“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.
