Bud didn’t reply.
Jill said, “Maybe we should go back.”
“Why?”
“Maybe… people… got out. They have life vests, life rafts. Maybe we can help.”
Bud shook his head. “That thing just disintegrated. It had to be a couple miles high.” He added, “The cops are already there. They don’t need us.”
Jill didn’t reply.
Bud turned onto the bridge that led back to the village of Westhampton Beach. Their hotel was five minutes away.
Jill seemed lost in thought, then said, “That streak of light-that was a rocket. A missile.”
Bud didn’t reply.
She said, “It looked like a missile was fired from the water and hit a plane.”
“Well… I’m sure we’ll hear about it on the news.”
Jill glanced into the backseat and saw that the video camera was still on, recording their conversation.
She reached back and retrieved the camera. She rewound the tape, flipped the selector switch to Play, then looked into the viewfinder as she fast-forwarded.
Bud glanced at her, but said nothing.
She hit the Pause button and said, “I can see it. We got the whole thing on tape.” She ran the tape forward, then backwards, several times. She said, “Bud… pull over and watch this.”
He kept driving.
She put down the video camera and said, “We have the whole thing on tape. The missile, the explosion, the pieces falling.”
“Yeah? What else do you see in there?”
“Us.”
“Right. Erase it.”
“No.”
“Jill, erase the tape.”
“Okay… but we have to watch it in the hotel room. Then we’ll erase it.”
“I don’t want to see it. Erase it. Now.”
“Bud, this may be… evidence. Someone needs to see this.”
“Are you crazy? No one needs to see us screwing on videotape.”
She didn’t reply.
Bud patted her hand and said, “Okay, we’ll play it on the TV in the room. Then we’ll see what’s on the news. Then we’ll decide what to do. Okay?”
She nodded.
Bud glanced at her clutching the video camera. Jill Winslow, he knew, was the kind of woman who might actually do the right thing and turn that tape over to the authorities, despite what it would do to her personally. Not to mention him. He thought, however, that when she saw the tape in all its explicitness, she’d come to her senses. If not, he might have to get a little forceful with her.
He said, “You know, the… what do you call that? The black box. The flight recorder. When they find that, they’ll know more about what happened to that airplane than we do, or what the tape shows. The flight recorder. Better than a video recorder.”
She didn’t reply.
He pulled into the parking lot of the Bayview Hotel. He said, “We don’t even know if it was a plane. Let’s see what they say on the news.”
She got out of the Explorer and walked toward the hotel, carrying the video camera.
He shut off the engine and followed. He thought to himself, “I’m not going to crash and burn like that plane.”
BOOK TWO
Five Years Later
Long Island, New York
Conspiracy is not a theory,
it’s a crime.
CHAPTER TWO
Everyone loves a mystery. Except cops. For a cop, mysteries, if they remain mysteries, become career problems.
Who killed JFK? Who kidnapped the Lindbergh baby? Why did my first wife leave me? I don’t know. They weren’t my cases.
I’m John Corey, formerly a New York City homicide detective, now working for the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force, in what can only be described as the second act of a one-act life.
Here’s another mystery: What happened to TWA Flight 800? That wasn’t my case either, but it was my second wife’s case back in July 1996, when TWA 800, a big Boeing 747 bound for Paris with 230 passengers and crew on board, exploded off the Atlantic coast of Long Island, sending all 230 souls to their deaths.
My second wife’s name is Kate Mayfield, and she’s an FBI agent, also working with the ATTF, which is how we met. Not many people can say they have an Arab terrorist to thank for bringing them together.
I was driving my gas-guzzling, politically incorrect eight-cylinder Jeep Grand Cherokee eastbound on the Long Island Expressway. Beside me in the passenger seat was my aforementioned second and hopefully last wife, Kate Mayfield, who had kept her maiden name for professional reasons. Also for professional reasons, she’d offered me the use of her surname since my name was mostly mud around the ATTF.
We live in Manhattan, on East 72ndStreet, in the apartment where I had lived with my first wife, Robin. Kate, like Robin, is a lawyer, which might have led another man and his psychiatrist to analyze this love/hate thing, which I might have with lady lawyers and the law in general with all its complex manifestations. I call it coincidence. My friends say I like to fuck lawyers. Whatever.
Kate said, “Thanks for coming with me to this. It’s not going to be very pleasant.”
“No problem.” We were heading toward the beach on this warm, sunny day in July, but we weren’t going to sunbathe or swim. In fact, we were going to a beachside memorial service for the victims of Flight 800. This service is held every year on the July 17thanniversary date of the crash, and this was the fifth anniversary. I’d never been to this service, and there was no reason why I should. But, as I said, Kate had worked the case and that’s why, according to Kate, she attended every year. It occurred to me that over five hundred law enforcement people worked that case, and I was sure they didn’t attend every, or maybe any, memorial service. But good husbands take their wives at their word. Really.
I asked Kate, “What did you do on that case?”
She replied, “I mostly interviewed eyewitnesses.”
“How many?”
“I don’t remember. Lots.”
“How many witnesses saw this?”
“Over six hundred.”
“No kidding? What do you think actually caused the crash?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the case.”
“Why not? It’s officially closed, and officially it was an accident brought about by a mechanical failure that caused the center fuel tank to explode. So?”
She didn’t reply, so I reminded her, “I have a top secret clearance.”
She said, “Information is given on a need-to-know basis. Why do you need to know?”
“I’m nosy.”
She looked out the windshield and said, “You need to get off at Exit 68.”
I got off at Exit 68 and headed south on the William Floyd Parkway. “William Floyd is a rock star. Right?”
“He was a signer of the Declaration of Independence.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re thinking of Pink Floyd,” she said.
“Right. You have a good memory.”
“Then why can’t I remember why I married you?” she asked.
“I’m funny. And sexy. And smart. Smart is sexy. That’s what you said.”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“You love me.”
“I do love you. Very much.” She added, “But you’re a pain in the ass.”
“You’re not exactly easy to live with either, sweetheart.”
She smiled.
Ms. Mayfield was fourteen years younger than I, and the small generation gap was sometimes interesting, sometimes not.
I’ll mention here that Kate Mayfield is rather nice-looking, though it was her intelligence that first attracted me, of course. What I noticed second was her blond hair, deep blue eyes, and Ivory Soap skin. Very clean-cut. She works out a lot at a local health club and goes to classes called Bikram yoga, spin, step, and kick boxing, which she sometimes practices in the apartment, aiming her kicks at my groin, without actually connecting, though the possibility is always there. She seems to be obsessed with physical fitness while I am obsessed with firing my 9mm Glock at the pistol range. I could compile a long list of things we don’t have in common-music, food, drinks, attitudes toward the job, position of the toilet seat, and so forth-but for some reason that I can’t comprehend, we’re in love.