Night Fall

by Nelson DeMille

  “I like the way you think, Mr. Rosenthal.”

  “That’s very scary.”

  Mr. Rosenthal had a dry, almost sarcastic sense of humor. I bring out the best in people.

  I left the library, and Mr. Rosenthal followed.

  He asked me, “Do you need to keep that receipt?”

  “Yes.”

  He made a little joke and said, “Then I’ll need a receipt for the receipt.”

  I chuckled politely and said, “Put it on my room bill.”

  We were at the front desk now, and he asked me, “Are you staying with us tonight, Mr. Corey?”

  “I am. I got a good off-season rate.”

  Mr. Rosenthal asked Peter, “What room did you give Mr. Corey?”

  “Room 203.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Rosenthal asked me, “Do you think the room will speak to you?”

  I replied, “It already did.” I said to Peter, “I need a seven A.M. wake-up call.”

  Peter noted it in his book and asked, “Do you need help with your luggage, or directions to the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion?”

  “I do not. Thank you for your help, gentlemen.”

  I walked out of the lobby into the cool, foggy night.

  I got into my rental car, drove to the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion parking lot, took my overnight bag, climbed a set of stairs, and entered Room 203.

  A voice in my head, or in the room, said, Eureka!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I sat at a writing desk and turned on the lamp. I placed the pink receipt on the desk and looked at it with the magnifier.

  The hand that wrote “A Man and a Woman” was definitely feminine and matched the handwriting on the date, room number, and the signature. Someone else, presumably the librarian, had written “Reynolds” and “Not Returned.”

  I once took a handwriting analysis course at John Jay College, and there was a lot to be learned from a person’s handwriting and signature. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember much of the class. But I do remember that there was a distinct difference in handwriting when a person signed his or her real name as opposed to a made-up name or a forgery. This signature looked real. Maybe because I wanted it to be real. Maybe I was making this up.

  I stood, turned on all the lamps, and went to the wall unit. Beneath the television was an empty shelf, and I now noticed in the lamplight that there were four small circles on the shelf—actually, discolorations in the white wood finish. They were the size of a dime, in a rectangular pattern. Obviously, this was where the VCR player had sat on its rubber pads until about three years ago.

  This was not exactly a monumental discovery, but I feel good when I can physically verify what someone has told me.

  I sat again at the small desk and dialed the cell phone of Dom Fanelli. I had no idea where he’d be at this hour, but the nice thing about cell phones is that it doesn’t matter.

  He answered, “Hello?”

  I could hear loud music in the background. “It’s your partner.”

  “Hey, goombah! What’s with this Bayview Hotel shit on my Caller ID? What the hell are you doing there?”

  “I’m on vacation. Where are you?”

  “My phone started vibrating in my pants, and I thought it was Sally. Sarah. Whatever. Sarah, say hello to—”

  “Dom, I can barely hear you.”

  “Hold on.” A minute later, he said, “I’m outside. I was following a homicide suspect, and he went into this club on Varick Street. This is a tough job. What’s up?”

  “I need a make on a name.”

  “Again? What happened to the names I gave you? Did you go to Philly?”

  “I did. What I need now—”

  “Now you’re in Westhampton Beach. Why don’t you go home?”

  “Why don’t you go home? Okay, the name is—”

  “I tidied up your apartment. The cleaning lady will be there tomorrow. Fridays, right?”

  “Unless she died. Listen—Jill Winslow.” I spelled it. “I’m thinking she’s maybe thirties, forties—”

  “That narrows it down.”

  “I don’t have anything solid on her, but she checked in here for a romp in the hay with a guy on a summer weekday—July 17, 1996.”

  “Familiar date.”

  “Yeah. The guy used an alias, so he’s probably married, and she may or may not be. But I think she is—”

  “Married women are the safest if you’re married.”

  “That’s what your wife says about her boyfriends. Okay, I’m thinking she lives on Long Island, but maybe Manhattan. How far would you drive for a romantic rendezvous?”

  “I once drove to Seattle to get laid. But I was nineteen. What’s the farthest you’ve ever driven to get laid?”

  “Toronto. Okay, so—”

  “How about that FBI lady in D.C.? What’s farther? Toronto or Washington?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You win with Seattle. Okay, listen—First, tap into DMV—there’s a tan Ford Explorer involved, at least five years old, but it may be his, not hers, and it could be sold by now. Then, tap into ChoicePoint and LexisNexis for a property search, divorce records, and so forth. I’m thinking upscale neighborhood on Long Island, so also check utility records with Long Island Power Authority for Winslows. But she could live in Manhattan, so also check Con Ed. Obviously get into telephone records, but they’re probably unlisted. Remember, all this stuff may not be in her name, but in her husband’s, so—”

  “Here it is. Jill Winslow, Number 8 Maple Lane, Locust Valley, Long Island, New York, 1996 Ford Explorer, tan, husband’s name Roger. Just kidding. You should play with your computer, too. I’ve got homicides to solve.”

  “This may be the biggest homicide you ever helped solve.”

  There was a silence, then Dom Fanelli said, “I understand.”

  “Good. And also check death records.”

  “You think she died? Was she offed?”

  “I hope not.”

  “What are you on to? Tell me, in case you get killed.”

  “I’ll leave you a note.”

  “No joke, John—”

  “Call me tomorrow at this number. Room 203. Leave a message if I’m not in. You’re Mr. Verdi.”

  He laughed and said, “Hey, I never saw anyone so miserable as you at the opera.”

  “Bullshit. I love it when the fat lady croaks at the end of La Traviata. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Ciao.”

  I hung up, got undressed, and threw my clothes neatly on a chair. I took my overnight bag and went into the bathroom.

  I shaved, brushed my teeth, and got in the shower.

  So, Liam Griffith, Ted Nash, and whoever else was with them had discovered the video receipt book and taken the page out of the book. But they forgot the carbon copy. How dumb is that?

  Well, but we all make mistakes. Even I make a mistake now and then.

  More important, was Jill Winslow a real name, and did they find her? I think yes, on both counts. Which also meant they’d found Don Juan through her. Or they’d found Don Juan first, maybe through his fingerprints. In either case, both had been found.

  I could picture Nash and/or Griffith talking to them, inquiring about them shooting a videotape on the beach, and about their relationship.

  What were the possible outcomes of that discussion? There were three: one, this couple had not actually recorded TWA 800 exploding; two, they had, but they’d destroyed the tape; three, they’d recorded the explosion and saved the tape, which they’d turned over to Nash, Griffith, and friends in exchange for a promise that their affair would be kept secret—assuming that one or both of these people were married and wanted to stay that way.

  In any case, this couple had spent some time on a polygraph machine as they answered these questions.

  I had no doubt that I, or Dom Fanelli, would find Jill Winslow if she was still alive.

  And I would speak to her, and she would tell me everything she’d told the FBI five years ago becaus
e I was an FBI person doing some follow-up.

  But that wasn’t going to put the videotape in my hand, even if there had once been a videotape.

  So, that was sort of a dead end, but at least I’d know the truth about this videotape, and maybe I could take that information to a higher authority. Maybe I’d disappear.

  I had one more thought, and it had to do with A Man and a Woman. Why did Jill Winslow—or maybe Don Juan—swipe that tape? If you’re clearing out of a room fast, and you leave the key in the room and don’t check out at the desk, why would you shove a borrowed movie tape in your handbag or luggage?

  I thought about that, and about something that Roxanne had said, and I thought I knew why Don Juan or Jill Winslow took that videotape. When I spoke to Jill Winslow, I’d ask her if I was right.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Peter called at 7 A.M., and I thought I detected a malicious tone in his voice when he announced the time.

  I rolled out of bed and instinctively felt under the pillow for my Glock, but then I remembered that we were temporarily separated.

  I showered and dressed, and walked to the main building for breakfast.

  Peter greeted me with a muted “Good morning,” and I went into the lounge/restaurant. It was Saturday morning and a few weekenders may have arrived the night before, but the place was almost empty.

  The waitress brought coffee and a breakfast menu. Having spent forty days in a Muslim country, I felt pork-deprived, and I ordered bacon and ham with pork sausage on the side.

  The waitress asked, “Atkins?”

  I replied, “No, Catholic.”

  After breakfast, I went into the library room. A few people were sitting in club chairs near the sunny windows reading newspapers and magazines.

  I perused the shelves and found a Stephen King book, Bag of Bones. I went to the table in the rear, and I said to the librarian/sundries saleslady, “I’d like to borrow this book.”

  She smiled and said, “This one will keep you up all night.”

  “That’s good. I have diarrhea.”

  She slid the receipt book toward me and said, “Please fill that out.”

  I wrote the date, the title of the book, Room 203, and I signed the receipt, “Giuseppe Verdi.”

  The lady said, “Do you have a room key with you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She punched up Room 203 on her computer and said, “I’m showing another guest in that room.”

  “My boyfriend. John Corey.”

  “Uh . . . okay . . .” She wrote “Corey” on the slip and said, “Thank you, Mr. Verdi. Enjoy the book. It’s due back anytime before you check out.”

  “Do I get a receipt?”

  “You get the pink copy when you return the book. Or you can just leave the book in your room when you check out if you don’t require a return receipt.”

  “Okay. Can I buy the book if I like it?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  I went upstairs to the hotel offices and spotted Susan Corva, Mr. Rosenthal’s assistant. She seemed to remember me and smiled tightly. I said, “Good morning. Is Mr. Rosenthal in?”

  She replied, “He’s usually in on Saturdays, but he’ll be late this morning.”

  I said, “He probably overslept. Can I use one of your computers?”

  She motioned me toward an empty desk.

  I checked my e-mail, and there were a few inconsequential messages, then a message from Kate, which said, “I tried calling you at the apartment. Please let me know you’ve arrived safely. I’ll be home Monday :) Same flight info. I’ll take a taxi from the airport. I miss you :( and I can’t wait to see you. All my love, Kate.”

  I smiled. :)

  I typed in a reply: “Dear Kate—arrived safely. I’m not in the apartment. Spending a few days R&R at the beach.”

  I thought a moment. I’m not good at this mushy stuff, so I followed her format and typed, “I miss you :( and I can’t wait to see you :) I’ll try to meet you at the airport. All my love, John.”

  I sent it into cyberspace, thanked Susan, and left the office. Downstairs, I asked Peter where he got his hair done and he gave me the name of the place in Westhampton Beach.

  I drove into the village, found Peter’s hairstyling place, and got my first decent haircut in over a month. I asked Tiffany, the young lady cutting my hair, “Do you know Peter, the desk clerk at the Bayview Hotel?”

  “Sure. He has great hair.” She added, “Great skin, too.”

  “How about me?”

  “You have a nice tan.”

  “I was in Yemen.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Saudi Arabian peninsula.”

  “No kidding? Where’s that?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Vacation?”

  “No. I was on a secret and dangerous mission for the government.”

  “No kidding? You want a little hairspray?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I paid Tiffany and inquired about where I could buy a bathing suit. She directed me to a sporting goods store a block away.

  I walked to the store and bought a pair of baggy green swim trunks, a black T-shirt, and beach sandals. Trés Hamptons.

  I drove back to the hotel and went into the lobby to check for phone messages, and to see if Peter noticed my new haircut, but he was off-duty. There were no messages, and I went to my room and changed into my new swimwear, remembering to remove the tags.

  I checked my cell phone for messages, but no one had called, and my beeper was still not charged.

  Thinking of Roxanne, I left a few dollars for the cleaning lady, and I exited my room.

  I drove down to Cupsogue Beach County Park, parked in the lot and walked to the beach. It was a day of brilliant sunshine, warm temperatures, and a soft breeze.

  I spent the morning swimming, catching a few September rays, and running barefoot on the beach, humming the score of Chariots of Fire.

  By noon there were a few people on the beach, mostly families, enjoying what could be the last good beach weekend of the waning summer.

  I was in better shape than I’d been in years, and I resolved to stay that way so that when Kate came home she’d marvel at my golden tan and my surfer-boy body. I wondered if she’d stayed in top shape in Dar es Salaam. I hoped I didn’t have to say something like, “You’ve put on a little weight, sweetheart.”

  I should probably not say that until after we’d had sex.

  I ran out to the western tip of the park where the inlet separated this barrier island from Fire Island, where the memorial service had been held at Smith Point County Park. This was the inlet from which Captain Spruck had sailed into the ocean on the evening of July 17, 1996, and seen something that had troubled him ever since.

  It was the kind of golden late summer day that makes you reflect on the cycles of the seasons, with corresponding thoughts about the cycles of life and death, and what we’re doing on this planet, and why we’re doing it.

  Weird birds circled overhead, then dived after unsuspecting fish, who in the blink of an eye were transported from sea, to air, to bird’s stomach.

  Out there, over the ocean, 230 people had started a journey to Paris, but had suddenly fallen three miles through the night sky into the sea. Just like that.

  A society can be judged by its response to untimely deaths—accidents and murder—and the society we lived in spent a lot of time, money, and effort to investigate accidents and murder. It was part of our culture that no murder go unpunished, and no accident be written off as unavoidable.

  And yet, five years after TWA 800 exploded in midair, apparently and officially as a result of an electrical spark in the center fuel tank, not much had been done to correct the potentially catastrophic problem.

  Meaning what? Meaning, perhaps, that the alternate theory—a missile—was still influencing some people’s thinking and decision-making.

  As the years passed, and not one single similar problem had occurred
—even with no remedial action taken in regard to the fuel tanks—the official conclusion became a little more suspect.

  I jogged along the ocean beach, then turned inland and ran up and down a few sand dunes, hoping to spot the tail of a kinetic missile sticking up out of the sand, but no such luck.

  I found the small, sheltered valley between the dunes where Don Juan and his lady, now named Jill Winslow, had spread a blanket and spent a romantic and probably illicit hour or so on the beach. I wondered if this thing that had happened here still haunted them.

  I took off my T-shirt and lay down where they’d probably lain down, my T-shirt for a pillow, and slept in the warm sand.

  I had an erotic dream in which I was in an oasis in the Yemen desert, and my harem consisted of Kate, Marie, Roxanne, and Jill Winslow, who was wearing a veil, so I couldn’t see her face. There wasn’t anything too subtle about the dream, and it didn’t need much analysis, except for the part where Ted Nash showed up on a camel.

  Back at the hotel, my message light was blinking, and I called the front desk. The clerk said to me, “Mr. Verdi called. He asked that you call him back. He left no number.”

  “Thank you.”

  Using the room phone, I called Dom Fanelli’s cell phone.

  He answered, and I said, “Mr. Corey returning Mr. Verdi’s call.”

  “Hey, Giovanni, you got my message?”

  “I did. How’d you make out?”

  “I spent all day banging away at my computer for you. It’s Saturday. I want to spend some quality time with my wife.”

  “Tell Mary it was my fault.”

  “No problem. Anyway, she went to her sister’s in Jersey. Factory outlet houses. You ever go to one of those places? Mama mia! These broads are practically changing clothes in the aisles. The more you spend, the more you save. Wrong. The more you spend, the more you spend. Right?”

  “Right.” I knew by now that he’d gotten a hit.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I found some Winslows for you, and I think I narrowed it down to one Jill Winslow who might fit. You want it?”

  “Sure.”

  “First, you tell me what this is about.”

  “Dom, I can get the same shit you just got. What you want to know is something you should not know. Trust me on that.”