Night Fall

She nodded, and I could see she wasn’t surprised or confused. We looked at each other for a few seconds, and I had no doubt that I was talking to the Jill Winslow who swipedA Man and a Woman from the Bayview Hotel five years ago.

I asked her, “Have any other Federal agents called or come by recently?”

She shook her head.

I said to her, “You know why I’m here.”

She nodded.

I said, “Something new has come up, and I thought you could help me out.”

She replied, “We’ve been through all of this.”

She had a distinctly upscale accent, soft but clear as a bell. And her big eyes looked right into me. I said, “We need to go through it again.”

She kept looking at me, and the only thing that moved was her head, which she shook, but not in a negative way; more like a gesture of sadness.

Mrs. Jill Winslow carried herself well, and even at this hour, without makeup or clothes, she appeared to be a well-bred woman who belonged in this house.

And yet, maybe because I knew she was into sex, lies, and videotape, therewas something about her that suggested a wilder side to her patrician demeanor.

She turned away and set a tray with cream, sugar, napkins, and utensils.

I couldn’t see her face, but her hands seemed steady enough. With her back to me, she said, “A few months ago… in July… I watched the memorial service on television. It’s hard to believe it’s been five years.”

“It is.” I blew into my hand to check my breath, which was beyond bad at this point, and I discreetly sniffed my shirt.

Mrs. Winslow turned and carried the tray with a carafe of coffee to the table and set it down as I stood. She said, “Please help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

We both sat, and I said, “I’ve actually just returned from Yemen, so I’m a bit… rumpled.”

I saw that she noticed the scab and bruise on my chin, then she asked, “What were you doing in Yemen? Or can’t you say?”

“I was investigating the bombing of the USS Cole.” I added, “I do counter-terrorism work.”

She didn’t respond, but she knew where this was going.

I poured two cups of coffee from the carafe, and she said, “Thank you.”

I turned off the police radio, then drank some coffee. Not bad.

She said to me, “My husband is golfing this morning. I’m going to church at ten.”

I replied, “I know that. We should be finished before you need to get ready for church. As for Mr. Winslow, this business, as promised five years ago, will not concern him.”

She nodded and said, “Thank you.”

I had another cup of coffee, and Mrs. Winslow sipped hers. I said, “Last night, I spoke to the man who was originally assigned to this case-Ted Nash. Do you remember him?”

She nodded.

I continued, “And some weeks ago, I spoke to Liam Griffith. Do you remember him?”

Again, she nodded.

I asked, “Who else interviewed you at that time?”

She replied, “A man who identified himself as Mr. Brown from the National Transportation Board.”

I described Jack Koenig to her, including the impression that he had a steel rod up his ass, and she replied, “I’m not sure. Don’t you know?”

I ignored the question and asked, “Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Did you sign a statement?”

“No.”

“Was a video or audio recording made of anything you said?”

“No… not to my knowledge. But the man called Griffith took a few notes.”

“Where were these interviews conducted?”

“Here.”

“Here in this house?”

“Yes. While my husband was at work.”

“I see.” Unusual, but not unheard of with a friendly or secret witness. Obviously, they didn’t want to log her in at a Federal facility. I asked, “And the gentleman with you at that time?”

“What about him?”

“Where was he interviewed?”

“I think his interviews were done in his office. Why do you ask?”

“I’m checking procedures and guidelines.”

She didn’t reply to that and asked me, “What new information has come up, and what do you need from me?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss what new information has come up. And what I need from you are some clarifications.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for instance, I need an update on your relationship with your gentleman friend.” And his name.

She looked a little annoyed or exasperated and replied, “I don’t know what relevance that has now, but if you must know, I haven’t been involved with Bud since that happened.”

Bud. “But you see and speak to him.”

“Now and then. We run into each other at parties, or at the club. It’s unavoidable and awkward.”

“Oh, I know. I run into my ex-wife and ex-girlfriends all over Manhattan.” I smiled, and she smiled in return.

She asked me, “Have you spoken to him?”

“No. I wanted to speak to you first. He’s still at the same address?”

“Yes. Same address. Same wife.”

“Same job?”

“Same job.”

“Would you know if he’s in town?”

“I think so. I saw him at a Labor Day barbeque…” She looked at me and said, “When I see him… I don’t know why…”

“You don’t know what you saw in him.”

She nodded. “It wasn’t worth it.”

“It never seems to have been worth it afterward. But at the time, it seems like a good idea.”

She smiled. “I guess.”

“You’re probably disappointed that he gave your name to the FBI. You think he should have protected you.”

She shrugged and said, “I don’t think he could have. They were very persuasive… almost threatening… but a stronger man might have…” She laughed and said, “I think he held out for about three minutes.”

I smiled and said, “Well, don’t be too hard on Bud. He was doing the right thing as a citizen.”

“Bud does what’s right for Bud.” She thought a moment, then said, “If the FBI had come to me first, looking for him, I’d have probably done the same thing. But it’s what happened afterward that made me realize he was…”

“A wimp.”

She laughed. “Yes, a wimp. And a coward-and not a gentleman.”

“Why?”

“Well… for instance, I wanted to come forward and contact the FBI about what we’d seen and videotaped. He didn’t. Then he told the FBI, after they’d found him, that it wasme who didn’t want to come forward. It was just awful… he wasn’t exactly comforting, and he was thinking only of himself.”