“Really? How am I?”
“Psychotic.”
“Bullshit.”
We were attracting a little attention because I think I was raising my voice above the barroom din. The bartender said to us, “Everything okay here?”
Kate replied, “Yes.” She said to me, “Let’s go.”
“No. I like it here. Tell me what else you forgot to tell me. Now.”
Kate kept her cool, but I could see she was upset. I was not upset-I was fuming. “Talk.”
“Don’t browbeat me. You’re not-”
“Talk. And no bullshit.”
She took a deep breath and said, “Okay… but it’s not what you think-”
“Never mind what I think.”
“All right… Ted worked the TWA case, too, as you may know by now… and I knew him from the office… but we were never involved, which I told you a dozen times, and which is the truth.”
“Then why did he tell you about this blanket on the beach, and the video camera lens cap if this wasn’t your case?”
“I’m not sure… but we were having drinks one night at a local bar… about a week after the crash, and he was drinking too much… we all were… and he mentions this local police report and he says something like, ‘This couple was probably taping themselves having sex on the beach, and they may have videotaped the explosion.’ I asked him some questions, and he clammed up. Next day he called me and says they found this couple, and they were an older, married couple and the lens cap was from a regular still camera, not a video camera, and this couple didn’t see or photograph anything to do with the explosion.” She stirred her drink.
“Go on.”
“Okay, so it’s pretty obvious he’s sorry he opened his mouth the night before, and I say, ‘Well, too bad,’ or something like that, and we drop it. But I go to the Westhampton Village police, and they say the FBI was already there and took the written report, and they’re still waiting for the FBI to return a copy of it.” She added, “They’re probably still waiting. But I got the name of the cop who was on the beach and who wrote the report, and I talked to him and he’s not sure he should be talking to me, but he fills me in and mentions that he told the FBI that this blanket may have come from a hotel or motel. I’m up to my ears in witness interviews, so I didn’t follow up, and to be honest, I didn’t see any reason to. It was being handled by Ted and others. But a week or so later, I’m back in the office for a few days, and I made some phone calls to local motels and hotels, as I told you, and I hit this one-the Bayview-and talked to this manager, Leslie Rosenthal, who informed me that the FBI had already been there with this blanket, and they had spoken to his staff and guests. Rosenthal says that the FBI guy in charge never told him anything except that he wasn’t supposed to talk about this to anyone.” She looked at me and said, “That’s it.”
“Who was the FBI guy in charge?”
“Liam Griffith. I’m sure you already know that from your Staten Island connection.”
“That’s right, but why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Because, I told you up front-no names. That’s why I didn’t tell you about Ted.”
“So, what did you do with this information from Mr. Rosenthal?”
“Nothing. What was I going to do with it? I did think about it, but before I thought too much about it, I got called into the OPR office, as I told you.” She finished her drink and said, “I’m sure that Ted knew that I had been nosing around and that I got a reprimand for it, but does he say, ‘Hey, I’m sorry I mentioned this to you?’ No, he just starts acting cool to me.”
“Oh, poor baby.”
“John, fuck off. I have nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of. Just drop it.”
“You lied to me.”
“Right. I lied to you to avoid a fucking scene like this. What difference does it make how I got the information I got? Ninety-nine percent of what I told you is true, and what I didn’t tell you didn’t affect anything you did or knew. So, be happy now that you know Ted Nash is just as stupid when he’s drunk as you and everyone else. Okay?”
I didn’t reply and just stood there, still pretty hot under the collar.
She put her hand on my arm, forced a smile, and said, “Can I buy you a drink?”
If I’d had two more I would have probably calmed down, but I only had a half drink in me, and I couldn’t get past the fact that my wife had lied to me. Also, I wasn’t absolutely sure she was telling me the whole truth about where and how and why Ted Nash confided in her-knowing how tightly wrapped Ted Nash was, I couldn’t picture him blabbing in a barroom, but Icould picture him blabbing in a bedroom.
She said, “Come on, John. Let’s have a drink.”
I turned and walked out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I woke up on my couch with a slightly massive hangover.
I recalled taking a taxi from Delmonico’s to Dresner’s, one of my neighborhood hangouts, where I was over-served by Aidan the bartender. The next thing I remember, I tried to brush something off my face and it was the floor.
I sat up and noticed I was in my underwear, and I wondered if I’d gone home like that. Then, I saw my clothes on the floor, which was good.
I stood slowly. The morning sun was streaming through my balcony door, right through my eyeballs and into my brain.
I walked toward the kitchen, where I smelled coffee. There was a note near the coffeemaker.John, I went to work. Kate. The digital clock on the coffeemaker said 9:17. Then, 9:18. Fascinating.
TheTimes and thePost were lying on the kitchen table, unread.
I poured a mug of hot, black coffee and absently scanned thePost, which is the best way to read this newspaper. I was trying to put the Delmonico’s incident on hold until my brain could take the stand and show just cause for my little tantrum.
But as it started to come back to me, I thought I might have overreacted. I was starting to feel remorseful, and I knew I needed to smooth things over with Kate, though an apology was out of the question.
I finished my coffee, went into the bathroom, took two aspirins, then shaved and showered.
Feeling a bit better, I decided to call in sick, which I did.
I got dressed in a casual outfit of tan slacks, sport shirt, blue blazer, docksiders, and ankle holster.
I called the garage for my car, found a bag of potato chips for the road, then went downstairs.
My doorman greeted me cheerily, which pissed me off. I got in my Jeep and headed down Second Avenue into the Midtown Tunnel, which took me right onto the Long Island Expressway, heading east.
It was partly cloudy today, humid, and, according to my car thermometer, already 78 degrees Fahrenheit. I switched the computer to metric and the temperature dropped to 26 degrees Celsius, which was cool for this time of year.
Traffic was light to moderate on this Thursday in July. Friday would be heavy with Manhattan traffic heading out to the East End of Long Island. This was a good day to visit the Bayview Hotel.
I tuned in to a country-western station, which is good hangover music. Tim McGraw was belting out “Please Remember Me.” I ate some potato chips.
So, Kate told me a little white lie in order to avoid mentioning the name of Ted Nash because she thought that name might upset me. I think she used the word “psychotic.” In any case, I could appreciate and understand why she lied. On the other hand, as every cop knows, lies are like cockroaches-if you see one, there are others.
That aside, maybe this little tiff was a positive thing; it put some distance between Kate and me, which was good for this case. I might explain that to her later.
I thought she would have called by now when she didn’t see me at work, but my cell phone remained silent.
Some law enforcement agencies, including the FBI, work with cell phone carriers to track the location of a cell phone or beeper if they know the number, even if you’re not using the phone. The cell phone only has to be turned on and sending out a signal to the closest towers, which can then triangulate the location of the cell phone.