I nodded. The Feds come on like gangbusters, cause a shit storm, then try to wipe up the shit with money.
I asked her, “Did they help you with your scholarship?”
“Sort of. I think so. Don’t you know?”
“That’s not my department.”
Ms. Scarangello’s cell phone rang, and she answered it. I could tell she was talking to her boyfriend, and she said to him, “Yes, I’m here. But take your time. I’m in the bar, and I ran into one of my old profs. I’m fine. See you later.” She hung up and said to me, “That was Sam—my boyfriend. He’s at the apartment now.” She added, “I’m not supposed to ever mention TWA 800. Right?”
“Right.”
“So, see, wasn’t that good?”
“Excellent. Do I look like a professor?”
She laughed. “No. But you are when Sam gets here.”
Carafe two, Cuba libre two.
“So,” I said, “take me through everything you did and saw in that room, things you might have smelled or touched that seemed out of the ordinary, and even completely ordinary.”
“Oh, jeez . . . it’s been five years.”
“I know. But if you start talking, then it’ll start coming back.”
“I doubt it. But, okay . . . next I went into the bathroom because this is the least pleasant part of the job, and I wanted to get it over with. I started in the shower—”
“The shower had been used?”
“Yes, but not that morning. I could tell it had been used, maybe the night before. Soap and shower stall were dry, and so were the used towels. I remember telling one of the FBI guys that it was like the bathroom was hardly used. Just a quick shower and out.”
“Was there sand on the floor? In the bed?”
“There was beach sand in the bathroom. I told the FBI guy that.”
“Okay, so you went back in the bedroom.”
“Yes. I first emptied the wastebaskets, then the ashtrays—”
“They were smoking?”
“No . . . I don’t think so. But that’s what I usually do.”
“Try to separate this room on this day from the hundreds of other rooms you’ve cleaned.”
She laughed. “Sure. More like two thousand over three summers out there.”
“I know, but you were questioned for a long time about this one room. So you can remember what you said to the FBI guys. Right?”
She replied, “Actually, I wasn’t questioned that long. They just asked me what I did and saw in the room, then thanked me.”
I nodded. Neither Liam Griffith, who was probably an OPR guy, nor Ted Nash, CIA, knew how to wring a witness dry. They weren’t detectives. I am. I asked Roxanne, “Did this couple leave a tip?”
“No.”
“See? You remember that.”
She smiled. “Cheap bastards.”
“I’m buying drinks tonight.”
“Good.”
“Okay, what was in the wastebaskets?”
“I really don’t remember. Just the usual. Tissues. Whatever.”
“How about a box from a video camera cassette?”
“No . . . you think they videotaped themselves . . . like, doing it?”
“I don’t know. How about cellophane, gum wrappers, price tags, receipts for anything?”
“No . . . but there was a Band-Aid wrapper in the ashtray.” She shrugged.
“Any sign of blood?”
“No.”
“Okay, tell me how you cleaned a room. Any room.”
“Sometimes I varied it because it was mind-numbing, but I had a routine.” She proceeded to give me a lesson in room cleaning, which I might actually need in case my cleaning lady died.
I asked her, “And there was definitely lipstick on a wineglass?”
“Yes. I think that was the first thing that made me aware that there had been a woman in the room.”
“Any other sign of a woman? Dusting powder? Makeup? Long hair?”
“No. But you could tell two people had been there. Both pillows were squashed. Lots of towels used.” She smiled and said, “Guys use one towel, women use them all and call for more.”
“I’ll ignore that sexist remark.”
She smiled again and gave herself a little slap on the face. She was either very cute, or I’d been in the desert too long.
She went on, and her memory was getting better with the wine and cigarettes.
When she was finished, I asked her, “Is this more or less what you told the FBI guys?”
“Mostly less. Why is this important?”
“We never know until we ask.”
She lit another cigarette and offered me one, which I declined.
I realized that my time with Roxanne was running out, given the fifteen-minute walk from her apartment, which, if I was her boyfriend, I’d do in ten minutes.
She sensed I was about to wind it down and said to me, “Stay and meet Sam.”
“Why?”
“You would like him.”
“Would he like me?”
“No. That’s the point.”
“Don’t be a bitch.”
She laughed, then said, “Really, don’t leave.”
“Well . . . I need a cup of coffee before I drive back to New York.”
“You live in New York?”
“I do. Manhattan.”
“That’s where I’d like to live when I graduate.”
“Good move.” I signaled a waitress and ordered coffee.
Roxanne and I made small talk, which I can do while my brain is elsewhere. I didn’t come all the way from Yemen to Philadelphia just to flirt with a college girl. Or did I?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The boyfriend was late, Roxanne was getting lit, and half my brain was still at three thousand feet, while the other half was soaked in rum.
I wanted to leave, but something kept me sitting there. Fatigue, probably, or maybe Roxanne, or maybe a gut feeling that if I sat there long enough, or asked the right question, or listened more closely, something would pop up.
My coffee came in a big mug, and I banged it down and ordered another. I chatted with Roxanne while thinking about anything I might have missed.
I asked her, “Was the TV turned on when you entered the room? Like sometimes people leave it on when they want it to look like they’re in the room.”
She snuffed out her cigarette and asked, “Are we back in the room?”
“Just for a minute.”
“No, it wasn’t turned on.” She added, “In fact, I turned it on.”
“Why?”
“Well, we’re not supposed to watch TV while we work, but I wanted to see the news about TWA 800.”
“I won’t tell. So, what was on the news?”
“I don’t remember exactly.” She shook her head and said, “It was really awful.”
“It was.” I said to Roxanne, “Maybe you can help me with something. This couple checked in about four-thirty. Okay? The guy checked in alone. The next time they’re seen, it’s about seven P.M. when the maid, Lucita, saw them with the bed blanket, heading for their car. No one seems to have seen them in those two and a half hours in between. So, I’m wondering, what did they do during that time? I mean, what do people do out there in the late afternoon?”
“You’re asking me? I don’t know. I guess they go shopping, have a drink. Take a drive.” She added, “Maybe they stayed in their room. That’s why no one saw them.”
“Right . . . but that’s a long time to sit in a hotel room on a nice day.”
She smiled at me and said, “Maybe they got romantic. That’s what they were there for. They had sex, they napped, they watched TV, or popped in a romantic tape.”
“Right.” The problem was that I really wanted them to have gone to the hotel bar and paid for drinks with a credit card, or left a local store receipt in the wastebasket. But that’s not what they did.
I sat back and yawned. I seemed to be hitting a dead end in regard to the
missing two and a half hours, but maybe it wasn’t that important. A nap would account for the time, or an afternoon TV show, or pre-beach sex, none of which would leave a paper trail . . . I asked her, “What do you mean, ‘popped in a tape’?”
“A videotape.”
“There was no VCR in the room.”
“There used to be.”
I nodded. VCRs in hotel rooms were common then, but today, with satellite and cable, porn-on-demand, and so forth, many hotels had gotten rid of the VCRs. Room 203, for instance, no longer had a VCR, but apparently it once did. I asked Roxanne, “Do you remember if the VCR was turned on?”
“I think it was. Yes . . . I turned it off.”
I asked her, “Did you check the VCR to see if there was a videotape in there?”
“Yes. I pushed the Eject button, but nothing came out.” She added, “It’s part of the routine. Movie tapes that the guests brought themselves and forgot had to be given to the front desk in case people called about them. Library tapes were returned directly to the library or the front desk.”
“What library?”
“The hotel library. There’s a videotape lending library.”
“Where?”
“At the Bayview Hotel. Pay attention.”
I sat up. “Tell me about the videotape lending library.”
“You been to the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when you walk in, there’s, like, a library room. They sell magazines and newspapers, and they lend books and videotapes.”
“So, you can borrow a videotape?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“Did this come up in any way when you were talking to the FBI?”
“No.”
I sat back and stared into space. It wasn’t possible that Liam Griffith and/or Ted Nash had missed this. Or was it? I mean, even I, John Corey, had missed the significance of that library when I saw it, and I’m a detective.
But maybe I was getting myself overly excited and optimistic. I asked Roxanne, “Was there a charge for a videotape? A deposit?”
“No. You just signed for it. Same with books.” She thought a moment, then asked me, “Hey, do you think this guy signed out a tape . . . and, like, he left his name?”
“You should be a detective.”
She was on a roll and said, “That’s what they did in the room that afternoon. Watched a movie. That’s why the VCR was turned on.” She thought a moment and said, “In fact, there were two pillows propped up on the headboard, like they were watching TV.”
I nodded. Actually, if Don Juan signed out a tape, he wasn’t leaving his real name. But if the lady signed out a tape, maybe she did.
I asked Roxanne, “Was any kind of identification needed to sign out a book or videotape?”
“I don’t think so. I think just your name and room number.” She added, “You should check with the hotel.”
I nodded and asked, “What did the guest sign? A book? A card?”
She lit another cigarette and replied, “It was one of those receipt books with a pink carbon copy. The guest wrote the name of the book or movie on the receipt, signed it, and wrote their room number. Then, when the guest—or the maid—brought the book or videotape back, they got the pink carbon copy as a receipt, marked ‘Returned.’ Simple.”
I thought of Mr. Leslie Rosenthal and his archives, which would put the Library of Congress to shame. The guy was a pack rat and probably didn’t even throw away his gum wrappers. I said to her, “Mr. Rosenthal, who I had the pleasure of meeting, seemed to be a saver.”
She smiled and said, “He was a little anal.”
“You knew him?”
“He liked me.”
“Did he ever take you down to the basement to see his archives?”
She laughed, then thought a moment, and said, “Those library receipt books could be down there.”
I said to her, “Please keep all of this to yourself.”
“I haven’t opened my mouth about this in five years.”
“Good.”
I thought a moment. What were the chances that Don Juan or his lady borrowed a videotape? The VCR in Room 203 had been turned on, but the most likely explanation for that was they’d hooked up their video camera into the VCR to play the camera’s mini-tape, to see on the TV screen what they thought they’d seen on the beach that night.
On the other hand, they were apparently in their room for two and a half hours that afternoon, so maybe one of them went to the lending library and got a movie. But would either of them sign their real name?
I had this sudden sinking feeling that I was grasping at straws. But when all you’ve got is straws, you grasp them.
The boyfriend arrived, slightly out of breath I thought, and he leaned over and kissed Roxanne on the cheek. She said to the boyfriend, “Sam, this is Professor Corey. I took one of his philosophy classes.”
I stood and we shook hands. He had a limp shake, and in fact, was kind of dweeby, but he looked nice enough. He asked, “You teach philosophy?”
“I do. Cogito ergo sum.”
He smiled and informed me, “I’m in the advanced physics program. I don’t get philosophy.”
“Neither do I.” It was time for me to leave, but I wasn’t finished with Roxanne, so I sat.
Sam, too, sat, and there was a moment of silence, then I said to Roxanne, “What were the hours of the library?”
She glanced at Sam, then back at me and replied, “I think it was eight to eight.”
“What if a guest checked out before or after those times and wanted to return a book or videotape?”
She seemed a little uncomfortable, smiled quickly at Sam, then said to me, “They gave it to the desk clerk, who kept the library receipt book when the library was closed.”
I nodded. “Right. Makes sense.” I said to Sam, “You want a drink?”
Sam replied, “Uh . . . maybe we should go to the table. They’re holding it . . . would you like to join us?”
“No, thanks.” I said to Roxanne, “Would you remember what mode the VCR was left in? Like Play, Record, Rewind?”
“Uh . . . no. No, I don’t.”
Sam said, “I’m not following any of this.”
I looked at Sam and asked, “Does the physical world exist outside our minds?”
“Of course. There are a thousand instruments that can record and verify the physical world and do it better than the human mind.”
“Like a camera.”
“Right.”
I stood and said to Roxanne, “Thanks for your company.”
She stood, we shook and she said, “Thanks for the drinks, professor.”
I patted Sam on the back and said, “You’re a lucky man.” I caught Roxanne’s eye and cocked my head toward the bar, then went to pay for the drinks.
As I was paying the tab, Roxanne joined me, and I said, “Thanks for your help.” I gave her my card and said, “Call me if anyone else calls you about this.”
“I will. You can call me if you need anything else. You want my cell phone number?”
“Sure.” I took her cell number and said, “Thanks.” I added, “Sam’s a nice guy.”
I left Alma de Cuba and began walking back to my car on Chestnut Street.
My butt was dragging, but my mind was already at the Bayview Hotel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I headed back to New York on the New Jersey Turnpike, which is very scenic, if you close your eyes and think of someplace else.
I was pushing the pedal a bit, though there was no particular urgency in checking out a lead in a case that was closed and five years old; the urgency had to do with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility, who I assumed had not forgotten me in my absence, and had undoubtedly calendared my return from overseas. If they were wondering where John Corey was tonight, they’d have to ask me tomorrow.
I tuned in to an all-news channel and listened to the latest. It seemed to be a slow news day. In
fact, it had been a very quiet summer on the terrorism front.
On the other hand, the National Security Agency had sent out a secret advisory informing everyone that radio chatter among our Islamic friends had been extraordinarily heavy this summer, which was not a good sign.
I turned my mind to more immediate concerns, and thought about my conversation with Roxanne Scarangello. I realized that the interview could have gone either way, which is how most witness interviews go; a word here, a random remark there, the right question, the wrong answer, and so forth.
After twenty years of doing this, you develop a real sixth sense. Therefore, the lending library thing was not dumb luck; it was John Corey being tenacious, brilliant, perceptive, clever, charming, and motivated. Mostly motivated.
I mean, I wasn’t getting paid for this, so I needed a non-monetary reward. Basically, I wanted to stick this one up Koenig’s ass so far it would part the Brylcreem in his hair. Liam Griffith, too. And I wished for a moment that Ted Nash were alive so I could stick it up his butt while I was at it.
It was 9:10 on my dashboard clock, and I wondered what time it was in Dar es Salaam. Same as Yemen, actually, which would be the wee hours of the morning. I pictured my angel asleep in a three-star hotel overlooking the Indian Ocean. She’d e-mailed me once, “It’s so beautiful here, John, I wish you were with me.” As if it was my idea to go to Yemen.
Actually, I realized that I missed her more than I thought I would. I was honestly happy that she’d been sent to a decent place, and not to Yemen, which, if I haven’t mentioned it, sucked.
Yes, there were uncharitable moments when I wished she was in Yemen and I was in the Bahamas, but they were only passing moments, followed by loving thoughts of our reunion.
I continued north on the New Jersey Turnpike, clipping along at about 85 mph. I was tired, but alert.
I understood that the only thing I might find in the Bayview Hotel archives would be Mr. Rosenthal, scratching his head and saying, “What happened to those library receipts?”
I was now on Montauk Highway on Long Island, approaching Westhampton Beach. It was half past midnight, and a light fog was rolling in from the ocean and bays.