wanted to get it over with. I started in the shower-”
“The shower had been used?”
“Yes, but not that morning. I could tell it had been used, maybe the night before. Soap and shower stall were dry, and so were the used towels. I remember telling one of the FBI guys that it was like the bathroom was hardly used. Just a quick shower and out.”
“Was there sand on the floor? In the bed?”
“There was beach sand in the bathroom. I told the FBI guy that.”
“Okay, so you went back in the bedroom.”
“Yes. I first emptied the wastebaskets, then the ashtrays-”
“They were smoking?”
“No… I don’t think so. But that’s what I usually do.”
“Try to separate this room on this day from the hundreds of other rooms you’ve cleaned.”
She laughed. “Sure. More like two thousand over three summers out there.”
“I know, but you were questioned for a long time about this one room. So you can remember what you said to the FBI guys. Right?”
She replied, “Actually, I wasn’t questioned that long. They just asked me what I did and saw in the room, then thanked me.”
I nodded. Neither Liam Griffith, who was probably an OPR guy, nor Ted Nash, CIA, knew how to wring a witness dry. They weren’t detectives. I am. I asked Roxanne, “Did this couple leave a tip?”
“No.”
“See? You remember that.”
She smiled. “Cheap bastards.”
“I’m buying drinks tonight.”
“Good.”
“Okay, what was in the wastebaskets?”
“I really don’t remember. Just the usual. Tissues. Whatever.”
“How about a box from a video camera cassette?”
“No… you think they videotaped themselves… like, doing it?”
“I don’t know. How about cellophane, gum wrappers, price tags, receipts for anything?”
“No… but there was a Band-Aid wrapper in the ashtray.” She shrugged.
“Any sign of blood?”
“No.”
“Okay, tell me how you cleaned a room. Any room.”
“Sometimes I varied it because it was mind-numbing, but I had a routine.” She proceeded to give me a lesson in room cleaning, which I might actually need in case my cleaning lady died.
I asked her, “And there was definitely lipstick on a wineglass?”
“Yes. I think that was the first thing that made me aware that there had been a woman in the room.”
“Any other sign of a woman? Dusting powder? Makeup? Long hair?”
“No. But you could tell two people had been there. Both pillows were squashed. Lots of towels used.” She smiled and said, “Guys use one towel, women use them all and call for more.”
“I’ll ignore that sexist remark.”
She smiled again and gave herself a little slap on the face. She was either very cute, or I’d been in the desert too long.
She went on, and her memory was getting better with the wine and cigarettes.
When she was finished, I asked her, “Is this more or less what you told the FBI guys?”
“Mostly less. Why is this important?”
“We never know until we ask.”
She lit another cigarette and offered me one, which I declined.
I realized that my time with Roxanne was running out, given the fifteen-minute walk from her apartment, which, if I was her boyfriend, I’d do in ten minutes.
She sensed I was about to wind it down and said to me, “Stay and meet Sam.”
“Why?”
“You would like him.”
“Would he like me?”
“No. That’s the point.”
“Don’t be a bitch.”
She laughed, then said, “Really, don’t leave.”
“Well… I need a cup of coffee before I drive back to New York.”
“You live in New York?”
“I do. Manhattan.”
“That’s where I’d like to live when I graduate.”
“Good move.” I signaled a waitress and ordered coffee.
Roxanne and I made small talk, which I can do while my brain is elsewhere. I didn’t come all the way from Yemen to Philadelphia just to flirt with a college girl. Or did I?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The boyfriend was late, Roxanne was getting lit, and half my brain was still at three thousand feet, while the other half was soaked in rum.
I wanted to leave, but something kept me sitting there. Fatigue, probably, or maybe Roxanne, or maybe a gut feeling that if I sat there long enough, or asked the right question, or listened more closely, something would pop up.
My coffee came in a big mug, and I banged it down and ordered another. I chatted with Roxanne while thinking about anything I might have missed.
I asked her, “Was the TV turned on when you entered the room? Like sometimes people leave it on when they want it to look like they’re in the room.”
She snuffed out her cigarette and asked, “Are we back in the room?”
“Just for a minute.”
“No, it wasn’t turned on.” She added, “In fact,
“Why?”
“Well, we’re not supposed to watch TV while we work, but I wanted to see the news about TWA 800.”
“I won’t tell. So, what was on the news?”
“I don’t remember exactly.” She shook her head and said, “It was really awful.”
“It was.” I said to Roxanne, “Maybe you can help me with something. This couple checked in about four- thirty. Okay? The guy checked in alone. The next time they’re seen, it’s about sevenP.M. when the maid, Lucita, saw them with the bed blanket, heading for their car. No one seems to have seen them in those two and a half hours in between. So, I’m wondering, what did they do during that time? I mean, what do people do out there in the late afternoon?”
“You’re asking
“Right… but that’s a long time to sit in a hotel room on a nice day.”
She smiled at me and said, “Maybe they got romantic. That’s what they were there for. They had sex, they napped, they watched TV, or popped in a romantic tape.”
“Right.” The problem was that I really wanted them to have gone to the hotel bar and paid for drinks with a credit card, or left a local store receipt in the wastebasket. But that’s not what they did.
I sat back and yawned. I seemed to be hitting a dead end in regard to the missing two and a half hours, but maybe it wasn’t that important. A nap would account for the time, or an afternoon TV show, or pre-beach sex, none of which would leave a paper trail… I asked her, “What do you mean, ‘popped in a tape’?”
