We emerged from the tunnel, and I was back in Manhattan, which I’d thought about a lot in Yemen, though not under these circumstances. I sniffed the exhaust fumes, marveled at the billions of tons of concrete and blacktop, and watched a taxi run a red light. It was Sunday, so traffic was light and pedestrians were scarce, and within five minutes, I was heading crosstown on 42nd Street.
I said to Jill, “Do you have any questions for me?”
“Like what?”
“Like what’s going to happen next. What to expect. That kind of stuff.”
“If I need to know anything, you’ll tell me. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Can I make a suggestion?”
“Of course,” I said.
“You’re keeping it in first gear too long.”
“Sorry.”
I turned right on Sixth Avenue and headed up to Central Park South, paying attention to my gear changes. Within a few minutes, we were in front of the Plaza Hotel, and I had the valet park the car. I carried our overnight bags into the opulent lobby and followed Jill to the reception desk.
I didn’t want her paying with her credit card, which could be traced, so she arranged to pay by check, which would be secured by her credit card imprint. I showed the desk clerk my Federal credentials and asked for the manager. He arrived in a few minutes, and I said to him and the clerk, “We are traveling incognito on government business. You will not tell anyone who inquires that Mrs. Winslow is checked in here. You will call the suite if anyone makes such an inquiry. Understood?” They understood and noted it in the computer.
Within ten minutes, we were in the living room of a two-bedroom suite. She found the bigger bedroom, which she claimed without saying a word, and we stood in the living room.
She said, “I’ll call room service. What would you like?”
What I liked was in the room bar, but I said, “Just coffee.”
She picked up the phone and ordered coffee and assorted pastry.
I said to her, “Will your husband be home yet?”
She looked at her watch and said, “Probably not.”
“Okay, what I need you to do is call home and leave a message for Mark. Say something that indicates that you need some time away from home and that you’ve gone to the country with a girlfriend or something. I don’t want him to be alarmed, and I don’t want him calling the police. Understand?”
She smiled and said, “He won’t be alarmed—he’ll be shocked. I’ve never left home before . . . well, not without a pre-arranged story. And he won’t call the police because he’d be too embarrassed.”
“Good. Use your cell phone.”
“You said—”
“You can keep it on for about five minutes—ten tops.”
She nodded, took her cell phone from her bag, turned it on, and dialed. She said, “Mark, this is Jill. I was bored today, and I decided to take a ride to the Hamptons and visit a girlfriend. I may stay overnight. Call my cell phone if you’d like and leave a message, but I’m not taking calls.” She added, “I hope you had a good morning of golf with the boys, and that Bud Mitchell didn’t aggravate you again.” She looked at me, smiled, and winked. “Bye.”
Clearly Mrs. Winslow was having some fun.
She asked me, “Was that all right?”
“Perfect.”
On the other hand, if Nash had gotten around to putting two and two together, he’d be at the Winslow house now, soon, or later, and Mr. Winslow would be hearing another story, and he’d be asked to help the authorities find his wayward wife. But I couldn’t worry about that now. I said to Jill, “Please turn off your cell phone and don’t forget to turn it off every time you use it.”
She turned it off and put it in her bag.
Mrs. Winslow went to her bedroom to freshen up.
The doorbell rang, and I let the room service guy in and signed the check.
I walked to the windows and looked out over Central Park.
I felt like a man on the run, which wasn’t surprising, since I was on the run. Ironically, my whole professional life had consisted of me chasing other people who were on the run, though most of them were so stupid that I never really learned much from them about how not to get caught.
But I learned something, and I wasn’t stupid, so the odds of Messrs. Nash and Griffith or anyone finding me soon were in my favor for a while.
Jill came into the living room, looking like she’d done a powder-and-paint job, and we sat at the dining table and had coffee and pastry. I was actually hungry, but I didn’t hog the whole plate of sweets.
She asked me, “Your wife is arriving tomorrow?”
“That’s the plan. About four P.M.”
“Will you meet her at the airport?”
“No. I can’t show up at a pre-arranged place.”
She didn’t ask why not, and I could tell she was getting it. I said, “I’ll have her met and taken here. Neither she nor I can go back to our apartment.”
She nodded, looked at me, and finally said, “John, I’m frightened.”
“Don’t be.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I explained, then added, “I don’t need a gun.”
We made small talk awhile, and then I said to her, “Take the cassette tape I gave you, and have it locked in the hotel safe.”
“All right. What are you going to do with A Man and a Woman?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
She nodded, then said to me, “I’d like to go to church. Then take a walk. Is that all right?”
I said to her, “To be honest with you, if these other people somehow discover where we are, then it doesn’t matter what you do.”
I put her cell phone number into my cell and she put mine into hers. I said, “Remember, don’t keep it on more than five minutes.”
Actually, in Manhattan, with a few hundred thousand cell phone signals bouncing around, it could take fifteen minutes or more to triangulate a cell phone location, but better safe than busted. I continued, “And don’t use your credit cards or an ATM machine. Do you have cash?”
She nodded, and asked me, “Would you like to come with me?”
I stood and said, “I need to stay here and make some calls. I’ll call you a few times, so check for my messages every half hour and call me back as soon as you get my message.”
She said, “You’re worse than my husband.”
I smiled and said, “If you need to call here, call the room phone. But if I don’t answer the room phone, then try my cell. And don’t come back to the room if I don’t answer the phone. Understand?”
She nodded.
I said, “On your way out, don’t forget to have that video cassette put in the hotel safe. Then, put the receipt in a hotel envelope and have it sent up to this room.”
Again, she nodded.
I said to her, “Plan to be back here no later than five P.M.”
“I think I’m going back to Mark.”
I smiled. “See you later.”
I went into the bedroom, sat on the bed, and dialed Dom Fanelli’s cell phone. He answered, and I said, “Sorry to interrupt your Sunday.”
“Hey. You’re calling from the Plaza?”
“I am. Where are you?”
“I’m at the Waldorf. What are you doing at the Plaza?”
“Can you talk?”
“Yeah. I’m at a family barbeque. Get me out of here.”
I asked him, “Do you have a drink in your hand?”
“Does the Pope eat kielbasa? What’s up?”
“You wanted to know what this was about. Right?”
“Right.”
“It’s a big, hungry, fire-breathing dragon, and it can eat you.”
There was a short silence on the phone, then he said, “Shoot.”
“Okay. It’s about TWA 800, which you know, and it’s about a videotape of the crash. And it’s about Jill Winslow, the lady yo
u found for me.” I gave him a full, fifteen-minute briefing. He stayed uncharacteristically quiet the whole time, and I had to ask him a few times if he was still there.
After I finished, he said, “Jesus Christ Almighty. Jesus Christ.” Then he asked, “Are you shitting me?”
“No.”
“Holy shit.”
“You want in?”
I could hear loud people in the background now, and loud music, so he must have been moving his location. I waited, then it got quiet, and he said, “I’m in the toilet now. Shit, I need another drink.”
“Flush first. Dom, I need your help.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Anything. What do you need?”
“I need you with a patrol car and at least two uniformed officers to go with me to pick up Kate at the airport tomorrow.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Someone may be waiting there for her.”
“Who?”
“The Feds. Okay, so pick me up here at the Plaza—”
“Hold on. If someone may be waiting for her, then they’re definitely waiting for you, too, sport.”
“I know, but I’ve got to be there when she—”
“No, you don’t. You stay where you are. You’ve got a witness to protect.”
“You can send someone here to protect—”
“Hey, paisano, be brave and stupid on your own time. We’ll do this my way.”
I thought about that. Being a man of action, I didn’t like the idea of waiting around while someone else did the dangerous stuff for me. Dom was right, of course, but I said, “I’m not going to sit here while you go to JFK—”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll call you if I need you. End of discussion. What else?”
“All right . . . well, be prepared for some Federal bullying and bullshit. You’ve got to show some force. Okay? I don’t care if the whole fucking New York FBI field office shows up. You’re a New York cop, and this is your town, not theirs.”
“Yeah. No problem.”
“Make sure you’re not followed from the airport—”
“Why didn’t I think of that?”
“And when you get to the Plaza, have a cop escort Kate to the Winslow suite.” I gave him the suite number and asked, “Are you okay with this?”
“Yeah . . . this is a fucking mind-blower.”
“Okay, here’s Kate’s flight info.” I gave it to him and made him repeat it, then asked him, “Are you happy now that I confided in you?”
“Oh, yeah. Fucking thrilled.”
“You asked.”
“Yeah, thanks for sharing.” He stayed silent a moment, then said, “Well, hey, congratulations. I always said you were a genius, even when Lieutenant Wolfe said you were an idiot.”
“Thank you. Anything else you need to know?”
“Yeah . . . like, who exactly is after you?”
“Well, this CIA guy Ted Nash for sure. Maybe Liam Griffith from the FBI. I have no idea who else is involved in this cover-up, so I don’t know who I can go to inside my office, or outside my office. So, I called the cops.”
He didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said, “And Kate . . . you can trust her. Right?”
“I can, Dom. She put me on to this.”
“Okay. Just checking.”
I didn’t reply.
He said, “Meanwhile, do you need any backup at the Plaza?”
“I’m okay here for a day or so. I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. If these guys come to get you, put a few caps in their ass, then call Detective Fanelli at Homicide. I’ll send a meat wagon to take them to the morgue.”
I said, “Sounds like a plan, but my piece is in a diplomatic pouch somewhere.”
“What? You’re not armed?”
“No, but—”
“I’m going to your apartment to get your off-duty piece and bring it—”
“Do not go to my apartment. They’re all over that. You could get into a pissing match with them, or you could be followed here.”
“The Feds can’t follow their own shadows with the sun behind them.”
“Right. But we’re not going to risk you going to my apartment today. You have a job to do tomorrow.”
“I’ll bring you my off-duty piece.”
“Dom, just stay away from the Plaza today. I’m okay.”
“Okay, your call.” He asked, “Hey, do you want me to have you taken into protective custody?”
I’d thought about that, but I didn’t think Jill Winslow wanted to spend the night in the slammer. More important, I could picture the Feds getting on to this if they were checking with the NYPD to see if I was in fact in protective custody. I had no doubt they could get me and Jill sprung into their custody within a few hours.
“John? Hello?”
I said, “I don’t want to start leaving a public records trail. Maybe tomorrow. For now, I’m missing in action. I’ll call you if I think I need to be arrested.”
“Okay. I guess the Plaza is more comfortable than the Metropolitan Detention Center. Call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Dom. I’ll protect you if the shit hits the fan.”
“Hey, if the shit hits the fan just right, we’re not the ones who’re going to be standing in front of it.”
“I hope you’re right. Enjoy your barbeque. Ciao.”
Jill had left me a note on the living room desk. “Left at 12:15 P.M.—Be back about 5 P.M. May I take you to dinner? Jill.”
I shaved, brushed my teeth twice, showered, and rinsed out my boxer shorts.
The hotel delivered the envelope with the safe receipt and I committed the receipt number to memory and burned it in the toilet.
I read the Sunday Times and watched TV. I checked my cell phone several times to see if Dead Ted had called about a meeting time, but he must have taken the day off. I hoped so. It was now 5:30, and Jill was still not back, so I called her cell phone, left a message, and had a beer.
At 5:48, she called the suite and said, “Sorry. I lost track of time. I’ll be back about six-thirty.”
“I’ll be here.”
She arrived closer to seven. What is it with women and time? I was about to say something about the importance of time, but then she handed me a Barneys bag and said, “Open it.”
I opened the bag and took out a man’s shirt. Considering my three-day-old shirt, I think this was more a gift for her than for me. But ever gracious, I said, “Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.”
She smiled and said, “I knew you’ve been traveling in that shirt, and it did look a bit rumpled.”
Actually, it stunk. I unwrapped the shirt from its tissue and looked at it. It was . . . sort of pink.
She said, “Hold it up.”
I held it up to my chest.
She said, “That’s a good color for you. It brings out your tan.”
It was a good color if I switched teams. I said, “You really didn’t . . . thank you.”
She took the shirt from me and undid all five hundred pins in about five seconds, then shook the shirt open and said, “This should fit. Try it on.” It was short-sleeve, and it felt silky. I took off my offending shirt and slipped into the pink silk number.
She said, “It looks very good on you.”
“It feels great.” I asked her, “Did you get a cell phone message from your husband?”
She nodded.
“What did he say?”
She took her cell phone out of her bag, punched up her voice mail, and handed me the phone. I listened to a recorded voice say, “Message received at three-twenty-eight P.M.” Then Mark Winslow said, “Jill, this is Mark. I received your message.”
There was almost no affect in his voice, and like his photo, I was surprised that his voice left an impression on the digital recording. He said, “I’m very concerned, Jill. Very concerned. I want you to call me as soon as you get this message. You must call me and tell me where you are. This was a very selfish act on your part. The boys missed your Sunday call,
and they called here, and I said you were out with friends, but I think they detected some anxiety in my voice, and I believe they’re worried. So you should call them, and reassure them. And call me. I’m becoming concerned. I’ll speak to you when you get this message.”
I waited for him to say, “I love you,” or “Sincerely yours,” but the message ended, and I shut off the cell phone and handed it back to her.
Neither of us spoke, then she said, “I haven’t called back, of course.”
I replied, “How could you resist that heartfelt plea?”
She smiled, then her smile faded, and she said, “I really don’t want to cause him any pain.”
I said, “If I may say so, he didn’t sound like he was in much pain. But you know him better than I do.”
She said, “He’s called three more times with shorter messages saying, ‘Call me.’”
I thought about Mark Winslow’s message, and I concluded that Ted Nash had not been to Mr. Winslow’s house looking for Mrs. Winslow. Then, I thought about it again, and I concluded that maybe Ted Nash was standing in the room with Mark Winslow while he called his wife. I asked Jill, “Did your husband sound . . . normal?”
“Yes. That’s normal for him.”
“What I mean is, do you think he was being prompted by someone else? The police or someone?”
She thought about that and replied, “I suppose it’s possible . . . he wouldn’t normally mention the boys . . . but . . .” She looked at me and said, “I know what you mean, but I can’t say for certain.”
“Okay.” Just another paranoid thought, but a good one. Bottom line, it didn’t matter if Ted Nash was one step behind me, as long as he didn’t get one step ahead of me. I said to her, “How about a drink?”
We had a drink, and she mentioned taking me to dinner, but I suggested room service, partly because I always run into the wrong people when I’m out and about, and partly because the more doors between me and Jill Winslow and whoever was looking for us, the better.
We chatted awhile, and she confirmed that she’d had the video camera cassette locked in the hotel safe and I said I’d gotten the receipt. She also said that she’d kept her cell phone off all day, not used her credit cards, and not used the ATM machine.
She told me she’d gone to St. Thomas on Fifth Avenue, then walked along the park to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She’d gone to Barney’s, then did some window-shopping on Madison Avenue, and then walked back to the Plaza. A typical Sunday in New York, but a very memorable day for Jill Winslow.
Night Fall Page 38
