Night Fall

by Nelson DeMille

  “I do. Did you remember the name of this agent who initially came to the hotel inquiring about a missing blanket?”

  “No. He gave me his card, but then later took it back.”

  “I see. Please continue.”

  Mr. Rosenthal went on, recounting the events of that morning and afternoon five years ago with the clarity of a man who’d told the story to his friends and family about a hundred times, not to mention the memory of a man who’d had to deal with Federal agents running all over his nice, quiet hotel.

  There wasn’t much new in what he was saying, but I listened carefully in case there was. He continued, “So, it turns out that this guest who checked in had used a phony name . . . we have a policy here of not catering to that sort of trade—”

  “Except during the slow season.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Go on.”

  “We need to know who our guests are. And Christopher, the desk clerk, did follow procedure up to a point . . . but now we insist on a credit card, or a driver’s license, or some sort of photo ID.”

  I had news for Mr. Rosenthal, but this was not the time to announce it. I asked, “Why did Christopher leave?”

  “Well . . . we had a disagreement over his handling of that guest check-in. I wasn’t faulting him for it, but I wanted to go over the procedures again. He didn’t seem particularly upset, but a day or two later he quit.” Mr. Rosenthal added, “Hotel staff—especially the men—are a little high-strung.”

  I thought about that, then asked, “What happened to the five-hundred-dollar cash deposit?”

  “We’re still holding it for the guest.” He smiled. “Minus thirty-six dollars for two half bottles of wine from the mini-bar, and the missing blanket.”

  I returned his smile and said, “Let me know if this gentleman ever returns for his deposit.”

  “I certainly will.”

  So, Don Juan and his lady had consumed some wine before or after going to the beach. I asked, “Do you have full bottles in the room?”

  “No.” He paused. “One of the FBI guys asked me that, too. Why is that important?”

  “It’s not. So, this guest’s business card said . . . what?”

  “I don’t remember the name. I think it was an attorney’s card.”

  “Did the desk clerk, Christopher, say that this guy looked like an attorney?”

  This question seemed to throw Mr. Rosenthal off a bit. He said to me, “I . . . what does an attorney look like?”

  It was all I could do to resist a punch line to my setup question. I said, “Please continue.”

  He went on awhile about the four other Federal agents joining the three that were there—three men and a woman, who would be Marie Gubitosi. Mr. Rosenthal said, “They questioned everyone—staff and guests, and it was a little disrupting, but everyone wanted to be as cooperative as possible because it had to do with the crash. Everyone was very upset by what had happened, and it was all anyone could talk about.” Mr. Rosenthal continued his recollections of that day.

  My little hangover was feeling a lot better, and I was able to nod my head without pain. I slipped my cell phone and beeper out of my pocket and turned them on, waiting for a message beep. You get about ten minutes before they can track the signal, usually longer, but sometimes they get lucky and fix your position within ten minutes. I waited about five minutes while Mr. Rosenthal spoke, then shut off the power. My initial annoyance with Kate’s lying to me was changing to annoyance that she hadn’t called or beeped. How can you have a good fight if you’re not talking?

  It occurred to me that Kate may have been called into some boss’s office, or the OPR office, and she was right now answering a few tough questions. It occurred to me, too, that even though I hadn’t mentioned this trip to Kate—and I was sure I hadn’t been followed out here—the OPR people may have guessed where I was spending my sick day. I half expected Liam Griffith and three goons to bust through the door and take me away. That would surprise Mr. Rosenthal. But not me.

  He was saying, “A lot of the guests here checked out early because they didn’t want to go down to the beach . . . because . . . things were washing up . . .” He took a deep breath and continued, “But then, the curiosity seekers started to check in, plus a lot of news media people and a few politicians. The FBI offered me one-month guaranteed stays for thirty rooms if I’d take a reduced rate. So, I took it, and I’m glad I did because they renewed it and some of them stayed until well past Labor Day.”

  “You made out okay.”

  He looked at me and said, “Everyone out here did. But you know what? I would have given the rooms for free if it meant helping the investigation.” He added, “I served a free breakfast to everyone involved in the investigation.”

  “That’s very generous of you. Did any of these FBI people who interviewed you and your staff stay on here?”

  “I believe at least one or two of them did. But after five years, I really can’t remember. I had almost nothing to do with them.” Mr. Rosenthal inquired, “Isn’t all of this in the official report?”

  “It is. This is what’s called file reconciliation.” I made that up, but he seemed to buy it. I was hitting all the expected dead ends, but I had two new names—Christopher Brock, the desk clerk, and Roxanne Scarangello, the college cleaning kid. I needed at least one more name now in case the Thought Police showed up. “What was the name of the head housekeeper?”

  “Anita Morales.”

  “Is she still with you?”

  “Yes. She’s permanent staff. Very good supervisor.”

  “Good.” I wished I could say the same about my supervisor. “Back to Roxanne—did you speak to her after she was interviewed by the FBI?”

  “I did . . . but she was told not to discuss her statement with anyone, including me.”

  “But she did say that she saw lipstick on a wineglass in the room, and that the shower had been used, and the blanket was missing.”

  He replied, “She didn’t discuss that with me.”

  “All right. Did the FBI take any fingerprints from any of your staff?”

  He replied, “Yes, they did. From the desk clerk, Christopher, and from the maid, Roxanne. They said they needed their prints to disqualify them from any prints found on the check-in desk or in the room.”

  Not to mention the registration card. It seemed to me that Don Juan would have left a few perfect prints on that card that matched the prints found on the wineglass and bottle at the beach, thereby placing him in both locations. His lady had left her prints on the wine bottle and glass, too, though probably not in the hotel room if it had been thoroughly cleaned. But if neither of them had ever been printed for anything, then that, too, was a dead end until such time as they were found by some other means and confronted with the fingerprints.

  Mr. Rosenthal interrupted my thoughts and asked me, “Do I need to sign a statement?”

  “No. Do you want to?”

  “No . . . but I was wondering . . . you’re not taking notes.”

  “I don’t need to. This is informal.” And if I took notes and I got busted, I’d be in even deeper shit. I asked him, “Didn’t you sign a statement five years ago?”

  “I did. Did you see it?”

  “I did.” Time to change the subject and the venue. I said, “I’d like to see your personnel files.”

  “Of course.” He stood and said, “I’ll show them to you myself.”

  “Thank you.”

  We left Mr. Rosenthal’s office and descended the stairs toward the lobby. I turned on my cell phone and beeper again to see if I’d get a message beep. As the Internal Affairs guys on the NYPD or the FBI or CIA will tell you, the hardest person to bust is one of your own. There are no clever criminals—they’re all stupid and they leave more evidence of their activities than Santa Claus on Christmas morning. But cops, FBI agents, and CIA people are another story; they’re hard to detect when they’re up to no good.

  Having said that, I had
the distinct feeling I was under the eye, as cops say. I had maybe twenty-four hours before the poop hit the paddles. Maybe twenty-four seconds.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mr. Rosenthal escorted me to a door beneath the main staircase, which he unlocked with a key. We descended into the basement, which was dark and dank. He announced, “Wine cellar and records storage.”

  “Let’s see the wine cellar first.”

  He chuckled at my first joke of the afternoon, which reinforced my favorable impression of him.

  He unlocked another door and turned on a bank of fluorescent lights, revealing a big, low-ceilinged space filled with shelves and file cabinets in neat rows. He asked me, “You want the file on Christopher Brock?”

  “Please.”

  He went to a row of file cabinets and pulled out a drawer labeled A-D, then riffled through the files, saying, “These are inactive personnel files for all former office and administration staff . . . let’s see . . . I insist they be kept in strict alphabetical order . . . B-R-O . . . maybe . . .”

  There were only about two dozen files in the drawer, and if he hadn’t hit on Christopher Brock yet, he never would.

  Mr. Rosenthal stepped back and said, “This is strange.”

  Not really. The good news was that Christopher Brock’s file was at 26 Federal Plaza. The bad news was that I’d never see it. I asked, “How about Roxanne Scarangello?”

  Mr. Rosenthal still seemed perplexed about the missing file and didn’t reply.

  I prompted, “The college-educated maid?”

  “Oh . . . yes. Follow me.”

  I followed him to a row of file cabinets marked “Inactive Temps and Seasonal,” and he pulled open the drawer labeled S-U. “Roxanne Scarangello . . . should be right here . . .”

  I helped Mr. Rosenthal look through the tightly packed file drawer. Twice. I said to him, “Are you sure of her name?”

  “Yes. She was here for two or three summers. Nice girl. Bright, pretty.”

  “Hardworking.”

  “Yes. Well . . . I can’t seem to find her file. Damn it. I’m a stickler for files. If I don’t do the filing myself, it never gets done right.”

  “Is it possible that the FBI took the files and forgot to return them?”

  “Well, they did take them, but they photocopied everything, then returned the files.”

  “To who?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure. I think directly back here. They spent a lot of time down here.” He said to me, “You should have the photocopies of these files in your office.”

  “I’m sure I do.”

  “Can you send copies to me?”

  “I certainly will.” I asked him, “Do you keep any personnel records on your computer?”

  “We do now,” he replied, “but we didn’t then. That’s why we keep these archives. Anyway, I’m a believer in paper files, not computer files,” he added.

  I replied, “Me, too. Okay, how about Lucita Gonzalez Perez?”

  He went to the file cabinet marked E-G, and we looked, but Lucita wasn’t there. We tried P, but she wasn’t there either.

  Mr. Rosenthal said to me, “Apparently your colleagues either misfiled what you’re looking for, or they forgot to return the files for Brock, Scarangello, and Gonzalez Perez.”

  “Apparently. I’ll check my office.” I asked him, “Is Mrs. Morales in today?”

  “She is.”

  “Can you get her down here?”

  “I can.” He took a little two-way radio out of his pocket and called his assistant. “Susan, please have Mrs. Morales come to the records room. Thank you.”

  Mr. Rosenthal asked me, “Do you want to see the wine cellar?”

  “No. Just kidding. I actually don’t drink.”

  “Do you want to see any other files?”

  “Sure.” Mr. Rosenthal was a file freak, which was a good thing for visiting law enforcement people. And he was being very helpful to me, despite the fact that my colleagues had raped his files five years ago.

  I pulled out a drawer at random and found a few files with Hispanic names, which I looked through. There wasn’t much information, except pay records and efficiency reports. There were no Social Security numbers, and no copies of their green cards, assuming they were guest workers. I remarked on this to Mr. Rosenthal, and he replied, “I’m sure the accounting department has all that information.”

  “I’m sure they do.” I wasn’t here to bust Mr. Rosenthal for hiring illegal aliens, but I now had a few of his short hairs in my hand in case I needed to pull them.

  Most of what I do for the Anti-Terrorist Task Force and what I did for the NYPD homicide division is plodding and procedural, though it does keep your mind working. There are enough “Eureka!” moments to reward the effort. And now and then, it does get exciting, like when people are shooting at you, or you’re running a foot race with a perp who is usually armed, dangerous, and desperate. But it’s been a year since anyone tried to kill me, and while I didn’t miss the stimulation, I had been getting a little bored. TWA 800 was what I needed to get the juices flowing again. Unfortunately, I was on the wrong side of the law on this one, but, I hoped, on the right side of the angels.

  A formidable, middle-aged, Hispanic-looking lady entered the file room and said in slightly accented but good English, “Did you want to see me, Mr. Rosenthal?”

  “Yes, I did, Mrs. Morales.” He looked at me and said to Anita Morales, “This gentleman would like to ask you some questions. Please try to be helpful.”

  She nodded.

  I didn’t identify myself, and asked Mrs. Morales, “Do you recall a woman who worked here five years ago named Lucita Gonzalez Perez? This was the lady who happened to see the guests from Room 203, the man and woman who the FBI was interested in.”

  She replied, “I remember all of that.”

  “Good. Did you speak to Lucita after she was questioned by the FBI?”

  “Yes.”

  I said to Mr. Rosenthal, “I just need a few minutes alone with Mrs. Morales.”

  He left and closed the door. I asked the head housekeeper, “What was Lucita’s immigration status?”

  Mrs. Morales hesitated, then said, “She had overstayed her work visa.”

  “And the police promised to help her with this?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did they?”

  “I don’t know.” She added, “She did not come to work the next day, and I did not see her again.”

  And you never will, Mrs. Morales. And neither will I. I asked her, “Do you remember the cleaning lady named Roxanne Scarangello? College girl.”

  She nodded and said, “She was with us for many summers.”

  “Did you speak to her after the police spoke to her?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Did she return to work the next day?”

  “No, she did not.”

  “Did she ever return to work?”

  “No.”

  Poor Mrs. Morales was probably wondering if she was going to disappear, too. I was beginning to wonder if I was going to disappear. This was starting to sound like an episode of the X-Files, which I would not mention to Kate. I asked Mrs. Morales, “Do you know where I could find Lucita?”

  “No. As I said, I did not see her again, and did not hear from her ever.”

  “What was Lucita’s age?”

  She shrugged. “A young girl. Perhaps eighteen, nineteen.”

  “And her country of origin?”

  “She was a Salvadoran lady.”

  “And where did she live in America?”

  “She lived with family.”

  “Where?”

  “I am not certain.”

  I tried a few more questions, but Mrs. Morales was drying up.

  I said, “Thank you, Mrs. Morales. Please do not mention this conversation to anyone.” Or you’ll disappear. “Please ask Mr. Rosenthal to join me.”

  She nodded and left.

  I could understan
d how and why Lucita vanished from the Bayview Hotel, but Roxanne Scarangello was another matter. And then there was the desk clerk, Christopher Brock, who suddenly resigned or was fired. This place had been sanitized five years ago, except for Mr. Rosenthal and Mrs. Morales, who would be harder to get rid of; too many coincidences would be hard to explain if it ever came up.

  Mr. Rosenthal returned to the file room and said, “Was Mrs. Morales helpful?”

  “She didn’t seem to recall anything.”

  “It’s been five years.”

  “Right. By the way, do you recall if Roxanne Scarangello finished out the summer?”

  He thought a moment, then replied, “They usually do . . . but many of the college students leave the last two weeks of August for a break before school starts.”

  “But how about Roxanne?”

  “She did leave early, now that you mention it. I was looking for her a few days later, and someone said she’d left.” He added, “A few of the staff left after the accident, now that I think about it. They were upset.”

  I asked him, “How old was Christopher Brock?”

  He thought a moment, then replied, “Maybe late twenties.”

  “You said you rented a block of thirty rooms to the FBI.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many rooms do you have here?”

  “There are twelve here in the old inn, and twenty-four in the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion, plus four guest cottages.”

  “Did you need to move any guests out to make room for the FBI?”

  “A few. But mostly we canceled pending reservations and turned away people who came to the desk.” He finished, “Within a week, almost all the rooms went to the FBI.”

  “I see. And did you keep records of the FBI people who stayed here?”

  “Not permanent records.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Well, just computer records so we could direct phone calls and keep track of any extra charges. They were constantly coming and leaving, and sometimes a room would change hands and we didn’t know.” He asked me, “Why do you ask?”

  I didn’t like it when Mr. Rosenthal asked me questions like that, but bullshitter that I am, I replied, “The general accounting office is questioning some of the charges.”