apartment, and cell phone number. He added, “I did a standard credit check on her-those credit bastards have more background on people than the FBI-and I discovered she used to work summers at the Bayview Hotel in Westhampton Beach. That’s the babe, right?”
“Right.”
“I even got a photo from her college yearbook. Nice-looking. You want it?”
“Maybe. Anything else? Criminal? Civil?”
“No. Clean. But she’s got no visible means of support, except maybe the boyfriend, but he’s a student and his credit report sucks, too, and I did a background on her parents, who aren’t exactly rich.”
“Scholarship?”
“That’s it. Some kind of school scholarship, with a stipend. And knowing where you’re coming from, I checked further and found out that this is a U.S. government-supported scholarship, but maybe that’s just a coincidence.”
“Maybe. Nice work.”
“Piece of cake. Meet me for a beer. You owe me one.”
“I do, but I’m jet-lagged.”
“Bullshit. You’re going to Philly. Take a break, John. Meet me at the Judson Grill. Full of Hampton babes back after Labor Day. Hey, you might get a lead there.”
I smiled and said, “Dom, I’ve kept my dick in my pants for six weeks. Don’t tempt me.”
“Six weeks? How do you know it still works?”
“Go sanitize my apartment. I’ll be home late tonight, or early tomorrow. Ciao.”
“Ciao, baby. Welcome home. Think about what you’re doing-you don’t want to go back to Yemen.”
“Thanks.” I shut off my cell phone, then paid the bar tab and tipped the bartender a five for the electricity.
I walked into the terminal where a digital clock said it was 5:01P.M., and I reset my watch to earth time.
I actually
I should be going home, but I was going to Philadelphia.
I went to the Hertz counter and rented a mid-sized Ford Taurus, and within thirty minutes I was on the Shore Parkway, heading toward the Verrazano Bridge, the radio playing, and my cell phone plugged into the car outlet.
I called my home answering machine and retrieved a few dozen messages from people who seemed surprised or confused about us being out of the country. There were about six messages from Dom Fanelli, all saying, “Kate, John-you home yet? I thought I’d check your apartment for you. Okay, just checking.”
This is the guy who tells
I shut off the cell phone, and left it charging. My beeper, in fact, had not worked in Yemen, but following Jack’s orders I’d left it on the whole time, and the battery was dead. But it was on.
I also recalled that Mr. Koenig had given me a direct order not to involve myself in TWA 800. I should have asked him to clarify that, which I’ll do next time I see him.
I drove over the Verrazano, across Staten Island, and across the Goethals Bridge, then onto I-95 in New Jersey, and headed south toward Philadelphia. I should be there in less than two hours.
I was five years and two months behind the curve on this one, but it’s never too late to re-open a case.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
To a New Yorker, Philadelphia-about a hundred miles south of Midtown-is like the Statue of Liberty: historical, close, and totally avoidable.
Nonetheless, I’ve been to the City of Brotherly Love a few times for police conferences, and a few times to see a Phillies-Mets game, so I know the place. All things considered, to paraphrase W. C. Fields, I’d rather be in Yemen. Just kidding.
At about 7:30P.M., I pulled up to a five-story apartment building at 2201 Chestnut Street, not far from Rittenhouse Square.
I found a parking space on the street, got out of my rental car, and stretched. I called Roxanne Scarangello’s apartment, and a female answered, “Hello?”
“Roxanne Scarangello, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Ms. Scarangello, this is Detective John Corey with the FBI. I’d like to speak to you for a few minutes.”
There was a long silence, then she asked, “About what?”
“About TWA Flight 800, ma’am.”
“I’ve told you all I know about that, five years ago. You said you wouldn’t be calling me again.”
“Something new has surfaced. I’m outside your apartment. May I come up?”
“No. I’m… not dressed.”
“Why don’t you get dressed?”
“I… I’m actually late for dinner.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“I can walk.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
I heard what sounded like a deep sigh, then she said, “All right. I’ll be right down.”
I turned off my cell phone and waited in front of the apartment building, which seemed like a decent place on a nice tree-lined street, within walking distance of the University of Pennsylvania, an expensive Ivy League school.
It was nearly dark, and the night was clear. A soft breeze carried a hint of autumn.
You don’t appreciate these things until they’re gone, and if you’re lucky, you get to appreciate them again with new eyes and ears.
It was some kind of delayed reaction, and I felt like kissing the ground and singing “God Bless America.”
A tall, attractive young woman with long dark hair, dressed in black jeans and a black sweater, came out of the apartment house.
I said, “Ms. Scarangello? I’m John Corey, FBI task force.” I held up my credentials and said, “Thank you for your time.”
She replied, “I’ve really told you all I know, which is almost nothing.”
That’s what you think, Roxanne. I said, “I’ll walk with you.”
She shrugged, and we began walking toward Rittenhouse Square. She said, “I’m meeting my boyfriend for dinner.”
“I, too, have a dinner date. So I won’t keep you.”
As we walked, I asked her some inconsequential questions about the university, her first day of classes, Philadelphia, and about her doctorate program, which she said was in English literature.
I yawned, and she asked me, “Am I boring you?”
“Not at all. I just got in from the Mideast. See my tan? Do you want to see my ticket?”
She laughed. “No. I believe you. What were you doing there?”
“Keeping the world safe for democracy.”
“You should start here.”
I remembered I was speaking to a college student and replied, “You’re absolutely right.”
She went into a rap about the last presidential election, and I nodded and made positive sounds.
We got to a restaurant called Alma de Cuba near Rittenhouse Square and entered. It was an upscale,
