Night Fall

by Nelson DeMille

  “Yeah . . . she used to work out of Manhattan South.”

  “That’s her. She was on and off the task force before you got there. She’s happily married, two kids, and off the job. She’s got nothing to lose by talking to you, but nothing to gain either.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “I don’t know. You’re a detective. You find her.”

  “I will. Thanks for the name.”

  “Don’t use my name.”

  “Goes without saying.”

  He started for the door, then came back to me. He said, “We talked about your interest in doing background checks. I’m going to make some calls for you, for the record. Send me your résumé or something. You may get a call for an interview.”

  “What if they offer me your job?”

  “Take it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I walked to Ecco on Chambers Street. The maître d’ recognized me, and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Mayfield. Your wife has arrived.”

  “Which one?”

  “This way, sir.” He escorted me to a table where Kate was sitting, sipping a sparkling water, and reading the Times.

  I gave Kate a kiss and took a seat opposite her. She said, “I ordered you a Budweiser.”

  “Good.” It’s actually not bad being married. It’s comfortable.

  My Bud arrived, and I clinked glasses with Kate.

  Ecco is a pleasant older establishment, frequented by people who work for the city or the courts, including jurors, and also including, unfortunately, defense attorneys, such as my ex-wife. I hadn’t run into her or her insignificant other here yet, but I would someday.

  The waiter came with menus, but we ordered without looking at them. Salad and grilled tuna for Kate, and fried calamari and penne alla vodka for me.

  I’m on the Dr. Atkinson diet. Harvey Atkinson is a fat dentist in Brooklyn whose philosophy is, “Eat what tastes good, and clean your plate.”

  Kate said, “You’re putting on a little weight.”

  “It’s the horizontal stripes on my tie.” What did I say about marriage?

  “You need to eat right and get more exercise.” She changed the subject and asked me, “How did your meeting go?”

  “Good.”

  “Did it have to do with yesterday?”

  “Maybe.” I asked her, “Do you know who interviewed Leslie Rosenthal, the manager of the Bayview Hotel?”

  “I asked Mr. Rosenthal the same question five years ago. He was first interviewed by an NYPD task force detective, a man whose name he didn’t get. The detective, realizing he may have found the source of the blanket on the beach, then called in the FBI. Three guys showed up who identified themselves as FBI. One guy did all the talking, but Rosenthal didn’t catch his name.”

  “No cards?”

  “That’s what he said. According to Mr. Rosenthal, these three and some others questioned the staff and looked through the hotel’s written and computer records, making a copy of all the recent guest registrations and checkouts. I assume they tried to determine if two of these guests were the ones who’d taken the blanket to the beach that night, and who may have videotaped themselves, and inadvertently videotaped TWA Flight 800.”

  I replied, “And what we don’t know is whether or not these three guys were successful in locating this couple. My instincts say they were. So, even if we found this couple, they’ve already been sanitized or vaporized.”

  Kate did not reply.

  I continued, “And so has this videotape, if it ever existed.”

  “Well . . . if that’s the case, then we should at least find that out. Look, John, I never thought we were going to solve the mystery of TWA 800. I just want to . . . find this couple, and talk to them . . .”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know until I talk to them.”

  “That sounds like one of my lines.”

  She smiled. “You’ve had a great influence on my thinking.”

  “Same here,” I said.

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  The appetizers came, and I asked her, “Do you think Mr. Rosenthal is still at the Bayview Hotel?”

  “I know he is. I check every year. I did a background on him, and I know where he lives and all that.” She looked at me and said, “I’m not working the case. But I am keeping the files up-to-date.”

  “What files?”

  She tapped her head. “Up here.”

  “Tell me what else is up there.”

  “I did that yesterday. Now it’s better that you ask when you need something.” She added, “You need to arrive at questions before you arrive at answers.”

  “Okay, I understand you want me to work this case the way a detective would work it who just caught the squeal—meaning, who just got notified of the crime. But this is an old case, and I never worked on the Cold Case Squad. I used to get my cases before the blood even congealed on the corpse.”

  “Please, I’m eating.” She pushed a forkful of salad at me. “Eat this.”

  I opened wide, and she shoved this stuff in my mouth.

  She said, “Ask me another question.”

  “Okay. Have you ever discussed this with Ted Nash?”

  “Not once.”

  “Not even over dinner or drinks?”

  “I wouldn’t have discussed this even if I was in bed with him.”

  I didn’t respond to that, but said, “I’m going to call him.”

  “He’s dead, John.”

  “I know. I just like to keep hearing it.”

  She scolded me, “John, that’s not funny. You may not have liked him, but he was a good and dedicated agent. Very smart and very effective.”

  “Good. I’ll call him.”

  The main course came, and I ordered another beer, and dug into my pasta. Kate said, “Have some of my vegetables.”

  “So, Jeffrey Dahmer asks his mother over for lunch, and she’s eating and says, ‘Jeffrey, I don’t like your friends.’ And he says, ‘Well, then, just eat the vegetables.’”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Usually gets a laugh.” I got serious and said, “So I assume you also did not speak to Liam Griffith about this.”

  “I spoke to no one. Except the guys on the twenty-eighth floor, who told me it was none of my business.”

  “Right. So you made it my business.”

  “If you want it to be. It all comes down to finding this couple. If they were found, and if it turned out that it was a dead end—that they didn’t see or tape anything—then that’s the end of it. The rest of the case—the eyewitnesses and the forensic evidence—have been gone over a million times. But this couple . . . whoever it was on the beach that night who left a lens cap to a video camera on that blanket . . .” She looked at me and asked, “Do you think there was a videotape being recorded, and do you think it captured on film what the eyewitnesses said they saw?”

  I replied, “It depends, obviously, on which way that video camera was pointing, and if it was even turned on. And then you have the problem of film quality and so forth. But let’s say everything came together by chance and that the last seconds of that TWA flight were recorded. Let’s even say the film still exists. So what?”

  “What do you mean, ‘So what?’ Two hundred eyewitnesses would be looking at that film and—”

  “And so would the FBI and CIA and their film experts. Someone needs to interpret the film.”

  “It wouldn’t need interpretation. It would speak for itself.”

  “Would it?” I said to her, “An amateur video, shot at dusk into a night sky, probably from a fixed tripod—assuming the couple were engaged in other activities—may not show all you think it would show. Look, Kate, you’ve been searching for the Holy Grail for five years, and it may actually exist, but you may never find it, and if you do, it may not hold any magical powers.”

  She didn’t reply.

  I continued, “You’ve heard of the Zapruder film.”

  She nod
ded.

  “Guy named Zapruder was filming John Kennedy’s motorcade as it passed by the Texas Book Depository. He was using an eight-millimeter handheld Bell & Howell movie camera. The film lasted twenty-six seconds. You ever see it?”

  She nodded.

  “Me, too. I saw the digitalized version, and I saw it in slow motion. So how many shots were fired? And what direction did they come from? Depends on who you ask.”

  She stayed quiet for a while, then said, “Still, we can’t interpret the tape unless we find it. First things first.”

  The waiter cleared the table before I could get the last penne in my mouth. I finished my beer, and Kate sipped her sparkling water. I could tell she was deep in thought.

  My hunch was that she hadn’t shared much of this stuff with many people, and those she had shared it with were inclined to agree with her that if a videotape was found, it would break open the whole case.

  Enter John Corey—skeptic, cynic, realist, and bubble-burster. I’d been around fourteen years longer than Kate Mayfield, and I’d seen a lot—maybe too much—and I’d been disappointed too many times as a cop and as a man. I’ve seen murderers go free and a hundred other crimes go unsolved or unpunished. I’ve seen witnesses lying under oath, sloppy police work, inept prosecutors, incompetent forensic work, outrageous defense attorneys, imbecilic judges, and brainless juries.

  I’ve seen good stuff, too—bright shining moments when the system worked like an oiled clock, when truth and justice had their day in court. But there weren’t many days like that.

  We had coffee, and Kate asked me, “Is it really true about the blue wall of silence?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Can a cop absolutely trust another cop, anytime, about anything?”

  “Ninety-nine percent of the time, though it drops to fifty percent when it has to do with women, but rises to a hundred percent when it has to do with the FBI.”

  She smiled, then leaned across the table and said to me, “There were over a hundred task force cops out on Long Island after that plane went down, and at least as many working back here. Among those cops, somebody knows something.”

  “I get it.”

  She took my hand and said, “But if it gets hot, drop it. And if you get into trouble, I’ll take the blame.”

  I didn’t know whether to get all choked up or to remind her that I couldn’t have gotten into trouble without her help and advice. I said to her, “Let me ask you something—aside from truth and justice, what is your motivation in pursuing this case?”

  She replied, “Why would I need any further motivation? It’s truth and justice, John. Justice for the victims and their families. And if this was an attack by foreign terrorists, then it’s also patriotism. Isn’t that reason enough?”

  The correct answer was yes and that’s what John Corey would have said about twenty years ago. Today, I just sort of mumbled, “Yeah, I guess so.”

  She didn’t like that and said to me, “You need to believe in what you’re doing, and know why you’re doing it.”

  “Okay, then I’ll tell you—I do detective work because I like it. It’s interesting, and it keeps my mind sharp and makes me feel smarter than the idiots I work for. That’s the extent of my commitment to truth, justice, and country. I do the right thing for the wrong reasons, but bottom line, truth and justice get done. If you want to do the right thing for the right reasons, go right ahead, but don’t expect me to share your idealism.”

  She stayed silent for some time, then replied, “I’ll take your help on your terms. We can work on your cynicism another time.”

  I don’t like it when people—especially women—invade my hard-won cynicism. I know what makes me tick. And I had a lot of ticking to do in the days and weeks ahead.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I walked with Kate back to the lobby of 26 Federal Plaza and said to her, “I need to make some pay phone calls. I’ll see you later.”

  She looked at me and said, “You have that faraway look you get when you’re on to something.”

  “I’m just a little logy from the pasta. Please don’t try to read me. That scares me.”

  She smiled, gave me a kiss, and walked toward the elevators.

  I went outside to a phone booth on Broadway and fished some change out of my pocket. I remember when you had to wait for a pay phone, but now, everyone has cell phones, even derelicts—homeless persons—and the phone booths are as empty as the confessionals at St. Patrick’s.

  I dropped a quarter and dialed the cell phone of my ex-partner, Dom Fanelli, who was working out of Manhattan South.

  He answered, “Hello?”

  “Dom.”

  “Hey, paisano! Long time. Where are you? Let’s grab a beer tonight.”

  “Are you in your office?”

  “Yeah, what’s up? Everyone would love to see you. Lieutenant Wolfe misses you. He’s got a new paperweight.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “You got it. Come on over.”

  “I can’t. What I need—”

  “You free tonight? I found a new place in Chelsea—Tonic. Incredible ass there.”

  “I’m married.”

  “No shit? When?”

  “You were at the wedding.”

  “Right. How’s Kate?”

  “Kate is great. Sends her regards.”

  “She hates me.”

  “She loves you.”

  “Whatever.”

  It was hard to believe that this man had a brilliant mind when it came to detective work. But he did. I actually learned a lot from him. Like how to play dumb. I asked him, “How’s Mary?”

  “I don’t know. What do you hear?” He laughed at his own joke, as he often does, and said to me, “All kidding aside, throughout my whole married life, I’ve never cheated on a girlfriend.”

  “You’re a prince. Okay, what—”

  “How’s it going at 26 Fed?”

  “Terrific. Which reminds me—I saw Captain Stein the other day, and he’s still waiting for you to put in your papers and come over to the task force. The job is yours if you want it.”

  “I thought I mailed those papers in. Oh, God! I hope I didn’t miss the chance to work for the FBI.”

  “It’s a great job. Don’t you ever get tired of people murdering other people?”

  “I’ll get tired of it when they get tired of it.”

  “Right. Do you remember—?”

  “Oh, before I forget. Those two Hispanic gentlemen who put some holes in you. I may have a lead on them.”

  “What’s the lead?”

  “Let me handle it. You have enough on your plate. I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

  “If you think of it.”

  He laughed, then said seriously, “Every time I think of you lying there in the street, bleeding to death—”

  “Thank you again for saving my life. Thank you for getting me on the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, where I met Kate. Am I forgetting anything?”

  “I don’t think so. We don’t count favors, John. You know that. When you need a favor, I’m there, and when I need a favor, you’ll be there for me. So what can I do for you?”

  “I forgot.”

  He laughed and asked me, “Anything new with the Khalil case?”

  “No.”

  “That motherfucker is going to pop up when you least expect it.”

  “Thank you. Look—” The phone clicked, and I put in another quarter. I asked him, “Do you remember Marie Gubitosi?”

  “Yeah. Why? Great ass. That guy Kulowski or Kulakowski was popping her. Remember? He was married, and his wife found out and—”

  “Yeah. Listen, I need to find her. She’s married now—”

  “I know. Married some guy who’s not on the job. She lives in . . . I think Staten Island. Why do you need to find her?”

  “I don’t know until I find her.”

  “Yeah? Why do you need me to find her? You could find her in less than an hour. A
nd why are you in a pay phone? What’s up, John? You in trouble?”

  “No. I’m doing something on the side.”

  “Yeah? What side?”

  I looked at my watch. If I planned to make the three o’clock ferry to Staten Island, I needed to cut Fanelli short, but that’s easier said than done. I said to him, “Dom, I can’t talk over the phone. We’ll have a few beers next week. Meanwhile, get me a make on Marie, and call me back on my cell phone.”

  “Just hold a second. I have power at the Wheel.”

  He put me on hold and I waited. The Wheel is the personnel department at One Police Plaza, and I’m not sure why it’s called the Wheel, and after two decades on the NYPD, I’m not going to sound like a rookie and ask. I should have asked twenty years ago. In any case, if you know someone there—and Dom Fanelli knows someone everywhere—you can skip the red tape and get an answer real fast.

  Fanelli came back on the line and said, “Marie Gubitosi is not actually off the job. She’s on extended maternity leave, as of January ’97. Married name is Lentini. Married a wop. Mama’s happy. I’m trying to remember what happened with Kowalski and his wife when the wife found out—”

  “Dom, give me the fucking phone number.”

  “They would only give me a cell number. No address. Ready?”

  He gave me her number, and I said, “Thanks. I’ll call you next week.”

  “Yeah. Maybe sooner if you manage to get into deep shit. You gotta tell me what this is about.”

  “I will.”

  “Watch yourself.”

  “Always do.” I hung up, fed the phone, and dialed the number. After three rings, a female voice answered, “Hello?”

  “Marie Gubitosi, please.”

  “Speaking. Who’s this?”

  “Marie, this is John Corey. We worked in South together.”

  “Oh . . . yeah. What’s up?”

  I could hear at least two kids screaming in the background. I said, “I need to talk to you about an old case. Can you meet me someplace?”

  “Yeah, right. Get me a baby-sitter, and I’ll drink with you all night.”

  I laughed and said, “Actually, my wife can sit.”

  “You mean your lawyer wife will baby-sit? What’s she charge?”

  “We’re divorced. I have a new wife.”