Night Fall

  My radio was picking up Connecticut signals out here, and some PBS station was playing La Traviata. I don’t tell this to many people, but I’ve gone to the opera on double dates with Dom Fanelli, who gets free tickets. I figured I should be at the Bayview Hotel about the time the fat lady was singing.

  The fat lady was singing “Parigi, o cara” as I pulled into the guest registration space. I waited for her to finish and drop dead, which she did, and I shut off the engine and went into the hotel.

  It was past Labor Day, and the lobby was quiet at this weekday hour. The bar doors were closed, which was a disappointment.

  Peter, my favorite desk clerk, was on duty, so I skipped the formalities and said to him, “I need to speak to Mr. Rosenthal.”

  He looked at his watch, the way people do when they want to emphasize some silly point about the time, and said, “Sir, it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning.”

  “Do you know what time it is in Yemen? I’ll tell you. It’s eight A.M. Time for work. Give him a call.”

  “But . . . is this urgent?”

  “Why am I here? Give him a call.”

  “Yes, sir.” He picked up the phone and dialed Leslie Rosenthal.

  I asked Peter, “Do you have the keys to the basement?”

  “No, sir. Only Mr. Rosenthal.” Someone answered the phone on the other end, and Peter said, “Mr. Rosenthal? I’m very sorry to disturb you at this hour— No, nothing wrong—but Mr. . . .”

  “Corey.”

  “Mr. Corey from the FBI is here again, and he’d like to speak to— Yes, sir. I think he knows what time it is.”

  I said helpfully, “It’s five minutes after one. Give me the phone.”

  I took the phone from Peter and said to Mr. Rosenthal, “I really do apologize for calling you at this hour, but something urgent has come up.”

  Mr. Rosenthal replied with a mixture of grogginess and controlled annoyance, “What has come up?”

  “I need to see the archives. Please bring your keys.”

  There was silence, then he said, “Can’t this wait until morning?”

  “I’m afraid not.” To put his mind at ease, I said, “This has nothing to do with illegal immigrant workers.”

  There was another silence, then he said, “All right . . . I’m about twenty minutes from the hotel . . . I have to get dressed . . .”

  I said, “I appreciate your continued cooperation.” I hung up and said to Peter, “I could use a Coke.”

  He replied, “I can get you one from the bar.”

  “Thank you. Put a shot of Scotch in that and hold the Coke.”

  “Sir?”

  “Dewar’s, straight up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He unlocked the doors to the bar and disappeared inside.

  I went over to the doors that led to the library and peeked through the paned glass. It was dark in there, and I couldn’t see much.

  Peter returned with a short glass of Scotch on a tray. I took it and said, “Put it on my room tab.”

  He asked, “Are you staying with us this evening?”

  “That’s the plan. Room 203.”

  He went behind his desk, played with his computer, and said, “You’re in luck. It’s not occupied.”

  Peter wasn’t getting it, and I informed him, “You’re in luck. You don’t have to kick anyone out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I swirled the Scotch and sipped it. After a nearly dry month, it tasted like iodine. Is this what this stuff actually tasted like? I set it down on an end table and asked Peter, “How long have you been working here?”

  “This is my second year.”

  “Do you loan videotapes from the library?”

  “No, sir. There are no VCRs in the rooms.”

  “Were you here when the hotel had videotapes in the library?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay, how do you loan books to guests?”

  “The guest chooses a book and signs for it.”

  “Let’s take a look.” I motioned to the library, and Peter took his passkeys, opened the double doors, and turned on the lights.

  It was a big, mahogany-paneled room lined with bookshelves, decorated as a sitting room.

  In the far left corner was a long desk with a telephone, cash register, and computer, and behind the desk was a glass cabinet filled with sundries. To the right of the desk was a newspaper and magazine rack, all typical of a small hotel with limited space for services.

  The lobby entrance seemed to be the only way in or out of the room, unless you went through a window.

  If I understood Marie Gubitosi correctly, the desk clerk, Christopher Brock, did not see Don Juan again after he checked in. But maybe his lady was in here to buy a newspaper or a sundry item, or specifically to borrow a book or videotape to pass the time before hitting the beach for some romance under the stars.

  I should have paid more attention to this room when I was here the last time. But even great detectives can’t think of everything on the first go-around.

  I asked him, “How do guests sign for a book?”

  “In a receipt book.”

  “Which you keep behind your desk.”

  “Yes, so books can be returned at any hour.”

  “Let’s see the receipt book.”

  We went back into the lobby, and Peter retrieved the book from behind his desk, and I retrieved my Scotch.

  I asked Peter, “Do you keep these books after they’re filled up?”

  “I believe we do.” He added, “Mr. Rosenthal keeps all records for seven years. Sometimes longer.”

  “Good policy.” I opened the receipt book, and it looked the same as Roxanne had described. A simple stationery store receipt book with three receipts per page and a pink carbon. It had a place for a date, a line that said, “Received,” a few blank lines, and a place for a signature. Each receipt had a pre-printed sequential number in red.

  I looked at an entry at random, which read, “August 22, Received, ‘Gold Coast,’” followed by a barely legible signature, and a room number, in this case, 105. A handwritten notation said, “Returned.”

  I asked Peter, “Does the guest need to show identification?”

  “Not usually. For any room charge, bar, restaurant, and so forth, if your name and the room number you give matches what’s in the computer, that’s sufficient.” He informed me, “Standard practice in most good hotels.”

  “Okay . . .” Having lived in a bad hotel for the last six weeks, I wouldn’t know. I thought of Don Juan’s lady, who might not even know what name he’d checked in under. I asked Peter, “Let’s say it doesn’t match.”

  “Well, sometimes it doesn’t because a second person in the room may not have the same last name as the registered guest. Then, usually the showing of a room key is sufficient, or just the name of the guest to whom the room is registered.”

  “Okay, if I forgot my room key, and I can’t even remember the name of the person I’m sleeping with, would you let me sign out a book?”

  This was Peter’s chance for revenge, and he looked at me closely and said, “No.”

  I flipped through the receipt book, but I didn’t see any information on the guests, other than a signature and the room number. Now and then, there was a second name written on the receipt, which I assumed, as per Peter, was the name of the registered guest, which was not the same as the book borrower.

  I asked Peter, “Since my last visit, has anyone from the FBI come here?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Okay, let’s check me into Room 203.”

  Peter did what he does best, and within five minutes, I was checked into Room 203 using my American Express card, which hadn’t gotten much of a workout in Yemen. The post-season price had dropped to a hundred and fifty bucks, which was cheap if I hit pay dirt here, and a paper trail for the OPR if I didn’t.

  Mr. Rosenthal was taking his sweet time, and I, being a man of both action and extreme impatience,
considered kicking down a few doors, just like in the movies. But that might upset Peter.

  I sat in a wing chair in the lobby and waited for Mr. Rosenthal, who had the key to the archives, and possibly the golden key that opened the door to the short path through the bullshit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Mr. Leslie Rosenthal walked into the lobby dressed casually in slacks and sport shirt, sans whale tie.

  I stood and said, “Good evening.”

  “Good morning is more like it.” He asked me, “Are you here for more file reconciliation?”

  “I am.”

  “At one-thirty in the morning?”

  “The FBI, sir, never sleeps.”

  “I do.” He observed, “I have the feeling you are not here on a routine assignment.”

  “What was your first clue?”

  “The hour, for one thing. What’s this all about?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. Did you bring your keys?”

  “I have. Have you brought my missing files?”

  “Actually, since I saw you last, I’ve been in the Mideast. See my tan? Want to see my airplane ticket?”

  He didn’t respond to that and asked me, “What would you like to see?”

  “Your receipt books for the video lending library.”

  I watched him ponder this, then he said, “We got rid of the video library about three years ago and donated all the tapes to a hospital.”

  “That’s very commendable. But you kept the receipt books, of course.”

  “I believe so. Unless some idiot threw them out.”

  “Other than yourself, what other person has the keys to the file room?”

  “No one.”

  “Well, there you are. Let’s take a look downstairs.”

  I followed him to the basement door, which he unlocked. He turned on the lights, and we descended the stairs.

  He unlocked the door to the archives room and went directly to the rear of the room, where cardboard storage boxes were stacked on metal shelves. Each box was labeled and dated, and within a minute we found a box labeled, “Video Library Receipts—Feb ’96-March ’97.”

  I stared at the box, and asked Mr. Rosenthal, “Did the FBI ask for these receipts in 1996?”

  He replied, “I showed them how the file cabinets were organized, then left them alone. I don’t know what else they looked at.”

  On that note, I took the box down from the shelf and set it on the floor.

  Mr. Rosenthal said, “I suppose you think that this couple may have signed out a videotape.”

  Everyone’s a detective all of a sudden. I replied, “The thought has occurred to me.” I opened the box, which was filled with receipt books. Truly the work of an anal compulsive.

  I started removing the receipt books from the box, noting the start and end dates written on the cover of each book, half expecting to discover a missing book, replaced by a note from Liam Griffith saying, “Fuck you, Corey.”

  I asked him, “Why do you save these?”

  He explained, “I have a policy of saving all records for seven years. You never know what the IRS or sometimes the hotel owners want to see.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Or the FBI. Seven years is safe.”

  “Cover your ass, I always say.”

  I found a receipt book dated, “June 12-July 25, ’96.”

  I moved under a hanging fluorescent light and began flipping through the pages of video receipts. My hands were actually a little unsteady as I flipped the pages toward July 17.

  The first receipt for that date was at the top of a page and was signed, Kevin Mabry, Room 109, and Kevin borrowed Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The next receipt was signed Alice Young, Guest Cottage 3, who borrowed Last Tango in Paris. Go, Alice. Then, an indecipherable signature in Room 8, which must have been in this building, and that person borrowed The Godfather. I flipped the page and read two more signatures and movie titles for July 17, but neither person had given their room number as 203. Then the last receipt at the bottom of the page was dated July 18, the following day.

  I stood there and stared at the open receipt book.

  Mr. Rosenthal asked, “Any luck?”

  I didn’t reply.

  I flipped back a page and looked at the pre-printed red receipt numbers, then flipped forward. Three numbers were missing from the sequence.

  I bent the book back and could see where a page had been neatly razored out of the receipt book. “Bastards.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I threw the book into the box and said, “I’d like to see the receipts for borrowed library books.”

  Mr. Rosenthal retrieved the appropriate box and I found the receipt book for the period in question. I flipped through the receipts, thinking that perhaps Don Juan or his lady had taken out a book, but no one in Room 203 had borrowed a book on July 17, 1996. I dropped the book in the box and said, “Let’s go.”

  We walked toward the door, with Mr. Rosenthal glancing over his shoulder at the mess on the floor.

  In the back of my mind—but not too far back—I knew that the FBI could not possibly have stayed in this hotel for two months without thinking about the lending library. I mean, they weren’t real detectives, but they certainly weren’t brain-dead either. Damn it.

  But I had proved something—someone in Room 203 had borrowed a videotape, and thus the missing page. Great deductive reasoning, leading to another piece of missing evidence. Bastards.

  Mr. Rosenthal was about to lock the door of the archives room when I thought of something Roxanne said and stopped. I said to him, “I didn’t see any pink carbons in the receipt books.”

  “They’re given to the guest when the book or videotape is returned.”

  “What if it’s not returned?”

  “Then it stays in the receipt book until the guest has departed and the borrowed item is discovered to be missing. Then, it’s pulled for a monthly inventory of missing property.”

  “Okay . . . so the guests in Room 203 checked in on July 17, and on July 18, at noon, you discovered they had left without checking out. The morning of July 19, the FBI arrived inquiring about a missing bed blanket. Later that morning, more FBI people showed up asking about the guests in Room 203. Is it possible that by then someone on your staff had pulled out the pink receipt from the receipt book and marked it as missing?”

  He replied, “The librarian waits to see if a maid or anyone returns the item. If not, sometime that day, or early the next day, the pink carbon is sent to the bookkeeper, who will bill the guest for the missing item, or put it on their credit card. Sometimes the item is actually returned to the hotel by mail, or shows up later, but if the item is still missing or hasn’t been paid for, the pink copy goes into the tax file as a deductible property loss.”

  “And after that?”

  “As with all tax records, the pink carbons are archived for seven years.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Mr. Rosenthal led me to a cabinet marked “Tax Files, 1996,” and found a manila envelope marked “Library Receipts—Missing, Lost or Stolen,” and handed it to me.

  I opened the envelope. Inside was a wad of pink receipts, held together by a rubber band. I snapped the rubber band, and began flipping through the two dozen or so receipts for missing books and videotapes.

  Mr. Rosenthal asked, “Can I help—?”

  “No.” They were not in strict chronological order, so I went through them slowly. Each was marked, “Not Returned.” Toward the middle of the stack, I stopped at a receipt dated July 17. The room number was 203. The borrowed item was a videotape—A Man and a Woman.

  The signature was scrawled, and the person had not pressed hard enough to leave a clear imprint on the carbon copy.

  Printed on the receipt in a different handwriting were the words, “Not Returned,” and the name “Reynolds,” which, according to Marie Gubitosi, was the name that Don Juan had used when he checked in.

  I asked Mr. Rosenthal about that
, and he replied, “Apparently the person borrowing the videotape didn’t have a room key, so the librarian checked her computer and saw that the name signed on the receipt didn’t match the name of the guest in Room 203. She inquired of the person borrowing the videotape and that person gave the name of the registered guest, which matched the name on the computer.”

  “Right.” The lady, then, knew what name Don Juan was using that day, so apparently, they’d done this before, which probably meant this was not a one-night stand.

  I looked again at the signature, but the light was not good, though the handwriting looked feminine. I said, “Let’s go upstairs.”

  We left the archives room with Mr. Rosenthal stealing backwards glances at my untidiness.

  Upstairs in the lobby, I put the pink slip on the front desk under the bright desk lamp, and I asked Peter, “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

  He retrieved a square magnifier from behind the desk, and I looked at the faint carbon signature. Jill Winslow. I looked at it closely, focusing on each letter. Jill Winslow.

  Peter was trying to steal a look at the pink slip, so I put it in my pocket, along with his magnifying glass. I motioned Mr. Rosenthal toward the library, and we entered the dark room. I said to him, “Knowing what you do about this matter, and having been in the hotel business—I assume for many years—do you think the female guest in Room 203 would have signed her real name to the video library receipt?”

  He pondered that a moment, then replied, “I think so.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Well . . . it’s the same in the bar, or the restaurant, or the sundry counter . . . you’re asked to sign your name and room number, and you sign truthfully because the staff may go right into the computer while you’re there—or you may be asked to show your room key, or even a driver’s license at any point in the transaction.” He added, “Also, it’s just a natural reflex to sign your true name when asked.”

  “Unless you’re traveling incognito. You know, having an affair. The guy didn’t check in using his real name.”

  “Yes, but that’s different. Signing for a book or videotape is an inconsequential transaction. It’s best to use your real name and room number to avoid the risk of embarrassment.”