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 understand 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.”
“I see… well, we did the best we could. They weren’t easy to deal with. No offense.”
“No offense taken. So, they sort of took over the place.”
“They did.”
“Did they, for instance, ask you to kick out the news media who were staying here?”
“Yes, now that you mention it, they did.” He added with a smile, “I don’t know who were worse guests-the FBI or the news media. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Mr. Rosenthal said to me, “The reporters made a big fuss, but since it was a matter of national security, they had to leave.”
“Absolutely. Do you think you could retrieve the names of the FBI agents who stayed here from July 1996 to, let’s say, October?”
“I don’t think so. An FBI person came in at the end and purged the computer. National security. That’s why I like paper records.”
“Me, too.” That brick wall kept smashing me in the face. But I had discovered some interesting and strange occurrences that neither Kate, nor Dick Kearns, nor Marie Gubitosi had mentioned to me. Probably because they didn’t know. Well, at least Dick and Marie wouldn’t know about people, files, and computer data disappearing. But Ms. Mayfield might have known. In fact, she may have stayed here.
I said to Mr. Rosenthal, “Let’s see Room 203.”
He looked at me and asked, “Why? It’s been five years.”
“Rooms speak to me.”
He gave me a funny look, which was understandable after a statement like that. I think he was getting a little suspicious, and he said, “There may be guests in that room.” He added, hesitantly, “Would you mind telling me again the purpose of your visit?”
When I work with a partner, I usually play bad cop, but when I work alone, I have to play both good cop and bad cop, which is sometimes confusing to the person I’m speaking to. I said to him, “The purpose of my visit is not the legal status of your employees. But it could become that. Meanwhile, this is my investigation, Mr. Rosenthal, not yours. Take me to Room 203.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We stopped at the front desk, and Mr. Rosenthal asked Peter, “Is anyone checked into Room 203?”
Peter played with his computer and said, “Yes, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Schultz, two-night stay, arrived-”
I cut him off and said, “See if they’re in.”
“Yes, sir.” He dialed the room and someone answered.
He looked at me, and I said, “Tell them to get out of the room. Tell them there’s a snake loose or something. They can return in twenty minutes.”
Peter cleared his throat and said into the phone, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Schultz, you and Mr. Schultz will have to leave the room now for twenty minutes… there’s… an electrical problem. Yes. Thank you.”
Mr. Rosenthal did not look happy with me, but he said to Peter, “Give Mr. Corey a key to Room 203.”
Peter opened a drawer and produced a metal key, which he handed to me.
Mr. Rosenthal said to me, “I assume you don’t need me. I’ll be in my office, if you require anything further.”
I didn’t want this guy out of my sight and thinking about making a phone call to the FBI, so I said, “I’d like you to come along. Lead the way.”
A little reluctantly, he led the way out the lobby door, then down a landscaped path to the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion.
It was, as I said, a long, two-story structure without any particular charm, though the roof had a cupola stuck on it with a wind vane that told me the breeze was blowing from the bay.
We climbed an exterior staircase to the second level and walked along the terrace, which was covered by a roof eave and was in shadow at this hour. An elderly couple was quickly evacuating a room, and I guessed that was Room 203 with the electrical snake.
They fled past us, and I opened the door with the key and entered the room.
The Schultzes were tidy people, and it looked like no one had been staying there.
It was a good-sized room decorated in the crisp Martha Stewart style, which predominates out here.
I checked out the bathroom, which had a stall shower big enough to hold two comfortably, or four close friends.
