Night Fall (39 page)

He seemed a little annoyed with me and said, “The animation was very accurate, based on those laws of physics, eyewitness interviews, radar sightings, the dynamics of flight, and the knowledge of what an aircraft does when there is a catastrophic explosion on board.”

“Right. Can I see their videotape?”

“Let me finish.”

“You’re finished. I want to see the tape and talk to the couple.”

“I’ll finish.” He continued, “The couple got back to the Bayview Hotel and hooked up the video camera to the VCR and watched the tape through the TV set. They both saw what she had seen through the viewfinder. It was a sound tape, and they could now clearly hear the explosion, about forty seconds after they saw it on the videotape.” He looked at me and said, “The entire accident was recorded, start to finish, in color, with sound, with good quality film, and with the video camera on a twilight setting. On the videotape, they could actually see the blinking lights of the 747
before
the explosion.” He stared at me intently and said, “There was no streak of light rising toward that aircraft before the explosion.”

Why did I know that was coming? I said, “That’s good news. I need to see the tape and talk to the couple.”

He didn’t reply directly and said, “Let me ask you a question: If you were this couple, and you were having an affair, and you videotaped yourself engaged in several sexually explicit acts, what would you do with that tape?”

“Put it on the Internet.”

“You
might. They, obviously, destroyed it.”

“Yeah? When? How?”

“That night. As soon as they left their hotel room. They pulled off to the side of the road, the man ran over the cassette, then he burned the tape.”

“Where did he get the matches or the lighter?”

“I have no idea. Maybe one of them smoked.”

They didn’t, according to Roxanne, but I didn’t say that to Nash. Also, it was very convenient of Nash to say that the guy physically destroyed the tape rather than erased it, because an erased tape can be restored in a lab, and Ted didn’t want me pursuing that thought.

I said, “Okay, so they burned the videotape. Then what?”

“They drove into Westhampton village where she had parked her car. By now, both their cell phones were ringing as people tried to contact them about the accident. They’d told their spouses they were out in the Hamptons-he was fishing, she was shopping in East Hampton, then having dinner with a girlfriend and staying overnight.”

“His story wasn’t bad. Hers might make a husband suspicious.”

Mr. Nash informed me, “Most spouses trust each other. Didn’t you trust Kate in Tanzania?”

“Ted, if you mention Kate’s name one more time, I’m going to shove your gun up your ass, butt first.”

He smiled, but didn’t reply. Why does this guy get to me?

Getting back to the business at hand, he said, “They drove back to their respective homes in their cars, then spent the rest of the evening with their spouses, watching the news coverage of the crash on television.”

I commented, “That must have been an interesting evening at home.”

He looked at me and said, “That’s it. As many people suspected and surmised, there
was
a couple on the beach, they
were
having an affair, and they
did
inadvertently videotape the accident. But there was no smoking gun, no smoking rocket on that tape.”

“That’s what you’re telling me that they told you.”

“Well, obviously I asked them both to take a polygraph test, and they both did perfectly.”

“Great. Then I need to also see the polygraph results plus their written or recorded statements before I speak to them.”

Ted of the CIA obviously didn’t like dealing with a police detective because detectives want to establish a chain of evidence, while the CIA deals with abstractions, conjectures, and analysis, which are the main ingredients of bullshit.

Ted explained patiently to me, “They both told the whole truth about their sexual activities on the beach, and this is where you’d expect to see some lies on the polygraph because people become embarrassed-but they told us exactly what they did on the beach. Then, when we asked about what they saw with their own eyes on the beach, then on the videotape, they were again truthful. No streak of light.” He added, “The polygraph sessions were almost as good as us having the actual videotape.”

I wasn’t quite buying that, but I said, “Okay. I guess that’s it.”

He knew me too well from when he was alive the first time, and said, “I don’t think you’re convinced.”

“I am. By the way, how did you find this couple?”

He replied, “I had an easier time than you’re having. The man had once been printed for a job, and we had his fingerprints on the wine bottle and the wineglass. We ran them through the FBI databank, and on Monday morning we called on him at his office. He, in turn, gave us the name of his married girlfriend.”

“That was easy. I hope you lifted his prints from the registration card at the Bayview so you could connect him between the beach and the hotel.”

“Actually… no, we didn’t. But we weren’t trying to build a criminal case against him.”

“Destroying evidence is a crime, last time I checked.”

“There was no
crime
committed against TWA 800, so the evidence was not… The point is, this couple was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. They saw nothing that two hundred other people didn’t see, and their videotape showed nothing that would interest the CIA or the FBI. The polygraph confirms that.” He concluded, “I questioned them extensively, and others questioned them, including your FBI colleague Liam Griffith. Everyone agrees they are telling the truth.” He added, “You can speak to Liam Griffith, and he’ll confirm what I’m telling you.”

“I’m sure he will. But I’ll know for sure after
I
question the couple. Do you have a pen and paper on you?”

“You may
not
speak to them.”

“Why not? Did they meet with an unfortunate accident?”

“Don’t be melodramatic. You can’t speak to them because we promised them anonymity for all time in exchange for their cooperation and truthfulness.”

“Okay, I’ll do the same.”

Ted Nash seemed to be thinking, probably about his instructions regarding yours truly. I said to him, “This is real simple, Ted. You tell me their names, I meet them, I talk to them, and we resolve this once and for all. What’s the problem?”

“I’ll need to get clearance to do that.”

“Okay. Call me tomorrow on my cell phone. Leave a message.”

“I might need until Monday.”

“Then let’s meet Monday.”

“I’ll let you know.” He reached in the top pocket of his windbreaker for his cigarettes, then realizing they were wet, decided not to have a smoke.

I said, “That’s why you got winded. Smoking can kill you.”

“How’s your jaw feel?”

“Fine. I soaked it in salt water along with your head.”

“My knee in your balls didn’t seem to hit anything.”

Ted was pretty good, but I’m better. I said, “I think it was your wet panty shield that weighed you down.”

“Fuck you.”

This was fun, but not productive. I changed the subject and said, “Call me, and we’ll arrange a meeting-in a public place this time. I pick. Bring company if you’d like. But I want the names of this couple before we even say hello.”

He looked at me and said, “Be prepared to answer some questions yourself, or the only thing you’ll get out of that meeting is a federal subpoena.” He added, “You don’t have the power you think you have, Corey. We have nothing to hide because there is nothing more to this than what I’ve just told you. And I’ll tell you something you should have already figured out-if there
was
something to hide, you’d already be dead.”

“You’re threatening me again. Let me tell
you
something-no matter how this case ends, you and I are going to meet so we can get your death thing straightened out.”

“I look forward to such a meeting.”

“Not as much as I do.” He put out his hand again, but we weren’t close enough to shake, so I guessed he wanted his gun back. I said, “You just threatened to kill me-and now you want me to give you your gun back? What am I missing here?”

“I told you-if I’d needed to kill you, you’d already be dead. But since obviously you believe what I just told you, I don’t need to kill you. But I do need my gun back.”

“Okay, but you promise not to point it at me and make me tell you what I know about this case?”

“I promise.”

“Cross your heart?”

“Give me my fucking gun.”

I pulled the Glock out of my waistband and dropped it in the sand. I kept the loaded magazine. I said, “Next time we meet, you won’t have to fake your death.” I turned and walked away.

He called out, “When you meet Kate at the airport, don’t forget to tell her I’m alive, and I’ll call her soon.”

Ted Nash needed for me to kill him right now, but I wanted something to look forward to.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

I was much less paranoid now that I discovered there really
were
people following me, and wanting to kill me. This was a big relief.

I went back to the Bayview Hotel, showered the salty water and muck off, and changed into my travel attire, then checked out.

I was now on the Long Island Expressway, driving my rental Ford Taurus, and it was 10:05 on Saturday night. I had a local FM station on, cranking out some Billy Joel and Harry Chapin, who the manic DJ kept informing his listening audience were Long Island boys. So were Joey Buttafucco and the serial killer Joel Rifkin, but the DJ didn’t mention this.

Traffic was moderate to heavy, and I made a few erratic moves to see if I was being followed, but all Long Island Expressway drivers are nuts, and I couldn’t tell if I had a trained Federal agent on my tail, or just a typical Long Island loony.

I exited and re-entered the Expressway to satisfy myself that no one was following. Acting on some residue of paranoia, I looked up through the sunroof for the fabled Black Helicopter that the Organs of State Security use in America to watch its citizens, but there was nothing up there except the moon and the stars.

I turned on my cell phone for five minutes, but there were no messages.

I gave a little thought to my meeting and wrestling match with Mr. Ted Nash. The guy was as obnoxious and arrogant as ever, and being dead for a while hadn’t done him a bit of good. The next time, I’ll do it myself and attend the funeral. But in the meantime, he was back on my case, trying to thwart my noble efforts to achieve truth and justice, and my less noble efforts to stick it up some people’s asses while I was at it.

My jaw was still aching, and a quick look in the mirror at the Bayview Hotel had revealed a patch of missing skin and a black-and-blue mark running along my jawbone. I also had a headache, which I always get when I meet Ted Nash, whether or not I smash my forehead into his face. Also, there was a little tenderness in the area of the family jewels, which was reason enough for me to have killed him.

In my twenty years with the NYPD, I’d had to kill only two men, both of them in self-defense. My personal and professional relationship with Ted Nash was more complex than my hasty relationship with the two total strangers I’d had to shoot, and therefore my reasons and justification for killing Ted had to be more closely examined.

The rumble on the beach should have been cathartic for both of us, but in truth, neither of us was satisfied, and we needed a rematch.

On the other hand, as Kate would say, we were both Federal agents, trying to do the same job for our country, so we should try to understand the animus that drove us toward mutually destructive acts of verbal abuse and physical violence. We should talk out our differences and recognize that we had similar goals and aspirations, and even similar personalities, which should be a source of unity, rather than a source of conflict. We needed to acknowledge the anguish we were causing each other, and to work in a constructive and honest way to understand the feelings of the other person.

Or, to keep it short and simple, I should have drowned the son-of-a-bitch like a rat, or at least shot him with his own gun.

A sign informed me that I was entering Nassau County, and the lunatic DJ announced that it was another beautiful Saturday night on beautiful Long Island, “From the Hamptons to the Gold Coast, from Plum Island to Fire Island, from the ocean to the Sound-we’re rockin’, we’re rollin’, we’re gettin’ it on, and we’re partyin’ hard. We’re havin’ fun!”

Fuck you.

Regarding Mr. Nash’s revelations to me, he had a very good story, and he might be telling the truth: There was no rocket on that videotape. This was good, if it was true. I’d be very satisfied to believe it was an accident. I would be very pissed to find out it wasn’t.

I had maybe one card left to play in this game, and it was Jill Winslow-but for all I knew, the right Jill Winslow was not the one in Old Brookville, where I was now headed. The right Jill Winslow might be dead, along with her lover. And if I kept snooping around, I, too, could be dead, even if there was no cover-up and conspiracy-I think Ted Nash just wanted me dead, and after tonight, his bosses would give him the go-ahead.