Night Fall

  It seemed that the ambassador to Yemen, a lady named Barbara Bodine, had barred John O’Neill from returning to Yemen. The colorful and flamboyant John O’Neill, whom I’d met a few times, was the highly respected chief of the FBI investigation into the bombing of the USS Cole in Aden harbor, which is in Yemen. Got it.

  From what I could make out from the talk show guy, and from his hapless guest—and from what I recalled from the New York Post and from ATTF chatter—Ambassador Bodine, being a diplomat, did not approve of O’Neill’s highly aggressive investigation into the Cole bombing while Mr. O’Neill was in Yemen. So, when O’Neill returned to Washington for a briefing—which may have been a setup—Ambassador Bodine would not let him back in Yemen.

  Anyway, this talk show guy was practically frothing at the mouth, calling the State Department a bunch of sissies, cowards, and even using the word “traitors.”

  The other guy, it seemed, was a State Department spokesman, and he was trying to make some point, but he had this mealymouthed NPR voice, which I find annoying, and the talk show guy, a basso-profundo, was reaming this guy a new asshole.

  The talk show guy said, “We have seventeen dead sailors from the Cole and you people are hindering the investigation by caving in to this nothing country, and this yellow-bellied ambassador—Which side is she on? What side are you on?”

  The State Department guy replied, “The secretary of state has determined that Ambassador Bodine has made a reasoned and well-considered judgment in barring Mr. O’Neill’s return to Yemen. This decision is based on larger issues of maintaining good relations with the Yemeni government, who are cooperating with the—”

  Talk show guy yells, “Cooperating? Are you kidding or insane? Those guys were behind the attack on the Cole!”

  And so on. I switched back to country-western where at least they sang about their problems.

  The bottom line on international terrorism was, as I said, that no one wanted to give it the status of a war. Compared to the Cold War and nuclear Armageddon, terrorism was a gnat on an elephant’s ass. Or so they thought in Washington. And if Washington thought that, then 26 Federal Plaza also thought that—though they knew better.

  I had figured that this new administration would ratchet it up a bit, but it didn’t seem like they were getting it. Which was scary if you believed that the talk show guys were getting it.

  I left Nassau County and crossed into Suffolk County, at the end of which was the Hamptons.

  I continued east and passed the exit for the William Floyd Parkway that Kate and I had taken two nights before when we went to the memorial service. William Floyd is a rock star. Right? I smiled.

  I entered an area aptly named the Pine Barrens and began looking for an exit to Westhampton. There were exits for Brookhaven National Laboratory and Calverton, which reminded me why I was playing hooky today, why I’d had a fight with my wife, and why I was headed for trouble.

  I got off the Expressway at an exit sign that promised this was the way to Westhampton.

  I was traveling south now, toward the bay and the ocean, and within twenty minutes I entered the quaint village of Westhampton Beach. It was a little after 1 P.M.

  I drove around awhile, checking out the town, trying to imagine Don Juan doing the same thing five years ago. Did he have his lady with him? Probably not, if she was married. I mean, picking her up at her house for a date was not a good idea. So they drove out separately and rendezvoused somewhere around here.

  They hadn’t wound up in one of the numerous hot-sheet motels along the Expressway, sometimes known as an Expressway Stop and Pop, so quite possibly they intended to stay overnight, and thus the expensive hotel. And if that were true, and assuming they were both married, then they had good cover stories, or stupid spouses.

  I could almost picture these two having lunch in one of the restaurants that I was seeing as I drove along the main street, which was actually named Main Street. They either knew the Bayview Hotel, or they’d picked it out while they were driving around. The ice chest told me they had probably planned to go to the beach, and the video camera wasn’t brought along to make home movies for the kids.

  I didn’t know where the Bayview Hotel was, but I had a feeling it was near the bay, so I headed south on a road called Beach Lane. You can’t learn these things at the police academy.

  Real men don’t ask for directions, which is why a guy invented global positioning, but I didn’t have a GPS, and I was running low on gas, so I pulled up to a young couple on bicycles and asked how to get to the Bayview Hotel. They were helpful and within five minutes I was driving into the entrance of the hotel, which had a VACANCY sign.

  I pulled into a small parking area for guest registration and got out.

  Wearing basically what Marie Gubitosi told me that Don Juan had been wearing on July 17, 1996, I walked toward the front door of the Bayview Hotel.

  This place was either going to be a brick wall, or it was going to be a magic window through which I could see back five years.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Bayview Hotel was as Marie described it: a big old house, in the Victorian style, that may have once been a private residence.

  Beyond the house was a modern, two-story structure, looking like a motel, set among some old trees, and beyond that I could see a few small guest cottages. The land sloped down to the bay, and across the bay I could see the barrier island where Dune Road ran along the ocean. It was a very nice setting, and I could understand why a middle-aged, upscale couple might pick this place for an affair. On the other hand, it was the kind of place where Mr. and Mrs. Upper Middle Class might run into someone they knew. One, or both of them, I thought, was a little reckless. I wondered if they were still married to their spouses. In fact, I wondered if the lady was still alive. But maybe that was my homicide detective persona coming out.

  I walked up a set of steps to a big, wooden, wraparound porch and entered the small, well-appointed, and air-conditioned lobby.

  I looked back through the glass-paneled doors and noted that I couldn’t see my Jeep from the lobby.

  The desk clerk, a dandy young man, said, “Welcome to the Bayview Hotel, sir. How may I help you?”

  I replied, “I saw the Vacancy sign. I need a room, and I’d like one in the new building.”

  He futzed with his computer and said, “We do have a room available in the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion. It has a nice view of the bay for two hundred fifty dollars a night.”

  The economy was going south, but the Bayview’s prices were heading north. I said, “I’ll take it.”

  “Very good. How long will you be staying with us?”

  “Do you have half day rates?”

  “No, sir. Not in the summer.” He added, “Come back in the fall if you want a quick roll in the hay for half price.”

  He didn’t actually say that last line, but that was the message. I said, “One night.”

  “Certainly.” He slid a registration card and pen across the counter, and I saw he had buffed nails. I began filling out the card, which I noticed had a hard, glossy finish that would leave latent prints if anyone cared to dust the card.

  The clerk, whose actual name on his brass tag read “Peter,” asked me, “How will you be settling your account, sir?”

  “Cash.”

  “Very good. May I have a credit card to take an imprint?”

  I pushed the registration card toward him, saying, “I don’t believe in credit cards. But I can give you five hundred dollars in cash as a security deposit.”

  He glanced at the registration card, then at me and said, “That would be fine, Mr. Corey. May I make a photocopy of your driver’s license?”

  “I don’t have it with me.” I put my business card on the counter and said, “Keep that.”

  He looked at the card, which had the FBI logo on it, and he hesitated, then asked, “Do you have any other form of identification?”

  I had my Fed creds, of course, but I wanted to se
e if I could get a room the way Don Juan got a room. I said, “I have my name sewn into my underwear. Wanna see?”

  “Sir?”

  “That’s it, Peter. Cash for the room, security deposit, and my business card. I need a room.” I pushed two twenties into his hand and said, “That’s for your trouble.”

  “Yes, sir . . .” He pocketed the money and took a receipt book from under the counter and began writing on it, then looked back at my card to write my name and said to me, “You’re . . . with the FBI?”

  “That’s right. Actually, I don’t need a room. I need to speak to Mr. Rosenthal.” I held up my creds long enough for him to make out the photo and said, “This is official business.”

  “Yes, sir . . . can I—”

  “Mr. Rosenthal. Thank you.”

  He dialed a three-digit number and said into the phone, “Susan, there’s a gentleman here from the FBI to see Mr. Rosenthal.” He listened and said, “No . . . I don’t . . . all right.” He hung up and said to me, “Ms. Corva, Mr. Rosenthal’s assistant, will be along shortly.”

  “Terrific.” I took my business card and the registration card from the counter and put them in my pocket, but softie that I am, I let him keep the forty bucks for his next manicure. I looked around the lobby, which was a lot of dark mahogany, potted plants, heavy furniture, and lace curtains.

  To the left were open double doors that led into the bar/restaurant where some lunchers sat. I smelled food, and my stomach growled.

  To the right was another double door that led into a sitting room and library that Marie had mentioned. Toward the rear was a big staircase, and coming down the stairs was a young, attractive woman wearing a dark skirt, white blouse, and sensible shoes. She walked up to me and said, “I’m Susan Corva, Mr. Rosenthal’s assistant. How can I help you?”

  Following procedure, I again held up my credentials and said politely, “I’m Detective Corey with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, ma’am. I’d like to see Mr. Leslie Rosenthal.”

  “May I ask what this is about?”

  “It’s an official matter, Ms. Corva, that I’m not at liberty to divulge.”

  “Well . . . he’s quite busy at the moment, but—”

  “I’m quite busy, myself.” I added, as I always do, “I won’t take much of his time. I’ll follow you.”

  She nodded, turned, and we climbed the staircase together. I said, “Nice place.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “This is my second summer.”

  “Do you close in the winter?”

  “No, but it’s pretty quiet after Labor Day.”

  “What happens to the staff?”

  “Well . . . most of the staff is let go. They know this coming in. We get lots of floaters.”

  “Floaters?”

  “Locals and some out-of-towners who just work for the summer. Teachers, students. Also professional staff who follow the seasons and head south after Labor Day.”

  “I see. Do you get the same staff back every summer?”

  We reached the top of the stairs, and she replied, “A lot of them. The money is good, and they like it here on their days off.” She looked at me and asked, “Is there a problem?”

  “No. Just some routine stuff.” FYI, when a cop says “routine,” it’s not.

  There were numbered guest rooms along a wide hallway, and off a small side corridor was a door marked PRIVATE—STAFF ONLY, which Ms. Corva opened. We entered an outer office where four ladies were sitting at computer stations and answering telephones.

  Ms. Corva led me to another door, knocked, opened it, and motioned me inside.

  Sitting behind a big desk was a man of late middle age wearing a dress shirt open at the collar with a brightly colored tie hanging loose. He stood and came around the desk, and I saw he was tall and thin. His face looked intelligent enough, though there was a slightly worried look in his eyes.

  Ms. Corva said, “Mr. Rosenthal, this is Mr. Corey from the FBI.”

  We shook hands, and I said, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Not a problem.” He said to Ms. Corva, “Thank you, Susan.” She left and closed the door. Mr. Rosenthal said to me, “Have a seat, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Corey. John Corey.” I didn’t offer him my card, but I did show him my credentials to get him in the right frame of mind.

  I sat across from his desk, and he went back to his big wing chair and said, “How can I help you, Mr. Corey?”

  The FBI trains you to be very polite to citizens, which is a good thing. They also want you to be polite to suspected criminals, spies, illegal aliens, and foreign terrorists, which is a challenge for me. But the FBI has an image to protect. Mr. Rosenthal was a citizen, not suspected of anything, except owning a bad tie—it had little whales on it. I said to him, “I’m doing some follow-up work on the TWA 800 crash.”

  He seemed relieved that it wasn’t something else, like employing illegal aliens. He nodded.

  I said, “As you know, sir, it’s been five years since the tragedy, and this anniversary has been marked by a great deal of news coverage, which has, in some ways, renewed public awareness and concern about this event.”

  Again, he nodded and said, “I’ve been thinking about it myself in the last few days.”

  “Good.” I looked around Mr. Rosenthal’s office. He had a college degree on the wall from Cornell University, plus dozens of civic and professional awards, plaques, and citations. Through the big window behind his desk I could see the bay and the new two-story Moneybogue Bay Pavilion, which still looked like a motel. To the right, along the road that went down to the beach, I saw the parking lot for the motel wing, nearly empty at this hour during prime beach time.

  I turned my attention back to Mr. Rosenthal and continued, “In order to address some of these concerns, we are revisiting some of the issues.” Sounded like bullshit to me, but Mr. Rosenthal nodded. “As you recall, two possible witnesses to the crash stayed at your hotel on July 17, 1996, the day of the crash.”

  “How could I forget? Did you ever find those two?”

  “No, sir, we have not.”

  “Well, they never came back here. At least not as far as I know. I would have called you.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you have a contact name and number?”

  “No . . . but I know how to call the FBI.”

  “Good.” I said to him, “I’ve read the file report from the agents who were here at that time, and I’d like you to clarify a few things for me.”

  “All right.”

  Mr. Rosenthal seemed like an okay guy, straightforward and cooperative. I asked him, “Is the desk clerk still here who checked in this possible witness?”

  “No. He left shortly after the crash.”

  “I see. What was his name?”

  “Christopher Brock.”

  “Do you know where I could find him?”

  “No, but I can get his personnel file for you.”

  “That would be helpful.” I said, “There was a maid here, a Hispanic lady, named Lucita Gonzalez Perez, who saw this possible witness and a lady come out of their room. Room 203. Is this maid still with you?”

  “I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her since that summer. But I’ll check.”

  “Would you have a file on her?”

  He seemed a little uncomfortable now and replied, “We keep photocopies of their green cards if they’re guest workers. All our foreign-born employees need to be citizens, or here on a work visa—otherwise, we won’t employ them.”

  “I’m sure of that, sir. The issue is not this woman’s status in this country. She is a material witness, and we’d like to speak to her again.”

  “I’ll check on that.”

  “Good. There was another cleaning lady. The one who entered Room 203 at noon the next day and reported that the guests had left and that the blanket was missing. Is she still here?”

  “No, I haven’t seen her
since that summer.”

  I was seeing a little pattern here. I asked him, “But you remember her.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you have a file on her?”

  “I’m sure we do. She was a college kid. Came here every summer to work at the hotel. Worked hard and partied hard.” He smiled and added, “I think she was doing graduate work the last summer she was here.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Roxanne Scarangello.”

  “Is she local?”

  “No. She lived down around Philly. Went to Penn State. Or maybe University of Pennsylvania. It’s on her application.”

  “And you keep those?”

  “We do. Tax stuff. Also, we rehire the good ones, so we sometimes phone them in May.”

  “Right.” Roxanne the college kid was not a prime witness, and neither was Christopher the desk clerk nor Lucita. So, what the hell was I doing here? Sometimes you just need to work the case, walk on the terrain, and ask questions of people who seem to know nothing. It’s like a maze where you become an expert in false trails and dead ends, which is Step One in finding the way out of the maze.

  I asked Mr. Rosenthal, “Do you recall the names of the Federal agents who came to your hotel inquiring about the person in Room 203?”

  “No. I never really got their names. Some guy came around earlier that morning . . . it was Friday after the crash, and he wanted to know if any of the staff had reported a missing bed blanket. Someone got the head housekeeper, and she said, yes, there was a blanket missing from Room 203. Then this guy asked to see me, and asked permission to speak to my staff, and I said, sure, but what’s it all about. And he said he’d fill me in later. Meanwhile, these three FBI guys showed up, and one of them said it had to do with the crash, and he had this blanket in a plastic bag marked Evidence, and he showed it to me and to the head housekeeper and a few maids, and we said, yes, that could be the blanket missing from Room 203. Then they wanted to look at my registration cards and computer records and speak to the desk clerk who was on duty that day.” Mr. Rosenthal added, “But you know all of this.”