when their parents are away.” He used the police radio to call a patrol car and directed the guy to the address of the loud party. He said to me, “I have four cars out tonight. Sometimes I get a call from these central station monitoring companies reporting a burglar alarm, then I get a road accident, then the old ladies who hear a prowler-same two old ladies.”
He went on awhile about the problems of policing a small town where the residents thought the cops were an extension of their household staff. It was not that interesting, but it was giving me an idea.
I asked Sergeant Roberts, “Do you know if the Winslows are out of town?”
He played with the computer and said, “I don’t have any information that they’re out of town.”
“Would you have their phone number?”
He hit a few keys and said, “I have most unlisted numbers, but not all…” He looked at the screen and said, “I have theirs. You need it?”
“Thanks.”
He scribbled the number on a piece of paper and gave it to me. I had to remember to tell Dom Fanelli about local village police, and this neat Orwellian database.
Sergeant Roberts said to me, “If you phone them or pay a house call, you should know that Mark Winslow is the kind of guy who wouldn’t answer a question on a TV game show without his lawyer present. So, if you need to talk to her, you’ve got to get
“I understand.” In fact, I had a more compelling reason for not wanting him around. I said to Sergeant Roberts, “Do me a favor and give them a call.”
“Now?”
“Yeah. I need to be sure they’re home.”
“Okay… you want me to say anything? I mean, their Caller ID will come up ‘Brookville Police.’”
“Tell Mr. Winslow there’s an emergency meeting of the planning board. You just got word that a Spanish social club is opening on Main Street.”
He laughed. “Yeah. That will get the whole town out.”
I smiled at our little shared politically incorrect joke and suggested, “How about telling him there’s a prowler in the neighborhood. Someone’s central station monitoring just went off.”
“Okay…”
He dialed the number, and I said to him, “Put it on speaker.”
He hit the speaker button, and I heard the phone ringing. On the fourth ring, a male voice answered, “Hello?”
Sergeant Roberts asked, “Mr. Winslow?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Winslow, this is Sergeant Roberts at the Old Brookville police department. Sorry to bother you at this hour, but we’ve got a report of a prowler and a neighbor’s alarm going off in your area, and we wondered if you’ve seen or heard anything.”
Mark Winslow cleared his throat and his mind and replied, “No… just got in… let’s see… about two hours ago…”
“All right. Don’t be concerned. We’ll have a car in your area. Make sure your doors and windows are locked, and your alarm is set. And call us if you see or hear anything.”
“Okay… yes, I will…”
I thought that Mr. Winslow sounded like Mr. Rosenthal at one in the morning. I motioned Sergeant Roberts to let me speak. He said to Mr. Winslow, “Here’s…”
“County police,” I prompted.
“Here’s an officer from the county police, who would like to speak to you.”
I said to Mr. Winslow, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re investigating a series of home burglaries in this area.” I needed to cut to the chase before he woke up and started to think this might be a little screwy, and I asked him, “Will you be home in the morning if I came by?”
“Uh… no… golfing…”
“Tee time?”
“Eight.” He added, “Breakfast at seven. At the club.”
“I see. And will your wife be home?”
“She goes to church at ten.”
“And your children?”
“They’re at school. Is there any cause for concern?”
“No, sir. I need to check out the neighborhood and yards in the daylight, so please tell your wife not to be alarmed if I come by. Here’s Sergeant Roberts.”
He said to Mr. Winslow, “Sorry to call so late, but I wanted to make sure everything was okay there.”
“No need to apologize. I appreciate the call.”
Sergeant Roberts disconnected and said to me, in case I wasn’t paying attention, “Okay, he’s golfing tomorrow.”
“Right. Call him about six-thirty this morning and tell him you got the burglar and the county police will be looking for evidence after sunrise.”
Sergeant Roberts made a note of it and asked me, “You going there in the morning to talk to her?”
“I am.”
He asked me, “Is this a bust?”
“No. Just a witness interview.”
“Sounds like more than that.”
I leaned toward him and said, “I’m going to confide something to you, but it can’t leave this room.”
He nodded, and waited for me to continue.
I said, “Jill Winslow may be in some danger because of what she saw.”
“Really?”
“Really. What I’m going to do is stake out the Winslow house tonight. You tell your PDs not to worry about a gray Ford Taurus parked on Quail Hollow Lane. Okay? You and I will keep in touch during the night in case I need backup. You got an extra radio?”
“I have a handheld you can use.”
I wanted to ask him if he had an extra gun lying around, but that might be imposing too much on his hospitality. I asked, “What time do you get off?”
“Eight. Midnight to eight.”
“Okay. I’ll call you before then if Mr. Winslow doesn’t leave the house for his breakfast at the club-then you’ll need to get him out of the house somehow. Okay?”
“Okay…”
I stood and asked, “How do I get to 12 Quail Hollow Lane?”
Sergeant Roberts gave me a Realtor’s map of Old Brookville and used a highlighter to mark the way. He loaned me a handheld radio and said, “Frequency is set. I’m HQ Desk-we’ll make you Car Zero.” He smiled.
“Roger.” I added, “If any other Federal agents call you or come by, call me on the radio.”
“Will do.”
We shook, and I said, “I’ll make sure you’re recognized for your cooperation. I’ll drop off the radio later.”
I exited the little Old Brookville police department. God, am I full of shit, or what? Maybe I could even get Sergeant Roberts to arrest Ted Nash if he showed up.
It was a cool, clear night, and you could see the stars out here, and no Black Helicopters. A few cars passed by on Route 25A, but otherwise it was very quiet, except for some tree frogs croaking.
I got in my rental car, drove back to Cedar Swamp Road, and headed north as instructed by Sergeant Roberts.
Assuming that Ted Nash had not yet spoken to Mr. Rosenthal and discovered that I had the name of Jill Winslow, and assuming this was the right Jill Winslow, then sometime after Mr. Winslow’s tee time, I would have the answers to questions that I didn’t even know existed before Kate was kind enough to share with me. Since then, I’d been rewarded with a trip to Yemen, the resurrection of Ted Nash, and the Gospel According to Ted. How
