I looked at her and said, “Mrs. Winslow, you haven’t lied to me yet.”
She looked away from me, pretended to think, then said, “I remember. We watched a movie on TV.”
“A videotape?”
“Yes…”
“A Man and a Woman.”
She looked at me and didn’t reply.
I said, “You took it out of the hotel lending library.”
“Oh… yes…” She kept looking at me looking at her, then to break the silence, she said in a light tone of voice, “Very romantic. But I think Bud was bored.” She asked, “Have you ever seen it?”
“No. But I’d like to borrow yours, if I may.”
There was a long silence during which she stared down at the table, and I looked at her. She was obviously fighting an inner battle, and I let her fight it. This was one of those moments in life when everything turned on a single decision, and a few words. I’ve been here many times, with a witness or a homicide suspect, and they need to reach their own decision-which I’ve tried to make easier by all I’ve said up until that moment.
I knew what was going through her mind-divorce, disgrace, public humiliation, children, friends, family, maybe even Bud. And if she thought further into the future, she’d think about public testimony, lawyers, national media, and maybe even some danger.
She spoke, barely above a whisper, and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I replied, “Mrs. Winslow, there are only two people in this world who know what I’m talking about. I’m one, you’re the other.”
She didn’t reply.
I picked up the Band-Aid wrapper and scooted it across the table at her. I said, “We found one of these in Room 203. Did you cut yourself?”
She didn’t reply.
“Or did you use the Band-Aid to cover the missing plastic tab on the library videotape? That’s how you recorded your videotape over A Man and a Woman. While Bud was in the shower.” I let a few seconds pass, then said, “Now, you can tell me that’s not true, but then I have to wonder why you kept that movie that you took out of the hotel library. Or, you can tell me that it’s true, that you did record your videotape over the movie, but later destroyed it. But that’s not what you did.”
Jill Winslow took a deep breath, and I could see tears running down her face. She looked at me and said, “I guess… I guess I should tell you the truth…”
“I already know the truth. But, yes, I’d like to hear it from you.”
“There’s really nothing to say.”
She stood, and I thought she was going to show me out, but instead she took a deep breath and asked, “Would you like to see the tape?”
I stood, and I could actually feel my heart speed up. I replied, “Yes, I’d like to see the tape.”
“All right… but… when you see it… I hope you understand why I couldn’t show it… or give it to anyone… I’ve thought about it… many times… I thought about it in July when I saw the memorial service on television… all those people… but does it matter how they died?”
“Yes, it does.”
She nodded, then said, “Maybe if I gave you this tape, you could continue to keep this quiet… is that possible?”
“I could tell you it’s possible, but it’s not. You know that, and I know that.”
Again, she nodded, stood motionless for a while, then looked at me and said, “Follow me.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Jill Winslow led me into a big family room in the rear of the house and said, “Have a seat there.”
I sat in a leather armchair facing a plasma TV screen. She said, “I’ll be right back.”
She left the room, apparently to go to some secret hiding place. I should tell her that there are no secret hiding places in a house-I’ve never missed one in twenty years as a cop. But Mark Winslow was not a cop; he was a clueless husband. Or, as the old joke goes, “If you want to hide something from your husband, put it on the ironing board.”
I stood and walked around the sunlit room. There was a wall of framed photographs, and I saw their two sons, who were handsome, clean-cut young men. There were photos of family vacations from around the world, and a section of black-and-white photos of another generation standing in front of limousines, horses, and yachts, showing that the money went back a long way.
I studied a recent color photograph of Mark and Jill Winslow, taken at some black-tie affair, and you wouldn’t know they were a couple.
Mark Winslow was not a bad-looking guy, but he had so little presence, I was surprised that the camera even recorded his image.
On another wall were some stupid golf plaques, civic awards, business citations, and other evidence of Mr. Winslow’s many accomplishments.
The bookshelves held some popular fiction and mandatory classics, but mostly golf and business books. Interspersed with the books were golf trophies. I deduced that the man played golf. I noted there was no indication of any rugged pursuits such as deep-sea fishing, hunting, or military service. There was, however, a mahogany bar in the corner, and I could picture Mr. Winslow shaking up a few martinis so he could get blotto every night.
I mean, I didn’t dislike this guy-I didn’t even know him-and I don’t automatically dislike the rich. But I felt that if I met Mark Winslow, I would not ask him to have a beer with me and Dom Fanelli.
In any case, I think Jill Winslow had made her decision regarding Mark Winslow, and I hoped she hadn’t changed her mind while she was hunting for the videotape.
On a paneled wall was another trophy-an oil portrait of Jill, done maybe ten years ago. The artist had captured the big, watery brown eyes and the mouth, which looked both demure and sensuous, depending on how you wanted to interpret it, or what was on your mind.
“Do you like it? I don’t.”
I turned around, and she was standing at the door, still in her robe, but her hair was combed neatly, and she had on a touch of lipstick and eye shadow. In her hand was a videotape.
There was no right answer to her question, so I said, “I’m not a good judge of art.” I added, “Your sons are very handsome.”
She took a remote control from the coffee table, turned on the TV and VCR player, then slid the tape out of its jacket and slipped the cassette into the player. She handed me the cassette jacket.
I looked at it. It said, “Winner of two Academy Awards.
A sticker said, “Property of the Bayview Hotel-Please Return.”
She sat down on the couch and motioned me back to the leather chair next to her. I sat.
She said, “The man, Jean-Louis, is played by Jean-Louis Trintignant-he’s a race car driver who has a young son. The woman, Anne, is played by Anouk Aimee, and she’s a film script girl who has a young daughter. They meet while visiting their children’s boarding school. It’s a beautiful love story, but a sad one. It reminds me of Casablanca.” She added, “This is the English dubbed version.”
“Uh…” I thought I might have missed something in our earlier conversation, and I was about to see a French movie, but then she said, “That’s not what we’re going to see now. At least not for the first forty minutes or so that I recorded over. We’re going to see A Pig and a Slut starring Bud Mitchell and Jill Winslow. Directed by Jill.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.
I glanced at her, and I could tell by her expression, and by her tone of voice, that in her short absence, she’d basically said to herself, “It’s time to come clean and the hell with the consequences.” She looked almost calm, and sort of relieved, like a heavy burden had been lifted from her soul. But I could also see a little nervousness, which was understandable considering she was about to watch an X-rated flick, starring herself, with a man she’d met less than an hour ago.
