“Meaning what?”
“I’ll tell you later.” I asked Marie, “What was Lucita’s last name?”
“Gonzalez Perez according to my notes.”
I made a mental note of that, and I asked, “Did anyone speculate that the lady in Room 203 had her own car somewhere in that lot?”
“Yeah. And that would make it even more likely that they were married lovers on a rendezvous. But no one saw her in another car or anything. We ran the plates that were still in the parking lot to see if maybe a car was left there that couldn’t be accounted for. Like, there was still some thought that the lady was the victim of a crime, and the guy had offed her at the beach or maybe in the room, and threw her in the back of his vehicle, wrapped in the blanket. But nothing came of that—at least not that I know of.”
“Did anyone see them return to the hotel that night?”
“No, like I said, the first and only time they were spotted was by Lucita coming out of their room at seven. Sometime between then and when another maid entered the room the next day about noon, they disappeared and a blanket was missing from the room—apparently the blanket left on the beach.”
“Were you able to speak to this other maid?”
“No way. Griffith and his pals had already wrung her out, and she was never on our list. But Griffith did tell us that this maid remembered lipstick on a glass, the shower had been used, and the bed was still made but the blanket was missing. He said there was nothing left in that room that could give us a lead because this maid cleaned the room and removed anything that could be useful in IDing this couple.” Marie paused, then continued, “At least that’s what Griffith said.”
I suggested, “You need to learn to trust Federal agents.”
She laughed.
I thought about all of this. While I had a clearer picture of what happened at the Bayview Hotel five years ago, I was no closer to finding this couple than I was yesterday. I mean if Griffith, Nash, and the other guy had really hit a dead end five years ago, with all the resources in the world at their disposal, then I just hit a brick wall.
On the other hand, maybe they hit pay dirt.
It’s hard enough to solve an unsolved five-year-old case; it’s a lot harder to solve one that’s already been solved by someone else who’s hidden all the clues and the witnesses.
Well, all I had to do now was go back to the office and request files marked “TWA 800—Bayview Hotel,” or something like that. Right?
I said to Marie, “Can you think of anything else?”
“No, but I’ll think about it.”
I gave her my card and said, “Call my cell phone if you do. Don’t call the office.”
She nodded.
I asked her, “Can you give me a name?”
“I can’t. But I can make some calls and see if any of the other three cops want to talk.”
“I’ll let you know about that.”
“What’s this all about, John?”
“Well, I’ll tell you what Griffith didn’t tell you—on that blanket found on the beach was the lens cap of a video camera.”
It took her two seconds to say, “Holy shit. You think—?”
“Who knows?” I stood and said, “Keep that to yourself. Meanwhile, think about that day at the Bayview and about what you might have heard afterward. And thanks, Marie, for your time and your help.”
I ambled over to the kid’s playpen and wound the mobile, then said to Marie, “I’ll let myself out.”
She gave me a big hug and said, “Be careful.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Slobadan was sitting in the taxi, talking on his cell phone, and I got in and said, “St. George Ferry. Quicko.”
Still talking on the phone in some language that sounded like a leaf blower, he took off.
We got to the ferry terminal ten minutes before the 5:30 departure, and I paid the meter plus five bucks. I made a mental note to turn in my expenses to Ms. Mayfield.
There was an ice cream truck near the terminal, and in a moment of sheer nostalgia, I bought a sugar cone with a double scoop of pistachio.
I got on the ferry, which was still free, climbed to the top forward deck, and within a few minutes we cast off and set sail for Manhattan.
It’s a twenty-five-minute ride, and during that time, I thought about a few things that weren’t computing. Things that Kate said, or didn’t say. This job is about fifty percent information and fifty percent intuition, and my intuition was telling me that I didn’t have all the information.
I looked at the Statue of Liberty as we passed by, and yes, I was a little bit moved by patriotism and my sworn duty to defend the Constitution of the United States and all that, but I wasn’t yet convinced that what happened to TWA 800 was an attack on my country.
And then there were the victims and their families. As a homicide cop, I always tried not to get personally involved with the deceased’s family, but lots of times I did. This motivates you, but not always in a way that does you or the victims any good.
I flashed forward to a scene where I actually broke this case open—visualize success as they say, and you will succeed. I pictured Koenig, Griffith, and my immediate boss, NYPD Captain David Stein, shaking my hand while my colleagues clapped and cheered, and I was invited to the White House for dinner.
That wasn’t exactly what was going to happen if I succeeded in reopening this case. And I didn’t want to even think about what would really happen. In fact, there was no upside to this—only a very bad downside—except for fulfilling my need to indulge my ego and assert my slightly obnoxious personality.
And then, of course, there was Kate, who was counting on me. How many guys have fucked themselves up trying to impress a woman? At least six billion. Maybe more.
The ferry docked, and I got off and caught a cab to Delmonico’s on Beaver Street, a short ride from the ferry.
Delmonico’s has been around for about a hundred and fifty years, so I figured it hadn’t closed recently, leaving Ms. Mayfield out on the street. Being in the Financial District, it was full of Wall Street guys, and not frequented by anyone from 26 Fed, which was the point.
I went to the bar where Ms. Mayfield was engaged in conversation with two horny Wall Street types. I cut in between them and asked her, “Did it hurt?”
“Did what hurt?”
“When you fell from heaven.”
She smiled and said, “I hope you never used that line.”
“That’s not a line.” I ordered a Dewar’s-and-soda and said to her, “You look familiar.”
She smiled again and replied, “I’m new in town.”
I replied, “Me, too. My ship just came in. Actually, it was the Staten Island ferry.”
My Scotch arrived, and we clinked glasses. She asked, “Where were you?”
“I just told you. Staten Island.”
“Oh, I thought that was a joke.”
“I don’t make jokes. I was in Staten Island.”
“Why?”
“Looking for a house for us. Did you ever think about having children?”
“I . . . I have thought about it. Why do you ask?”
“I’m pregnant.”
She patted my gut and said, “So I see.” She asked, “What’s with the house and kids?”
“I just interviewed a female cop on Staten Island—home on maternity leave. She was ATTF back in ’96. She did witness interviews at the Bayview Hotel.”
“Really? How did you find her?”
“I can find anyone.”
“You can’t find two socks that match. What did she say?”
“She interviewed a maid who saw this guy who apparently took the room blanket to the beach. The maid saw his lady, too.”
Kate thought about that and asked me, “Did your friend know if the FBI identified this couple?”
“Not as far as she knew. The guy checked in under an alias.” I sipped my drink.
Kate asked, “What else did you learn from this
lady?”
“I learned that the three Federal agents who were running this show didn’t share anything with the four NYPD detectives who were doing the legwork. But I already knew that.”
She didn’t reply.
I looked at her and said, “Meanwhile, tell me how this Westhampton police report about the blanket on the beach happened to come to your attention.”
She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “Just by accident. I was going through a lot of reports one night in my motel room, and this one caught my eye.”
“Try again.”
“Okay . . . Ted and I were having drinks one night, and he mentioned this to me. I think he had too much to drink.”
I was pissed off beyond belief, but I got myself under control and said very nicely, “You told me you never discussed this with him.”
“Sorry.”
“What else have you lied to me about?”
“Nothing. I swear.”
“Why did you lie to me?”
“I . . . I just didn’t think it was important for you to know where I got that information. I know how you are when it comes to any mention of Ted Nash.”
“Really? How am I?”
“Psychotic.”
“Bullshit.”
We were attracting a little attention because I think I was raising my voice above the barroom din. The bartender said to us, “Everything okay here?”
Kate replied, “Yes.” She said to me, “Let’s go.”
“No. I like it here. Tell me what else you forgot to tell me. Now.”
Kate kept her cool, but I could see she was upset. I was not upset—I was fuming. “Talk.”
“Don’t browbeat me. You’re not—”
“Talk. And no bullshit.”
She took a deep breath and said, “Okay . . . but it’s not what you think—”
“Never mind what I think.”
“All right . . . Ted worked the TWA case, too, as you may know by now . . . and I knew him from the office . . . but we were never involved, which I told you a dozen times, and which is the truth.”
“Then why did he tell you about this blanket on the beach, and the video camera lens cap if this wasn’t your case?”
“I’m not sure . . . but we were having drinks one night at a local bar . . . about a week after the crash, and he was drinking too much . . . we all were . . . and he mentions this local police report and he says something like, ‘This couple was probably taping themselves having sex on the beach, and they may have videotaped the explosion.’ I asked him some questions, and he clammed up. Next day he called me and says they found this couple, and they were an older, married couple and the lens cap was from a regular still camera, not a video camera, and this couple didn’t see or photograph anything to do with the explosion.” She stirred her drink.
“Go on.”
“Okay, so it’s pretty obvious he’s sorry he opened his mouth the night before, and I say, ‘Well, too bad,’ or something like that, and we drop it. But I go to the Westhampton Village police, and they say the FBI was already there and took the written report, and they’re still waiting for the FBI to return a copy of it.” She added, “They’re probably still waiting. But I got the name of the cop who was on the beach and who wrote the report, and I talked to him and he’s not sure he should be talking to me, but he fills me in and mentions that he told the FBI that this blanket may have come from a hotel or motel. I’m up to my ears in witness interviews, so I didn’t follow up, and to be honest, I didn’t see any reason to. It was being handled by Ted and others. But a week or so later, I’m back in the office for a few days, and I made some phone calls to local motels and hotels, as I told you, and I hit this one—the Bayview—and talked to this manager, Leslie Rosenthal, who informed me that the FBI had already been there with this blanket, and they had spoken to his staff and guests. Rosenthal says that the FBI guy in charge never told him anything except that he wasn’t supposed to talk about this to anyone.” She looked at me and said, “That’s it.”
“Who was the FBI guy in charge?”
“Liam Griffith. I’m sure you already know that from your Staten Island connection.”
“That’s right, but why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Because, I told you up front—no names. That’s why I didn’t tell you about Ted.”
“So, what did you do with this information from Mr. Rosenthal?”
“Nothing. What was I going to do with it? I did think about it, but before I thought too much about it, I got called into the OPR office, as I told you.” She finished her drink and said, “I’m sure that Ted knew that I had been nosing around and that I got a reprimand for it, but does he say, ‘Hey, I’m sorry I mentioned this to you?’ No, he just starts acting cool to me.”
“Oh, poor baby.”
“John, fuck off. I have nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of. Just drop it.”
“You lied to me.”
“Right. I lied to you to avoid a fucking scene like this. What difference does it make how I got the information I got? Ninety-nine percent of what I told you is true, and what I didn’t tell you didn’t affect anything you did or knew. So, be happy now that you know Ted Nash is just as stupid when he’s drunk as you and everyone else. Okay?”
I didn’t reply and just stood there, still pretty hot under the collar.
She put her hand on my arm, forced a smile, and said, “Can I buy you a drink?”
If I’d had two more I would have probably calmed down, but I only had a half drink in me, and I couldn’t get past the fact that my wife had lied to me. Also, I wasn’t absolutely sure she was telling me the whole truth about where and how and why Ted Nash confided in her—knowing how tightly wrapped Ted Nash was, I couldn’t picture him blabbing in a barroom, but I could picture him blabbing in a bedroom.
She said, “Come on, John. Let’s have a drink.”
I turned and walked out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I woke up on my couch with a slightly massive hangover.
I recalled taking a taxi from Delmonico’s to Dresner’s, one of my neighborhood hangouts, where I was over-served by Aidan the bartender. The next thing I remember, I tried to brush something off my face and it was the floor.
I sat up and noticed I was in my underwear, and I wondered if I’d gone home like that. Then, I saw my clothes on the floor, which was good.
I stood slowly. The morning sun was streaming through my balcony door, right through my eyeballs and into my brain.
I walked toward the kitchen, where I smelled coffee. There was a note near the coffeemaker. John, I went to work. Kate. The digital clock on the coffeemaker said 9:17. Then, 9:18. Fascinating.
The Times and the Post were lying on the kitchen table, unread.
I poured a mug of hot, black coffee and absently scanned the Post, which is the best way to read this newspaper. I was trying to put the Delmonico’s incident on hold until my brain could take the stand and show just cause for my little tantrum.
But as it started to come back to me, I thought I might have overreacted. I was starting to feel remorseful, and I knew I needed to smooth things over with Kate, though an apology was out of the question.
I finished my coffee, went into the bathroom, took two aspirins, then shaved and showered.
Feeling a bit better, I decided to call in sick, which I did.
I got dressed in a casual outfit of tan slacks, sport shirt, blue blazer, docksiders, and ankle holster.
I called the garage for my car, found a bag of potato chips for the road, then went downstairs.
My doorman greeted me cheerily, which pissed me off. I got in my Jeep and headed down Second Avenue into the Midtown Tunnel, which took me right onto the Long Island Expressway, heading east.
It was partly cloudy today, humid, and, according to my car thermometer, already 78 degrees Fahrenheit. I switched the computer to metric and the temperature dropped to 26 degrees Celsius, which was cool for thi
s time of year.
Traffic was light to moderate on this Thursday in July. Friday would be heavy with Manhattan traffic heading out to the East End of Long Island. This was a good day to visit the Bayview Hotel.
I tuned in to a country-western station, which is good hangover music. Tim McGraw was belting out “Please Remember Me.” I ate some potato chips.
So, Kate told me a little white lie in order to avoid mentioning the name of Ted Nash because she thought that name might upset me. I think she used the word “psychotic.” In any case, I could appreciate and understand why she lied. On the other hand, as every cop knows, lies are like cockroaches—if you see one, there are others.
That aside, maybe this little tiff was a positive thing; it put some distance between Kate and me, which was good for this case. I might explain that to her later.
I thought she would have called by now when she didn’t see me at work, but my cell phone remained silent.
Some law enforcement agencies, including the FBI, work with cell phone carriers to track the location of a cell phone or beeper if they know the number, even if you’re not using the phone. The cell phone only has to be turned on and sending out a signal to the closest towers, which can then triangulate the location of the cell phone.
I’m not paranoid—there really are people trying to get me—so I turned off my cell phone and my beeper on the 50/50 chance that the truant officers at 26 Fed wanted to see where I was going on my sick day off. Having both your cell phone and beeper turned off at the same time is totally against regulations, but that might be the least of my problems.
I left the borough of Queens and entered suburban Nassau County. The singer on the radio was crying his eyes out about an unfaithful wife, his best friend, her cheatin’ heart, and lonely nights. I’d recommend counseling, but Scotch worked, too. I switched stations.
A talk show guy was ranting about something while another guy, probably a phoner, was trying to get a word in edgewise.
It took me a while to get what the problem was; it had something to do with Aden, and at first I thought they were talking about Aidan Conway, my bartender at Dresner’s, but that didn’t make any sense. Then one of the guys said, “Yemen,” and I put it together.
Night Fall Page 17
