CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I headed back to New York on the New Jersey Turnpike, which is very scenic, if you close your eyes and think of someplace else.
I was pushing the pedal a bit, though there was no particular urgency in checking out a lead in a case that was closed and five years old; the urgency had to do with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility, who I assumed had not forgotten me in my absence, and had undoubtedly calendared my return from overseas. If they were wondering where John Corey was tonight, they’d have to ask me tomorrow.
I tuned in to an all-news channel and listened to the latest. It seemed to be a slow news day. In fact, it had been a very quiet summer on the terrorism front.
On the other hand, the National Security Agency had sent out a secret advisory informing everyone that radio chatter among our Islamic friends had been extraordinarily heavy this summer, which was not a good sign.
I turned my mind to more immediate concerns, and thought about my conversation with Roxanne Scarangello. I realized that the interview could have gone either way, which is how most witness interviews go; a word here, a random remark there, the right question, the wrong answer, and so forth.
After twenty years of doing this, you develop a real sixth sense. Therefore, the lending library thing was not dumb luck; it was John Corey being tenacious, brilliant, perceptive, clever, charming, and motivated. Mostly motivated.
I mean, I wasn’t getting paid for this, so I needed a non-monetary reward. Basically, I wanted to stick this one up Koenig’s ass so far it would part the Brylcreem in his hair. Liam Griffith, too. And I wished for a moment that Ted Nash were alive so I could stick it up his butt while I was at it.
It was 9:10 on my dashboard clock, and I wondered what time it was in Dar es Salaam. Same as Yemen, actually, which would be the wee hours of the morning. I pictured my angel asleep in a three-star hotel overlooking the Indian Ocean. She’d e-mailed me once, “It’s so beautiful here, John, I wish you were with me.” As if it was my idea to go to Yemen.
Actually, I realized that I missed her more than I thought I would. I was honestly happy that she’d been sent to a decent place, and not to Yemen, which, if I haven’t mentioned it, sucked.
Yes, there were uncharitable moments when I wished she was in Yemen and I was in the Bahamas, but they were only passing moments, followed by loving thoughts of our reunion.
I continued north on the New Jersey Turnpike, clipping along at about 85 mph. I was tired, but alert.
I understood that the only thing I might find in the Bayview Hotel archives would be Mr. Rosenthal, scratching his head and saying, “What happened to those library receipts?”
Iwas now on Montauk Highway on Long Island, approaching Westhampton Beach. It was half past midnight, and a light fog was rolling in from the ocean and bays.
My radio was picking up Connecticut signals out here, and some PBS station was playing
The fat lady was singing “Parigi, o cara” as I pulled into the guest registration space. I waited for her to finish and drop dead, which she did, and I shut off the engine and went into the hotel.
It was past Labor Day, and the lobby was quiet at this weekday hour. The bar doors were closed, which was a disappointment.
Peter, my favorite desk clerk, was on duty, so I skipped the formalities and said to him, “I need to speak to Mr. Rosenthal.”
He looked at his watch, the way people do when they want to emphasize some silly point about the time, and said, “Sir, it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning.”
“Do you know what time it is in Yemen? I’ll tell you. It’s eightA.M. Time for work. Give him a call.”
“But… is this urgent?”
“Why am I here? Give him a call.”
“Yes, sir.” He picked up the phone and dialed Leslie Rosenthal.
I asked Peter, “Do you have the keys to the basement?”
“No, sir. Only Mr. Rosenthal.” Someone answered the phone on the other end, and Peter said, “Mr. Rosenthal? I’m very sorry to disturb you at this hour- No, nothing wrong-but Mr…”
“Corey.”
“Mr. Corey from the FBI is here again, and he’d like to speak to- Yes, sir. I think he knows what time it is.”
I said helpfully, “It’s five minutes after one. Give me the phone.”
I took the phone from Peter and said to Mr. Rosenthal, “I really do apologize for calling you at this hour, but something urgent has come up.”
Mr. Rosenthal replied with a mixture of grogginess and controlled annoyance,
“I need to see the archives. Please bring your keys.”
There was silence, then he said, “Can’t this wait until morning?”
“I’m afraid not.” To put his mind at ease, I said, “This has nothing to do with illegal immigrant workers.”
There was another silence, then he said, “All right… I’m about twenty minutes from the hotel… I have to get dressed…”
I said, “I appreciate your continued cooperation.” I hung up and said to Peter, “I could use a Coke.”
He replied, “I can get you one from the bar.”
“Thank you. Put a shot of Scotch in that and hold the Coke.”
“Sir?”
“Dewar’s, straight up.”
“Yes, sir.”
He unlocked the doors to the bar and disappeared inside.
I went over to the doors that led to the library and peeked through the paned glass. It was dark in there, and I couldn’t see much.
Peter returned with a short glass of Scotch on a tray. I took it and said, “Put it on my room tab.”
He asked, “Are you staying with us this evening?”
“That’s the plan. Room 203.”
He went behind his desk, played with his computer, and said, “You’re in luck. It’s not occupied.”
Peter wasn’t getting it, and I informed him,
“Yes, sir.”
I swirled the Scotch and sipped it. After a nearly dry month, it tasted like iodine. Is this what this stuff actually tasted like? I set it down on an end table and asked Peter, “How long have you been working here?”
“This is my second year.”
“Do you loan videotapes from the library?”
“No, sir. There are no VCRs in the rooms.”
“Were you here when the hotel had videotapes in the library?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay, how do you loan books to guests?”
“The guest chooses a book and signs for it.”
“Let’s take a look.” I motioned to the library, and Peter took his passkeys, opened the double doors, and turned on the lights.
It was a big, mahogany-paneled room lined with bookshelves, decorated as a sitting room.
In the far left corner was a long desk with a telephone, cash register, and computer, and behind the desk was a glass cabinet filled with sundries. To the right of the desk was a newspaper and magazine rack, all typical of a small hotel with limited space for services.
The lobby entrance seemed to be the only way in or out of the room, unless you went through a window.
