“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 Man and a Woman.” Then, “Un Homme et une Femme. A film by Claude Lelouch.”
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 Aimée, 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. Bud Mitchell.
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.
She sensed I was looking at her, and she made eye contact and said, “This is not a love story. But if you can get through this, you can watch the last hour of A Man and a Woman. It’s really better than the movie I made.”
I thought I should say something, so I said, “Look, Mrs. Winslow, I’m not here to be judgmental, and you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. In fact, you don’t need to sit here while I watch—”
“I want to sit here.” She hit a button on the end table and the window curtains closed. Neat.
We sat in the darkened room, and Jill Winslow hit a few buttons on the remote, and the tape began playing. There was some music, followed by the movie title in both languages, then the screen credits. About halfway through the credits, the image jumped suddenly to another, less clear image, with a poor quality audio, and it took me a second to recognize Jill Winslow sitting cross-legged on a dark blanket, wearing tan shorts and a blue top. On the blanket was an ice chest, and as I watched, she uncorked a bottle of wine.
In the lower-right-hand corner of the videotape was the date, July 17, 1996, and the time: 7:33 P.M. The seconds counter was running, and then it was 7:34.
I recognized the locale, of course, as the valley between the sand dunes that I’d first seen with Kate on the night of the memorial service, then again by myself when I slept there and had the erotic dream of Kate, Marie, Roxanne, and Jill Winslow wearing the veil; the veil was off now. And finally, last night’s rendezvous with Ted Nash.
Jill said to me, “That’s Cupsogue Beach County Park. But I guess you know that.”
“Yes.”
The sunlight was fading in the scene, but it was still bright enough to see everything clearly. There wasn’t much audio, but I could hear the wind picked up by the camera’s microphone.
Then, I saw the back of a man walking into the frame, dressed in tan slacks and a sport shirt.
Jill said to me, “That’s Bud. Obviously.”
Bud took two wineglasses from the ice chest, sat down beside Jill, and she poured the wine.
I could see Bud’s face now as they clinked glasses, and he said, “To summer evenings, to us, together.”
Jill said to me, or to herself, “Oh, please.”
I looked at this guy closely. He was good-looking, but his voice and mannerisms were a bit wimpy. I was a little disappointed in Jill.
She must have read my mind because she asked, “What did I find attractive?”
I made no reply.
In the videotape, Jill looked at Bud and said, “So, do you come here often?”
Bud smiled and replied, “First time. How about you?”
They smiled at each other, and I could tell they were a little camera-shy.
Jill said to me, “I remember thinking to myself, ‘Why am I having sex with a man that I don’t think much of?’”
I decided to reply and said, “It’s safe.”
“It’s safe,” she agreed.
They had a second glass of wine, then Jill stood and pulled off her top. Then Bud stood and took off his shirt.
Jill dropped her khaki shorts and kicked them away and stood in her bra and panties watching Bud as he got undressed.
She said to me, “I’ve watched the part on the beach, where the plane exploded, twice . . . but I haven’t seen this part in five years.”
I didn’t reply.
On the screen, Jill took off her bra and slid her panties off. She faced toward the camera, threw her arms out, gyrated her hips, and yelled, “Ta da!” then bowed for the camera.
I reached for the remote on the coffee table, but she grabbed it and said, “I want to see this.”
“No, you don’t. I don’t. Fast-forward it.”
“Be quiet.” She held on to the remote.
They were hugging, kissing, and caressing each other.
I said, “I don’t have a lot of time, Mrs. Winslow. Can you fast-forward to the scene on the beach?”
“No. You need to see this—to see why I didn’t give this to the police.”
“I think I get it. Fast-forward.”
“It gets better.”
“Don’t you have to get to church?”
She didn’t reply.
On the screen, Jill moved Bud at right angles to the camera, then looked back into the camera and said, “Blow job. Take One.” She dropped to her knees and began to perform oral sex on Bud.
Well. I looked at my watch, but my brain didn’t record the time. I glanced back at the screen and stupid Bud was standing there, getting a blow job from this gorgeous woman, and it looked like he was trying to put his hands in his pockets, then realizing he had no pants, he put his hands on her head and ran his fingers through her hair.
Jill asked me, “How would that look as evidence?”
I cleared my throat and replied, “I think we could cut this part—”
“They would want the whole tape. See the time and date in the lower-right-hand corner? Isn’t that important to show when this was happening?”
“I suppose . . . but I think we could scramble your bodies and faces—”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I’ve had enough of that.”
On the screen, Jill rocked back on her haunches and looked at the camera. She waved and said, “That’s a wrap. Scene Two. Wine, please.”
As a detective, I know you can learn a lot about people from their dens and offices, by the books on the shelves, the photos on the wall, their film library, and all of that. This, however, was more than I needed to know.
I looked back at the screen, and saw that Jill was lying on her back as Bud reached behind him and retrieved the wine bottle. Jill thrust her legs in the air and said, “A wife-tasting party.” She spread her legs and said, “Pour.”
Bud poured, then went down on her. I could hear her loud breathing over the sound of the wind, and she said, “I hope you have that c
amera pointed right.”
He lifted his head, looked into the camera, and said, “Yeah.”
She took the bottle from him and poured the rest of the wine over her body and commanded, “Lick.”
Bud began licking her body.
Mrs. Jill Winslow seemed to me a classic passive-aggressive in the sex department; bossing Bud around on the one hand, then performing sex acts that were submissive, perhaps even demeaning if you considered the context.
Another way to look at this was that she was exerting power over a man, while simultaneously fulfilling all his desires, and hers—hers being a desire for both sexual degradation and sexual control. Meanwhile, Bud is both servicer and servant. It was all a little complicated, and I doubted if Bud understood much beyond the length of his erection, which I really didn’t want to see.
Using her first name, I said, “Jill. Seriously. Let’s move on.”
She didn’t reply, but kicked off her slippers and put her feet on the coffee table.
I sat back in the chair, pointedly not looking at the screen.
She asked, “Is this making you uncomfortable?”
“I think I said that.”
“Well, it’s making me uncomfortable, too. And if I give you this tape, how many people will see this?”
“As few as possible.” I added, “They will all be professional, trained law enforcement officers and Justice Department investigators—male and female—and they’ve seen everything.”
“They haven’t seen me having sex on videotape.”
“I don’t think they’re interested in the sex. They’re interested in the scene of the aircraft exploding, and that’s what I’m interested in, so if you can fast-forward to that, I’d very much like to see it. Now.”
“You’re not interested in seeing me having sex?”
“Look, Jill—”
“Mrs. Winslow to you.”
“Uh . . . sorry. Mrs. Winslow—”
“Jill is okay.”
I really was becoming uncomfortable, and I thought maybe I had a loony on my hands, but then she said, “You understand why I’m doing this?”
“I do. I completely understand why you didn’t want to come forward with this tape. Quite frankly, I’d have second thoughts myself if it was me. But we can and will edit this tape, scramble the faces, and do our best to protect your privacy. We’ll focus on the events surrounding the aircraft—”
“We’re getting to that. Pay attention.”
I heard Jill, on-screen, say, “I’m sticky. Let’s skinny-dip.”
I glanced back at the screen, and she was sitting up. Bud’s face had emerged from between Mrs. Winslow’s thighs, and he said, “I think we should go. We’ll shower at the hotel.”
Jill said to me, “I wish I’d listened to him.”
On the screen, she was standing on the blanket and looking up at the dune rising from the valley. She froze the frame, took her feet off the coffee table, and leaned toward the big screen. She said, “I look younger. Maybe a little thinner. Don’t you think?”
I looked at her perfect naked body in the last of the sunlight, which made her look golden.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked again.
I was a little tired of her ignoring my gentlemanly suggestions to skip the little bangs and get to the big bang, so I took another approach and said, “I don’t think your face has aged at all, and you’re a beautiful woman. As for your body, it looks great on videotape, and I’m sure it’s still great.”
She didn’t reply and kept staring at the screen. Finally, she said, “This was the first and last time we’d ever videotaped ourselves. I’ve never seen myself naked in a photo or on film. I certainly never saw myself having sex on film. Have you ever done that?”
“Not outdoors.”
She laughed. “Did you look foolish?”
“Yes.”
“How did I look?”
“No comment.”
“Do you want this tape?”
“I do.”
“Then answer my question. Did I look stupid having sex on videotape?”
“I think everyone looks a little silly having sex on film, except the pros.” I added, “This wasn’t bad for a first time. Bud, however, looked very uncomfortable. Now, may I have the remote?”
She handed it to me and said, “We were supposed to take this back to the hotel and play it to make us hot again. But I think this would have turned me off.”
This may have been the first time in my twenty years of law enforcement that I felt I needed a chaperone to look at evidence. I hit Play, and Jill Winslow’s perfect, naked body came to life. She started climbing the dune, then disappeared off-camera, but I could hear her voice say, “Come on. Set the camera up here and get us skinny-dipping.”
Bud didn’t reply, but walked toward the camera, then disappeared. The screen went black for a moment, then the scene on the screen was of a beautiful red and purple sky at dusk, the white sands of the beach, and the golden red ocean sparkling in the setting sun. I heard Jill’s voice say off-screen, “This is so beautiful.”
Bud, also off-camera, replied, “Maybe we shouldn’t go down to the beach naked. There could be people around.”
“So what?” Jill said, “As long as we don’t know them, who cares?”
Bud’s reply: “Yeah, but let’s take some clothes—” and she interrupted, “Live dangerously, Bud.”
Without realizing it, I said, “Bud’s a wimp.”
Jill laughed and agreed, “Wimp.”
There was no sound for a few seconds, and no one on the screen, then I saw her enter the picture to the far left of the screen, running across the beach toward the shore. Still no Bud. Then she turned her head back as she ran and shouted, “Come on!” But I could barely hear her at that distance from the camera, with the background noise of the wind and surf.
A few seconds later, he appeared on the screen running after her. His butt was a little flabby and bounced.
He caught up to her near the shore, and she stopped, turned around, then turned Bud around to face the camera on the dune. Jill shouted something, but I couldn’t make it out.
I asked, “What did you say?”
“Oh . . . something about swimming with the sharks. Pretty stupid.”
She took his hand and they waded into the water.
Bud, in my opinion, was being led around by his dick. He really never initiated anything, and didn’t seem to be enjoying himself as much as, say, I would in that situation. I asked Jill, “How long did this affair last?”
“Too long. About two years.” She added, “I’m not as embarrassed about the sex on tape as I am about who I did it with.”
“He’s very good-looking.”
“So am I.”
Good point.
They were cavorting in the calm sea, washing each other front and back, then looking out at the sea and sky. She seemed to be saying something, but it was totally inaudible. I asked her, “What did you say there?”
“I don’t remember. Nothing important.”
I looked at the running clock in the lower right of the screen. It was 8:19 P.M. TWA Flight 800 from Kennedy Airport was just lifting off the runway and was about to begin its climb over the ocean.
Jill and Bud were talking as they stood waist deep in the water, and I could see by the expression on Bud’s face that something she said had annoyed him. Before I could ask, she said to me, “I think I was finally telling him that he was overly cautious about everything, and he got annoyed with me. In a few seconds, I grab his rear end . . . there . . . he was still annoyed, and he wanted to leave, but I wanted to do it on the beach, like in From Here to Eternity, so . . .”
She grabbed his thing-a-ma-jig and said something. He didn’t look as happy as he should have been at that moment, and began looking around as if to see if they were alone. She didn’t literally lead him by his dick, but figuratively she led him by his dick, although she was now holding his hand as she led him b
ack to the shore.
The running clock said 8:23 P.M. TWA Flight 800 was about three or four minutes into its flight and was banking left, toward the east, toward Europe.
Jill and Bud were standing on the shore, full frontal nude, but they seemed to have forgotten about the camera because neither of them looked up at where it was positioned on the dune about fifty yards away. The sun had set, but there was a little light left on the horizon and in the sky, and I could still see their naked bodies silhouetted against the sea and sky.
Jill said something to Bud, and he obediently lay down on his back in the sand. She got on top of him, and I could see her hand going between their bodies to put him into her.
Jill asked me, “Would my husband ever see this?”
I froze the frame at 8:27 and 15 seconds. I looked in the sky to the right, to see if I could make out any aircraft lights, but I couldn’t. I scanned the horizon, to see if I saw boat lights, but there weren’t any.
“Mr. Corey? Would my husband ever see this?”
I looked at her and replied, “Only if you want him to.”
She didn’t reply.
I hit the Play button and glanced at the bottom of the screen where the lovers were doing it on the beach with the surf rolling over them. I looked at the sky, but still no aircraft lights. For the record, it was 8:29 and 11 seconds when Mrs. Winslow climaxed. I could see it, but I couldn’t hear it.
Jill Winslow lay on top of Bud Mitchell, and I could tell they were both breathing hard, then she sat up and straddled him with her legs, facing southwest. I could now see the distant lights of an aircraft, far out over the ocean—eight miles, actually, and about twelve thousand feet above the water.
She said to me, “Stop it! Stop!”
I hit the Pause button and looked at her. She stood and said, “I can’t watch this again. I’ll be in the kitchen.” She walked barefoot out of the family room.
I sat there for a full minute, looking at the frozen screen—Jill Winslow sitting on top of Bud Mitchell, the surf caught in mid-motion, the stars no longer twinkling, a thin, wispy cloud frozen like a splotch of paint on a black ceiling. And almost opposite Smith Point County Park, two lights—one red and one white—were captured on the film. You wouldn’t think they were anything other than stars in a still photograph, but in a motion picture, you would see them blinking and moving from west to east.