“How could I forget? Did you ever find those two?”
“No, sir, we have not.”
“Well, they never came back here. At least not as far as I know. I would have called you.”
“Yes, sir. Do you have a contact name and number?”
“No… but I know how to call the FBI.”
“Good.” I said to him, “I’ve read the file report from the agents who were here at that time, and I’d like you to clarify a few things for me.”
“All right.”
Mr. Rosenthal seemed like an okay guy, straightforward and cooperative. I asked him, “Is the desk clerk still here who checked in this possible witness?”
“No. He left shortly after the crash.”
“I see. What was his name?”
“Christopher Brock.”
“Do you know where I could find him?”
“No, but I can get his personnel file for you.”
“That would be helpful.” I said, “There was a maid here, a Hispanic lady, named Lucita Gonzalez Perez, who saw this possible witness and a lady come out of their room. Room 203. Is this maid still with you?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her since that summer. But I’ll check.”
“Would you have a file on her?”
He seemed a little uncomfortable now and replied, “We keep photocopies of their green cards if they’re guest workers. All our foreign-born employees need to be citizens, or here on a work visa-otherwise, we won’t employ them.”
“I’m sure of that, sir. The issue is not this woman’s status in this country. She is a material witness, and we’d like to speak to her again.”
“I’ll check on that.”
“Good. There was another cleaning lady. The one who entered Room 203 at noon the next day and reported that the guests had left and that the blanket was missing. Is she still here?”
“No, I haven’t seen her since that summer.”
I was seeing a little pattern here. I asked him, “But you remember her.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you have a file on her?”
“I’m sure we do. She was a college kid. Came here every summer to work at the hotel. Worked hard and partied hard.” He smiled and added, “I think she was doing graduate work the last summer she was here.”
“What is her name?”
“Roxanne Scarangello.”
“Is she local?”
“No. She lived down around Philly. Went to Penn State. Or maybe University of Pennsylvania. It’s on her application.”
“And you keep those?”
“We do. Tax stuff. Also, we rehire the good ones, so we sometimes phone them in May.”
“Right.” Roxanne the college kid was not a prime witness, and neither was Christopher the desk clerk nor Lucita. So, what the hell was I doing here? Sometimes you just need to work the case, walk on the terrain, and ask questions of people who seem to know nothing. It’s like a maze where you become an expert in false trails and dead ends, which is Step One in finding the way out of the maze.
I asked Mr. Rosenthal, “Do you recall the names of the Federal agents who came to your hotel inquiring about the person in Room 203?”
“No. I never really got their names. Some guy came around earlier that morning… it was Friday after the crash, and he wanted to know if any of the staff had reported a missing bed blanket. Someone got the head housekeeper, and she said, yes, there was a blanket missing from Room 203. Then this guy asked to see me, and asked permission to speak to my staff, and I said, sure, but what’s it all about. And he said he’d fill me in later. Meanwhile, these three FBI guys showed up, and one of them said it had to do with the crash, and he had this blanket in a plastic bag marked Evidence, and he showed it to me and to the head housekeeper and a few maids, and we said, yes, that could be the blanket missing from Room 203. Then they wanted to look at my registration cards and computer records and speak to the desk clerk who was on duty that day.” Mr. Rosenthal added, “But you know all of this.”
“I do. Did you remember the name of this agent who initially came to the hotel inquiring about a missing blanket?”
“No. He gave me his card, but then later took it back.”
“I see. Please continue.”
Mr. Rosenthal went on, recounting the events of that morning and afternoon five years ago with the clarity of a man who’d told the story to his friends and family about a hundred times, not to mention the memory of a man who’d had to deal with Federal agents running all over his nice, quiet hotel.
There wasn’t much new in what he was saying, but I listened carefully in case there was. He continued, “So, it turns out that this guest who checked in had used a phony name… we have a policy here of not catering to that sort of trade-”
“Except during the slow season.”
“Excuse me?”
“Go on.”
“We need to know who our guests are. And Christopher, the desk clerk, did follow procedure up to a point… but now we insist on a credit card, or a driver’s license, or some sort of photo ID.”
I had news for Mr. Rosenthal, but this was not the time to announce it. I asked, “Why did Christopher leave?”
“Well… we had a disagreement over his handling of that guest check-in. I wasn’t faulting him for it, but I wanted to go over the procedures again. He didn’t seem particularly upset, but a day or two later he quit.” Mr. Rosenthal added, “Hotel staff-especially the men-are a little high-strung.”
I thought about that, then asked, “What happened to the five-hundred-dollar cash deposit?”
“We’re still holding it for the guest.” He smiled. “Minus thirty-six dollars for two half bottles of wine from the mini-bar, and the missing blanket.”
I returned his smile and said, “Let me know if this gentleman ever returns for his deposit.”
“I certainly will.”
So, Don Juan and his lady had consumed some wine before or after going to the beach. I asked, “Do you have full bottles in the room?”
“No.” He paused. “One of the FBI guys asked me that, too. Why is that important?”
“It’s not. So, this guest’s business card said… what?”
“I don’t remember the name. I think it was an attorney’s card.”
“Did the desk clerk, Christopher, say that this guy looked like an attorney?”
This question seemed to throw Mr. Rosenthal off a bit. He said to me, “I… what does an attorney look like?”
It was all I could do to resist a punch line to my setup question. I said, “Please continue.”
He went on awhile about the four other Federal agents joining the three that were there-three men and a woman, who would be Marie Gubitosi. Mr. Rosenthal said, “They questioned everyone-staff and guests, and it was a little disrupting, but everyone wanted to be as cooperative as possible because it had to do with the crash. Everyone was very upset by what had happened, and it was all anyone could talk about.” Mr. Rosenthal continued his recollections of that day.
My little hangover was feeling a lot better, and I was able to nod my head without pain. I slipped my cell phone and beeper out of my pocket and turned them on, waiting for a message beep. You get about ten minutes before they can track the signal, usually longer, but sometimes they get lucky and fix your position within ten minutes. I waited about five minutes while Mr. Rosenthal spoke, then shut off the power. My initial annoyance with Kate’s lying to me was changing to annoyance that she hadn’t called or beeped. How can you have a good fight if you’re not talking?
It occurred to me that Kate may have been called into some boss’s office, or the OPR office, and she was right now answering a few tough questions. It occurred to me, too, that even though I hadn’t mentioned this trip to Kate-and I was sure I hadn’t been followed out here-the OPR people may have guessed where I was spending my sick day. I half expected Liam Griffith and three goons to bust through the door and take me away. That would surprise Mr. Rosenthal. But not me.