“I’m sure they do.” I wasn’t here to bust Mr. Rosenthal for hiring illegal aliens, but I now had a few of his short hairs in my hand in case I needed to pull them.
Most of what I do for the Anti-Terrorist Task Force and what I did for the NYPD homicide division is plodding and procedural, though it does keep your mind working. There are enough “Eureka!” moments to reward the effort. And now and then, it does get exciting, like when people are shooting at you, or you’re running a foot race with a perp who is usually armed, dangerous, and desperate. But it’s been a year since anyone tried to kill me, and while I didn’t miss the stimulation, Ihad been getting a little bored. TWA 800 was what I needed to get the juices flowing again. Unfortunately, I was on the wrong side of the law on this one, but, I hoped, on the right side of the angels.
A formidable, middle-aged, Hispanic-looking lady entered the file room and said in slightly accented but good English, “Did you want to see me, Mr. Rosenthal?”
“Yes, I did, Mrs. Morales.” He looked at me and said to Anita Morales, “This gentleman would like to ask you some questions. Please try to be helpful.”
She nodded.
I didn’t identify myself, and asked Mrs. Morales, “Do you recall a woman who worked here five years ago named Lucita Gonzalez Perez? This was the lady who happened to see the guests from Room 203, the man and woman who the FBI was interested in.”
She replied, “I remember all of that.”
“Good. Did you speak to Lucita after she was questioned by the FBI?”
“Yes.”
I said to Mr. Rosenthal, “I just need a few minutes alone with Mrs. Morales.”
He left and closed the door. I asked the head housekeeper, “What was Lucita’s immigration status?”
Mrs. Morales hesitated, then said, “She had overstayed her work visa.”
“And the police promised to help her with this?”
“Yes.”
“And did they?”
“I don’t know.” She added, “She did not come to work the next day, and I did not see her again.”
And you never will, Mrs. Morales. And neither will I. I asked her, “Do you remember the cleaning lady named Roxanne Scarangello? College girl.”
She nodded and said, “She was with us for many summers.”
“Did you speak to her after the police spoke to her?”
“No, I did not.”
“Did she return to work the next day?”
“No, she did not.”
“Did sheever return to work?”
“No.”
Poor Mrs. Morales was probably wondering ifshe was going to disappear, too. I was beginning to wonder ifI was going to disappear. This was starting to sound like an episode of theX-Files, which I wouldnot mention to Kate. I asked Mrs. Morales, “Do you know where I could find Lucita?”
“No. As I said, I did not see her again, and did not hear from her ever.”
“What was Lucita’s age?”
She shrugged. “A young girl. Perhaps eighteen, nineteen.”
“And her country of origin?”
“She was a Salvadoran lady.”
“And where did she live in America?”
“She lived with family.”
“Where?”
“I am not certain.”
I tried a few more questions, but Mrs. Morales was drying up.
I said, “Thank you, Mrs. Morales. Please do not mention this conversation to anyone.” Or you’ll disappear. “Please ask Mr. Rosenthal to join me.”
She nodded and left.
I could understand how and why Lucita vanished from the Bayview Hotel, but Roxanne Scarangello was another matter. And then there was the desk clerk, Christopher Brock, who suddenly resigned or was fired. This place had been sanitized five years ago, except for Mr. Rosenthal and Mrs. Morales, who would be harder to get rid of; too many coincidences would be hard to explain if it ever came up.
Mr. Rosenthal returned to the file room and said, “Was Mrs. Morales helpful?”
“She didn’t seem to recall anything.”
“It’s been five years.”
“Right. By the way, do you recall if Roxanne Scarangello finished out the summer?”
He thought a moment, then replied, “They usually do… but many of the college students leave the last two weeks of August for a break before school starts.”
“But how about Roxanne?”
“She did leave early, now that you mention it. I was looking for her a few days later, and someone said she’d left.” He added, “A few of the staff left after the accident, now that I think about it. They were upset.”
I asked him, “How old was Christopher Brock?”
He thought a moment, then replied, “Maybe late twenties.”
“You said you rented a block of thirty rooms to the FBI.”
“Yes.”
“How many rooms do you have here?”
“There are twelve here in the old inn, and twenty-four in the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion, plus four guest cottages.”
“Did you need to move any guests out to make room for the FBI?”
“A few. But mostly we canceled pending reservations and turned away people who came to the desk.” He finished, “Within a week, almost all the rooms went to the FBI.”
“I see. And did you keep records of the FBI people who stayed here?”
“Not permanent records.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well, just computer records so we could direct phone calls and keep track of any extra charges. They were constantly coming and leaving, and sometimes a room would change hands and we didn’t know.” He asked me, “Why do you ask?”
I didn’t like it when Mr. Rosenthal asked me questions like that, but bullshitter that I am, I replied, “The general accounting office is questioning some of the charges.”
“I see… well, we did the best we could. They weren’t easy to deal with. No offense.”
“No offense taken. So, they sort of took over the place.”
“They did.”
“Did they, for instance, ask you to kick out the news media who were staying here?”
“Yes, now that you mention it, they did.” He added with a smile, “I don’t know who were worse guests-the FBI or the news media. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Mr. Rosenthal said to me, “The reporters made a big fuss, but since it was a matter of national security, they had to leave.”
“Absolutely. Do you think you could retrieve the names of the FBI agents who stayed here from July 1996 to, let’s say, October?”
“I don’t think so. An FBI person came in at the end and purged the computer. National security. That’s why I like paper records.”
“Me, too.” That brick wall kept smashing me in the face. But I had discovered some interesting and strange occurrences that neither Kate, nor Dick Kearns, nor Marie Gubitosi had mentioned to me. Probably because they didn’t know. Well, at least Dick and Marie wouldn’t know about people, files, and computer data disappearing. But Ms. Mayfield might have known. In fact, she may have stayed here.
I said to Mr. Rosenthal, “Let’s see Room 203.”
He looked at me and asked, “Why? It’s been five years.”
“Rooms speak to me.”
He gave me a funny look, which was understandable after a statement like that. I think he was getting a little suspicious, and he said, “There may be guests in that room.” He added, hesitantly, “Would you mind telling me again the purpose of your visit?”
When I work with a partner, I usually play bad cop, but when I work alone, I have to play both good cop and bad cop, which is sometimes confusing to the person I’m speaking to. I said to him, “The purpose of my visit is not the legal status of your employees. But it could become that. Meanwhile, this is my investigation, Mr. Rosenthal, not yours. Take me to Room 203.”
