I stood there and stared at the open receipt book.
Mr. Rosenthal asked, “Any luck?”
I didn’t reply.
I flipped back a page and looked at the pre-printed red receipt numbers, then flipped forward. Three numbers were missing from the sequence.
I bent the book back and could see where a page had been neatly razored out of the receipt book. “Bastards.”
“Excuse me?”
I threw the book into the box and said, “I’d like to see the receipts for borrowed library books.”
Mr. Rosenthal retrieved the appropriate box and I found the receipt book for the period in question. I flipped through the receipts, thinking that perhaps Don Juan or his lady had taken out a book, but no one in Room 203 had borrowed a book on July 17, 1996. I dropped the book in the box and said, “Let’s go.”
We walked toward the door, with Mr. Rosenthal glancing over his shoulder at the mess on the floor.
In the back of my mind-but not too far back-I knew that the FBI could not possibly have stayed in this hotel for two months without thinking about the lending library. I mean, they weren’t real detectives, but they certainly weren’t brain-dead either.
But I
Mr. Rosenthal was about to lock the door of the archives room when I thought of something Roxanne said and stopped. I said to him, “I didn’t see any pink carbons in the receipt books.”
“They’re given to the guest when the book or videotape is returned.”
“What if it’s not returned?”
“Then it stays in the receipt book until the guest has departed and the borrowed item is discovered to be missing. Then, it’s pulled for a monthly inventory of missing property.”
“Okay… so the guests in Room 203 checked in on July 17, and on July 18, at noon, you discovered they had left without checking out. The morning of July 19, the FBI arrived inquiring about a missing bed blanket. Later that morning, more FBI people showed up asking about the guests in Room 203. Is it possible that by then someone on your staff had pulled out the pink receipt from the receipt book and marked it as missing?”
He replied, “The librarian waits to see if a maid or anyone returns the item. If not, sometime that day, or early the next day, the pink carbon is sent to the bookkeeper, who will bill the guest for the missing item, or put it on their credit card. Sometimes the item is actually returned to the hotel by mail, or shows up later, but if the item is still missing or hasn’t been paid for, the pink copy goes into the tax file as a deductible property loss.”
“And after that?”
“As with all tax records, the pink carbons are archived for seven years.”
“Lead the way.”
Mr. Rosenthal led me to a cabinet marked “Tax Files, 1996,” and found a manila envelope marked “Library Receipts-Missing, Lost or Stolen,” and handed it to me.
I opened the envelope. Inside was a wad of pink receipts, held together by a rubber band. I snapped the rubber band, and began flipping through the two dozen or so receipts for missing books and videotapes.
Mr. Rosenthal asked, “Can I help-?”
“No.” They were not in strict chronological order, so I went through them slowly. Each was marked, “Not Returned.” Toward the middle of the stack, I stopped at a receipt dated July 17. The room number was 203. The borrowed item was a videotape-
The signature was scrawled, and the person had not pressed hard enough to leave a clear imprint on the carbon copy.
Printed on the receipt in a different handwriting were the words, “Not Returned,” and the name “Reynolds,” which, according to Marie Gubitosi, was the name that Don Juan had used when he checked in.
I asked Mr. Rosenthal about that, and he replied, “Apparently the person borrowing the videotape didn’t have a room key, so the librarian checked her computer and saw that the name signed on the receipt didn’t match the name of the guest in Room 203. She inquired of the person borrowing the videotape and that person gave the name of the registered guest, which matched the name on the computer.”
“Right.” The lady, then, knew what name Don Juan was using that day, so apparently, they’d done this before, which probably meant this was not a one-night stand.
I looked again at the signature, but the light was not good, though the handwriting looked feminine. I said, “Let’s go upstairs.”
We left the archives room with Mr. Rosenthal stealing backwards glances at my untidiness.
Upstairs in the lobby, I put the pink slip on the front desk under the bright desk lamp, and I asked Peter, “Do you have a magnifying glass?”
He retrieved a square magnifier from behind the desk, and I looked at the faint carbon signature.
Peter was trying to steal a look at the pink slip, so I put it in my pocket, along with his magnifying glass. I motioned Mr. Rosenthal toward the library, and we entered the dark room. I said to him, “Knowing what you do about this matter, and having been in the hotel business-I assume for many years-do you think the female guest in Room 203 would have signed her real name to the video library receipt?”
He pondered that a moment, then replied, “I think so.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Well… it’s the same in the bar, or the restaurant, or the sundry counter… you’re asked to sign your name and room number, and you sign truthfully because the staff may go right into the computer while you’re there-or you may be asked to show your room key, or even a driver’s license at any point in the transaction.” He added, “Also, it’s just a natural reflex to sign your true name when asked.”
“Unless you’re traveling incognito. You know, having an affair. The guy didn’t check in using his real name.”
“Yes, but that’s different. Signing for a book or videotape is an inconsequential transaction. It’s best to use your real name and room number to avoid the risk of embarrassment.”
“I like the way you think, Mr. Rosenthal.”
“That’s very scary.”
Mr. Rosenthal had a dry, almost sarcastic sense of humor. I bring out the best in people.
I left the library, and Mr. Rosenthal followed.
He asked me, “Do you need to keep that receipt?”
“Yes.”
He made a little joke and said, “Then I’ll need a receipt for the receipt.”
I chuckled politely and said, “Put it on my room bill.”
We were at the front desk now, and he asked me, “Are you staying with us tonight, Mr. Corey?”
“I am. I got a good off-season rate.”
Mr. Rosenthal asked Peter, “What room did you give Mr. Corey?”
“Room 203.”
“Of course.” Mr. Rosenthal asked me, “Do you think the room will speak to you?”
I replied, “It already did.” I said to Peter, “I need a sevenA.M. wake-up call.”
Peter noted it in his book and asked, “Do you need help with your luggage, or directions to the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion?”
“I do not. Thank you for your help, gentlemen.”
I walked out of the lobby into the cool, foggy night.
I got into my rental car, drove to the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion parking lot, took my overnight bag, climbed a set of stairs, and entered Room 203.
A voice in my head, or in the room, said,
