good is
When I picked up Kate at the airport on Monday-assuming I wasn’t back in Yemen, or in jail, or dead-I could say to her, “Welcome home. I have good news and bad news. The good news is that I found the lady on the beach. The bad news is that Ted Nash is alive, and he’d like to kill me.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
I passed the wrought iron gates of Banfi Vintners, then turned onto Chicken Valley Road as instructed by Sergeant Roberts. The road was dark, and I slowed down and hit my brights in case there were chickens on the road. After a few minutes, I spotted a signpost that said Quail Hollow Lane. I turned right and followed the narrow, winding road.
I could barely see the houses, let alone the house numbers, but there were mailboxes on posts, and I spotted Number 12. I pulled off onto a gravel shoulder, shut off the lights and engine, and got out.
Up a long tree-lined driveway, I could make out an impressive red-bricked Georgian-style house sitting on a rising slope. There was a light on in one of the upstairs windows, and as I watched, it went out.
I got back in my car, switched the key to accessories, and turned on the radio. It was 2:17 on the dashboard clock, and I settled in for a long, uncomfortable night.
The demented DJ, who called himself Werewolf Jack, was growlin’ and howlin’, and I wondered if this could be Jack Koenig doing some moonlighting.
Werewolf Jack was taking calls from listeners, most of whom, I suspected, were calling from the county mental institution. One guy shouted, “Hey, Werewolf, this is Dave from Garden City!”
Werewolf shouted back, “Hey, Dave! What can I do for you, buddy?”
Dave replied loudly, “I wanna hear All I Want Is You by U2, and I wanna dedicate it to my wife, Liz, who’s pissed at me.”
“You got it, Dave! Liz, you listenin’? This is from your lovin’ husband, Dave, just for you darlin’.”
U2 started crooning, “All I Want Is You.”
I was tempted to change the station, but I realized that Werewolf Jack was just what I needed tonight.
Every once in a while, my police radio crackled, and one of the four patrol cars called the civilian aide or she called them. I did a radio check with Roberts and reminded him to call me if any other Federal agents showed up, though I knew it was unlikely that I’d ever get that call if Nash and company did actually think to go to the Old Brookville police department. Most likely, they’d show up here and take me away.
I yawned, drifted off, woke up, and drifted again. Werewolf Jack signed off at 3A.M., but promised to be back the next night to rip out his listeners’ throats. The station signed off with the National Anthem, and I sat up straight until it was finished. I switched channels to an all-news show. At about 4A.M., an Old Brookville patrol car drove by slowly and we waved to each other.
I drifted off again, and when I awoke, a faint dawn was coming out of the southeast. It was 5:29A.M. I called Sergeant Roberts on the radio and said to him, “Call Mr. Winslow at six-thirty and tell him the prowler has been caught. All is well in Pleasantville. It’s a good day for golf.”
Sergeant Roberts chuckled and replied, “Good luck with Mrs. Winslow.”
“Thanks.”
At 6:45, an automatic garage door slid open in the Winslows’ three-car garage, and a gray Mercedes sedan pulled out and started down the long driveway. At the end of the driveway, the car turned toward me, and I got a glimpse of Mark Winslow, who radiated a blinding dullness through his windshield. I slid down in my seat until he passed.
I didn’t want to roust Jill Winslow out of bed too early, so I waited awhile.
A ground mist rose off the sweeping lawns of the big houses around me, birds sang, and the sun rose over a distant line of trees. A weird wild animal crossed the road. Maybe a fox. I looked for a quail, but I wasn’t sure what a quail looked like, or how you could tell it was hollow. It was hard to believe that Midtown Manhattan was only about thirty miles from this dangerous primeval forest; I couldn’t wait to get my feet back on concrete.
I looked at the Winslow house. I really hoped Mrs. Winslow hadn’t come completely clean with Nash and Griffith-despite Nash’s bullshit about the polygraph-and that Mrs. Winslow was ready to cleanse her soul and her conscience, even if it meant giving up all of this. Not likely. But you never know until you ask.
A few cars passed by, and people looked at me. So, before they called the cops, I started my engine and pulled into the long driveway. I stopped in a cobblestone parking area in front of the house. It was 7:32A.M. I took my police radio, got out, walked up the steps, and rang the doorbell.
How many times had I done this as a homicide cop? How many doorbells had I rung to inform someone of a tragedy, or asked if I could come in for a minute for some routine questions? How many search warrants had I executed, and how many arrest warrants had I enforced?
Now and then, I’d pay a condolence call, and sometimes I arrived with some good news.
It never got old, but it never got good, either.
I had no idea what was going to happen here, but I was certain that some lives were going to change in the next hour or so.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I heard an electronic squawk, and what sounded like a woman’s voice came out of an overhead speaker whose sound quality was slightly worse than the speakers at Jack in the Box. The voice said, “Who is it?”
I looked up and saw a security camera pointing at me. I replied, “Detective Corey, Mrs. Winslow.” I held up my creds to the camera and almost said, “Jumbo Jack with cheese,” but caught myself and said, “I spoke to your husband last night on the phone.”
“Oh… yes. I’m sorry, he’s not in.”
I’m not sorry. I said, “I need a few minutes of your time concerning this prowler.”
“Well… all right… just a minute.”
I waited, and a few minutes later, the big front door opened.
Jill Winslow was indeed an attractive woman. She was in her late thirties and had brown hair, which she wore in what I think is called a pageboy cut. She had big brown eyes and nice facial features, which would photograph well, and she had a good tan, but mine was better.
Mrs. Winslow was wearing a modest ankle-length white cotton robe, tied at the waist, and my X-ray vision and X-rated mind saw a good body. She wasn’t smiling, but neither was she frowning, so I smiled, and she forced a smile in return. I held up my Federal credentials again and said, “I’m sorry to call so early, but I won’t keep you long.”
She nodded and motioned me inside.
I followed her through a large formal foyer, then into a big country kitchen. She indicated a round table in a breakfast area near a sunny bay window and said, “I’m having coffee. Would you like some?”
“Yes, thank you.” I sat and put my radio on the table.
She moved to the counter and began making coffee.
From what I could see of the house, it had that old-money look-lots of antique furniture, which I personally think is verminous, worm-infested hunks of dry-rotted wood held together by mold. But what do I know?
As she set up the coffeepot, Jill Winslow said to me, “Ed Roberts from the Old Brookville Police called before, and he said they’d caught the prowler.”
“That’s right.”
“So, what can I do for you, Mr…?”
“Corey. I’m just doing some follow-up.”
She took two coffee cups from the cupboard, put them on a tray, turned to me and asked, “And you’re with the county police?”
“Not exactly.”
She didn’t reply.
I said, “I’m with the FBI.”
