glanced at her and said, “You should understand that you’re on the right side of this now-the side of truth and justice, and of the victims of TWA 800, their families, and the American people.”
“Then who’s after us?”
“Maybe no one. Or maybe a few bad eggs.”
“Then why can’t we call the police?”
“Well, maybe more than a few bad eggs, and I’m not sure yet who’s bad and who’s good.”
“What are we going to do while you’re trying to figure it out?”
“Do you have a hotel in the city that you usually stay at?”
“The Waldorf or the Union League Club.”
“Then let’s avoid those. Let’s pick someplace around Midtown.”
She thought a moment, then replied, “The Plaza.”
“Call them now and make a reservation. You need two adjoining rooms.”
“Are you staying with me?”
“Yes. Please use your credit card to hold the rooms, and I’ll see that you’re reimbursed.”
She got on her cell phone, called the Plaza Hotel, and reserved a two-bedroom suite.
I said to her, “I’d like you to turn off your cell phone.”
“Why?”
I explained, “You can be located by cell phone tower triangulation.”
She didn’t ask for any further explanation and shut off her cell phone.
We crossed the Nassau County line into the borough of Queens. We should be at the Plaza Hotel within half an hour.
Jill asked me, “How long will I have to stay at the hotel?”
“About two days.”
“Then what?”
“Then you change hotels. Or I find you a safe house. I need maybe forty-eight hours to line up the army of angels. After that, you’ll be safe.”
“Do I need to call my attorney?”
“If you’d like. But if you could wait a few days, that would be better.”
She nodded.
We continued on the Expressway through Queens, and she asked me, “When will you see Bud?”
“I, or someone else, will see him within the next forty-eight hours.” I added, “Please don’t call him.”
“I have no intention of calling him.” She poked my arm and said, “Why don’t you arrest him? I want to visit him in jail.”
I stifled a laugh, but then she laughed, and I laughed, too. I said, “I think we need his cooperation.”
“Do I need to see him again?”
“Maybe. But we try to keep witnesses separated.”
“Good.” She asked me, “Where do you live?”
“In Manhattan.”
“I lived in Manhattan after college, and before I got married.” She paused. “I married too young. How about you?”
“I’m on my second marriage. You’re going to meet my wife. She’s an FBI agent, currently overseas. Due home tomorrow, if all goes well.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kate. Kate Mayfield.”
“She kept her maiden name?”
“Not all to herself. She offered to let me share it.”
Jill smiled, then asked, “Is that how you met? On the job?”
“Yes.”
“Do you lead interesting lives?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“Is there a lot of danger?”
“There’s a distinct danger of dying from boredom.”
“I think you’re being modest, and understated. Are you bored now?”
“No.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“About a month and a half,” I said.
“And you were in Yemen?”
“I was.”
“What’s boring about that?”
“Go to Yemen and find out.”
“Where was she?”
“Tanzania. Africa.”
“I know where Tanzania is. What was she doing there?”
“You can ask her when you meet her.”
I had the impression that Mrs. Winslow didn’t meet that many interesting people at the club or at lunches or dinners. I had the impression, too, that she thought she’d missed the boat somewhere after college, and she saw this major catastrophe in her life as more of an opportunity than a problem. That was the right attitude, and I hoped it turned out well for her.
The Midtown Tunnel was about a mile ahead. I glanced at Jill Winslow, sitting next to me. She seemed pretty cool and composed, a product maybe of her breeding, or maybe she didn’t fully appreciate the immediate danger we were in. Or maybe she did, but she thought that danger was preferable to boredom. I agreed with that when I was bored, but when I was in danger, boredom looked good. I said to her, “I think you’ll like Kate. She and I will take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can. But you’ll need some help for a while.”
We approached the tollbooths of the Midtown Tunnel, and I reached up and removed Jill’s E-ZPass, which would record her license plate number, location, and time, none of which I wanted recorded. I paid cash at the booth and entered the long tunnel under the East River.
Jill asked me, “What should I do about Mark?”