He was saying, “A lot of the guests here checked out early because they didn’t want to go down to the beach… because… things were washing up…” He took a deep breath and continued, “But then, the curiosity seekers started to check in, plus a lot of news media people and a few politicians. The FBI offered me one-month guaranteed stays for thirty rooms if I’d take a reduced rate. So, I took it, and I’m glad I did because they renewed it and some of them stayed until well past Labor Day.”
“You made out okay.”
He looked at me and said, “Everyone out here did. But you know what? I would have given the rooms for free if it meant helping the investigation.” He added, “I served a free breakfast to everyone involved in the investigation.”
“That’s very generous of you. Did any of these FBI people who interviewed you and your staff stay on here?”
“I believe at least one or two of them did. But after five years, I really can’t remember. I had almost nothing to do with them.” Mr. Rosenthal inquired, “Isn’t all of this in the official report?”
“It is. This is what’s called file reconciliation.” I made that up, but he seemed to buy it. I was hitting all the expected dead ends, but I had two new names-Christopher Brock, the desk clerk, and Roxanne Scarangello, the college cleaning kid. I needed at least one more name now in case the Thought Police showed up. “What was the name of the head housekeeper?”
“Anita Morales.”
“Is she still with you?”
“Yes. She’s permanent staff. Very good supervisor.”
“Good.” I wished I could say the same about my supervisor. “Back to Roxanne-did you speak to her after she was interviewed by the FBI?”
“I did… but she was told not to discuss her statement with anyone, including me.”
“But she did say that she saw lipstick on a wineglass in the room, and that the shower had been used, and the blanket was missing.”
He replied, “She didn’t discuss that with me.”
“All right. Did the FBI take any fingerprints from any of your staff?”
He replied, “Yes, they did. From the desk clerk, Christopher, and from the maid, Roxanne. They said they needed their prints to disqualify them from any prints found on the check-in desk or in the room.”
Not to mention the registration card. It seemed to me that Don Juan would have left a few perfect prints on that card that matched the prints found on the wineglass and bottle at the beach, thereby placing him in both locations. His lady had left her prints on the wine bottle and glass, too, though probably not in the hotel room if it had been thoroughly cleaned. But if neither of them had ever been printed for anything, then that, too, was a dead end until such time as they were found by some other means and confronted with the fingerprints.
Mr. Rosenthal interrupted my thoughts and asked me, “Do I need to sign a statement?”
“No. Do you want to?”
“No… but I was wondering… you’re not taking notes.”
“I don’t need to. This is informal.” And if I took notes and I got busted, I’d be in even deeper shit. I asked him, “Didn’t you sign a statement five years ago?”
“I did. Did you see it?”
“I did.” Time to change the subject and the venue. I said, “I’d like to see your personnel files.”
“Of course.” He stood and said, “I’ll show them to you myself.”
“Thank you.”
We left Mr. Rosenthal’s office and descended the stairs toward the lobby. I turned on my cell phone and beeper again to see if I’d get a message beep. As the Internal Affairs guys on the NYPD or the FBI or CIA will tell you, the hardest person to bust is one of your own. There are no clever criminals-they’re all stupid and they leave more evidence of their activities than Santa Claus on Christmas morning. But cops, FBI agents, and CIA people are another story; they’re hard to detect when they’re up to no good.
Having said that, I had the distinct feeling I was under the eye, as cops say. I had maybe twenty-four hours before the poop hit the paddles. Maybe twenty-four seconds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mr. Rosenthal escorted me to a door beneath the main staircase, which he unlocked with a key. We descended into the basement, which was dark and dank. He announced, “Wine cellar and records storage.”
“Let’s see the wine cellar first.”
He chuckled at my first joke of the afternoon, which reinforced my favorable impression of him.
He unlocked another door and turned on a bank of fluorescent lights, revealing a big, low-ceilinged space filled with shelves and file cabinets in neat rows. He asked me, “You want the file on Christopher Brock?”
“Please.”
He went to a row of file cabinets and pulled out a drawer labeled A-D, then riffled through the files, saying, “These are inactive personnel files for all former office and administration staff… let’s see… I insist they be kept in strict alphabetical order… B-R-O… maybe…”
There were only about two dozen files in the drawer, and if he hadn’t hit on Christopher Brock yet, he never would.
Mr. Rosenthal stepped back and said, “This is strange.”
Not really. The good news was that Christopher Brock’s file was at 26 Federal Plaza. The bad news was that I’d never see it. I asked, “How about Roxanne Scarangello?”
Mr. Rosenthal still seemed perplexed about the missing file and didn’t reply.
I prompted, “The college-educated maid?”
“Oh… yes. Follow me.”
I followed him to a row of file cabinets marked “Inactive Temps and Seasonal,” and he pulled open the drawer labeled S-U. “Roxanne Scarangello… should be right here…”
I helped Mr. Rosenthal look through the tightly packed file drawer. Twice. I said to him, “Are you sure of her name?”
“Yes. She was here for two or three summers. Nice girl. Bright, pretty.”
“Hardworking.”
“Yes. Well… I can’t seem to find her file. Damn it. I’m a stickler for files. If I don’t do the filing myself, it never gets done right.”
“Is it possible that the FBI took the files and forgot to return them?”
“Well, they did take them, but they photocopied everything, then returned the files.”
“To who?”
“I… I’m not sure. I think directly back here. They spent a lot of time down here.” He said to me, “You should have the photocopies of these files in your office.”
“I’m sure I do.”
“Can you send copies to me?”
“I certainly will.” I asked him, “Do you keep any personnel records on your computer?”
“We do now,” he replied, “but we didn’t then. That’s why we keep these archives. Anyway, I’m a believer in paper files, not computer files,” he added.
I replied, “Me, too. Okay, how about Lucita Gonzalez Perez?”
He went to the file cabinet marked E-G, and we looked, but Lucita wasn’t there. We tried P, but she wasn’t there either.
Mr. Rosenthal said to me, “Apparently your colleagues either misfiled what you’re looking for, or they forgot to return the files for Brock, Scarangello, and Gonzalez Perez.”
“Apparently. I’ll check my office.” I asked him, “Is Mrs. Morales in today?”
“She is.”
“Can you get her down here?”
“I can.” He took a little two-way radio out of his pocket and called his assistant. “Susan, please have Mrs. Morales come to the records room. Thank you.”
Mr. Rosenthal asked me, “Do you want to see the wine cellar?”
“No. Just kidding. I actually don’t drink.”
“Do you want to see any other files?”
“Sure.” Mr. Rosenthal was a file freak, which was a good thing for visiting law enforcement people. And he was being very helpful to me, despite the fact that my colleagues had raped his files five years ago.
I pulled out a drawer at random and found a few files with Hispanic names, which I looked through. There wasn’t much information, except pay records and efficiency reports. There were no Social Security numbers, and no copies of their green cards, assuming they were guest workers. I remarked on this to Mr. Rosenthal, and he replied, “I’m sure the accounting department has all that information.”