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 1P.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 see 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.”
