CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
I sat at a writing desk and turned on the lamp. I placed the pink receipt on the desk and looked at it with the magnifier.
The hand that wrote “A Man and a Woman” was definitely feminine and matched the handwriting on the date, room number, and the signature. Someone else, presumably the librarian, had written “Reynolds” and “Not Returned.”
I once took a handwriting analysis course at John Jay College, and there was a lot to be learned from a person’s handwriting and signature. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember much of the class. But I do remember that there was a distinct difference in handwriting when a person signed his or her real name as opposed to a made-up name or a forgery. This signature looked real. Maybe because I wanted it to be real. Maybe I was making this up.
I stood, turned on all the lamps, and went to the wall unit. Beneath the television was an empty shelf, and I now noticed in the lamplight that there were four small circles on the shelf-actually, discolorations in the white wood finish. They were the size of a dime, in a rectangular pattern. Obviously, this was where the VCR player had sat on its rubber pads until about three years ago.
This was not exactly a monumental discovery, but I feel good when I can physically verify what someone has told me.
I sat again at the small desk and dialed the cell phone of Dom Fanelli. I had no idea where he’d be at this hour, but the nice thing about cell phones is that it doesn’t matter.
He answered, “Hello?”
I could hear loud music in the background. “It’s your partner.”
“Hey, goombah! What’s with this Bayview Hotel shit on my Caller ID? What the hell are you doing there?”
“I’m on vacation. Where are you?”
“My phone started vibrating in my pants, and I thought it was Sally. Sarah. Whatever. Sarah, say hello to-”
“Dom, I can barely hear you.”
“Hold on.” A minute later, he said, “I’m outside. I was following a homicide suspect, and he went into this club on Varick Street. This is a tough job. What’s up?”
“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’t
“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,
“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 with
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.
