family jewels, which was reason enough for me to have killed him.
In my twenty years with the NYPD, I’d had to kill only two men, both of them in self-defense. My personal and professional relationship with Ted Nash was more complex than my hasty relationship with the two total strangers I’d had to shoot, and therefore my reasons and justification for killing Ted had to be more closely examined.
The rumble on the beach should have been cathartic for both of us, but in truth, neither of us was satisfied, and we needed a rematch.
On the other hand, as Kate would say, we were both Federal agents, trying to do the same job for our country, so we should try to understand the animus that drove us toward mutually destructive acts of verbal abuse and physical violence. We should talk out our differences and recognize that we had similar goals and aspirations, and even similar personalities, which should be a source of unity, rather than a source of conflict. We needed to acknowledge the anguish we were causing each other, and to work in a constructive and honest way to understand the feelings of the other person.
Or, to keep it short and simple, I should have drowned the son-of-a-bitch like a rat, or at least shot him with his own gun.
A sign informed me that I was entering Nassau County, and the lunatic DJ announced that it was another beautiful Saturday night on beautiful Long Island, “From the Hamptons to the Gold Coast, from Plum Island to Fire Island, from the ocean to the Sound-we’re rockin’, we’re rollin’, we’re gettin’ it on, and we’re partyin’ hard. We’re havin’ fun!”
Fuck you.
Regarding Mr. Nash’s revelations to me, he had a very good story, and he might be telling the truth: There was no rocket on that videotape. This was good, if it was true. I’d be very satisfied to believe it was an accident. I would be very pissed to find out it wasn’t.
I had maybe one card left to play in this game, and it was Jill Winslow-but for all I knew, the right Jill Winslow was not the one in Old Brookville, where I was now headed. The right Jill Winslow might be dead, along with her lover. And if I kept snooping around, I, too, could be dead, even if there was no cover-up and conspiracy-I think Ted Nash just wanted me dead, and after tonight, his bosses would give him the go-ahead.
I got off the Expressway and headed north on Cedar Swamp Road. I saw no cedars, and I saw no swamps, which was good. I get nervous whenever I have to leave Manhattan, but after Yemen, I could vacation in New Jersey.
I was familiar with this area of Nassau County because there were some Nassau County detectives assigned to the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, and I’d teamed up with them to do surveillance on some Salami-Salami characters who worked, lived, and were up to no good out here.
I continued along Cedar Swamp Road, which was flanked by big houses, a country club, and a few surviving estates of Long Island’s Gold Coast.
I turned right onto Route 25A, which is the main east-west route through the Gold Coast, and headed east.
I had to assume that tomorrow at the latest, Ted Nash would be at the Bayview Hotel, talking to Mr. Rosenthal about my visit, and about Jill Winslow. So, I had to move fast on this, but the problem with speaking to Mrs. Winslow tonight-aside from the late hour-was Mr. Winslow, who most probably had no idea that Mrs. Winslow was into sex, lies, and videotape. Normally, I’d just wait until Mr. Winslow went to work on Monday-but with Ted Nash on the prowl, I didn’t have until Monday.
The village of Old Brookville, with a population of fewer people than my apartment building, has its own police force, located at the intersection of Wolver Hollow Road and Route 25A. Small white building on the northwest corner of the intersection-can’t miss it, according to Sergeant Roberts, the desk sergeant I’d spoken to.
At a traffic light, I turned left onto Wolver Hollow Road and into the small parking lot in front of the building whose sign said OLD BROOKVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT. The dashboard clock read 12:17.
There were two cars in the parking lot, and I assumed one belonged to the desk sergeant, and the other to Ms. Wilson, the civilian lady I’d first spoken to when I called.
If Ted Nash of the CIA or Liam Griffith of the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility had followed me, or planted a tracking device in my car, then they were on their way here.
The clock had already run out on this game, and so had the overtime; I was now on borrowed time.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I walked into a small waiting room; to the left was a floor-to-ceiling Plexiglas wall. Behind the Plexiglas was a high bench desk, and behind the desk was a young and yawning civilian aide, whose desk sign said ISABEL CELESTE WILSON. Ms. Wilson asked me, “Can I help you?”
I said, “I’m Detective John Corey with the FBI.” I held up my credentials to the glass. “I called earlier and spoke to you and Sergeant Roberts.”
“Oh, right. Hold on.” She spoke on the intercom, and within a minute, a uniformed sergeant entered from a door in the rear.
I went through the rap again, and Sergeant Roberts, a muscular middle-aged man, looked at my Federal credentials with my photo, and I also showed him my NYPD duplicate shield with my retired ID card, and as we both knew, once a cop, always a cop.
He buzzed me in through a door in the Plexiglas wall, and escorted me into his office in the back of the stationhouse. He offered me a chair and sat at his desk. So far, I didn’t smell anything wrong, except my shirt.
He asked me, “So, you’re with the FBI?”
“I am. I’m working on a Federal homicide case, and I need to get some information about a local resident.”
Sergeant Roberts looked surprised. “We don’t get many homicides here. Who’s the resident?”
I didn’t reply and asked him, “Is there a detective available?”
He seemed a little put off, but in the world of law enforcement, detectives speak to detectives, and the chief of detectives speaks only to God.
Sergeant Roberts replied, “We have four detectives. One is out on a case, one is off-duty, one is on vacation, and the detective sergeant is at home on call. How important is this?”
“Important, but not important enough to disturb the detective sergeant’s sleep.” I added, “I’m sure you can help me.”
“What is it you need?”
Sergeant Roberts seemed to be the type of local cop who would extend the requisite professional courtesies, if you treated him right. Hopefully, he had no negative experiences with the FBI, which was sometimes a problem. I replied, “The homicide was in another jurisdiction. It’s international and possibly terrorist-related.”
He stared at me, then asked, “Is this resident a suspect?”
“No. A witness.”
“That’s good. We hate to lose a taxpayer. So, who’s the resident?”
“Mrs. Jill Winslow.”
“Are you serious?”
“You know her?”
“Sort of. I know her husband better. Mark Winslow. He’s on the village planning board. I’ve spoken to him a few times at meetings.”
I asked, “And her?”
“I’ve met her a few times. She’s a nice lady.” He smiled. “I stopped her once for speeding. She talked me out of a ticket and made me think she was doing
I smiled politely and asked, “Do you know if she works?”
“She doesn’t.”
I wondered how he knew that, but I didn’t ask. I said, “So, Mr. Winslow’s on the planning board? But my file shows he works for Morgan Stanley.”
