CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We stopped at the front desk, and Mr. Rosenthal asked Peter, “Is anyone checked into Room 203?”
Peter played with his computer and said, “Yes, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Schultz, two-night stay, arrived-”
I cut him off and said, “See if they’re in.”
“Yes, sir.” He dialed the room and someone answered.
He looked at me, and I said, “Tell them to get out of the room. Tell them there’s a snake loose or something. They can return in twenty minutes.”
Peter cleared his throat and said into the phone, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Schultz, you and Mr. Schultz will have to leave the room now for twenty minutes… there’s… an electrical problem. Yes. Thank you.”
Mr. Rosenthal did not look happy with me, but he said to Peter, “Give Mr. Corey a key to Room 203.”
Peter opened a drawer and produced a metal key, which he handed to me.
Mr. Rosenthal said to me, “I assume you don’t need me. I’ll be in my office, if you require anything further.”
I didn’t want this guy out of my sight and thinking about making a phone call to the FBI, so I said, “I’d like you to come along. Lead the way.”
A little reluctantly, he led the way out the lobby door, then down a landscaped path to the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion.
It was, as I said, a long, two-story structure without any particular charm, though the roof had a cupola stuck on it with a wind vane that told me the breeze was blowing from the bay.
We climbed an exterior staircase to the second level and walked along the terrace, which was covered by a roof eave and was in shadow at this hour. An elderly couple was quickly evacuating a room, and I guessed that was Room 203 with the electrical snake.
They fled past us, and I opened the door with the key and entered the room.
The Schultzes were tidy people, and it looked like no one had been staying there.
It was a good-sized room decorated in the crisp Martha Stewart style, which predominates out here.
I checked out the bathroom, which had a stall shower big enough to hold two comfortably, or four close friends.
I went back to the sitting room and looked at the wall unit, which held a television, and shelves on which were bar glasses, napkins, stirrers, and a corkscrew. Below was the cabinet for the mini-bar.
I knew that the FBI had dusted this entire room, floor to ceiling, and vacuumed the rug, chairs, and bed. But Roxanne Scarangello had beat them to it, and assuming she did a good job, there probably wouldn’t be a stray print, fiber, or hair in the place, and no DNA-loaded condom floating in the toilet bowl. But you never know.
I went back to the wall unit. The television set was on a swivel, and I turned it, exposing the rear of the set where there were jacks for audio and video, plus the cable hookup.
If I let myself speculate beyond what I knew for sure, then I could imagine Don Juan and his lady rushing back to this room after their tryst on the beach.
Possibly, during the ride back from the beach, whoever was not driving looked in the video viewfinder to see if they’d recorded what they’d seen happening in the sky. Assuming they saw this explosion in their viewfinder, they’d want to see it more clearly on the TV screen, to be certain.
So, they plugged the AC power adaptor into the video camera, then into a wall outlet-which I saw to the right of the wall unit-then they took a long lead cable and connected the video camera to the television jacks, hit Play, and watched and listened to what they’d recorded on the beach.
They would have the AC adaptor and the lead cable with them, assuming their original intention was to come back to this hotel room to play their naughty beach-blanket tape on the television while they had a few drinks and got all steamed up again.
There was, of course, a possibility that this couple was not actually having sex on the beach-they had just wanted to take videos of the sunset to create a romantic mood for later, and they’d inadvertently filmed TWA 800’s final moments.
It really didn’t matter what was in the foreground-them screwing, or them holding hands-what mattered was what was in the background.
In any case, they were not married to each other, or that videotape would have been turned over to the FBI.
Instead, they beat feet out of Westhampton so fast they left evidence on the beach, and a five-hundred-dollar deposit at the Bayview Hotel.
The big question was, Did they destroy the videotape?
I would. And then again, I wouldn’t. Once destroyed, it could never be retrieved, and people don’t often take that irretrievable step-they tend to hide evidence, as I can attest to. I know at least ten people in jail who wouldn’t be there if they’d destroyed, instead of hidden, evidence of their crime. The narcissistic personality does stupid things.
Mr. Rosenthal stood silently, perhaps waiting for the room to speak to me, and I thought about cupping my hand to my ear, but he’d been cooperative until the last ten minutes or so, and I saw no reason to upset him any further.
I asked him, “Was the key left in this room?”
“Yes. I recall that because the FBI kept the key to try to get prints from it, or from the plastic tag. But Roxanne had handled it when she found it in the room, then it was handled by Christopher, and perhaps others. Still, they took it and gave me a receipt for it.”
“Do you have the receipt?”
“No. They returned the key a few days later, and I gave them their receipt.”
“Okay.” I asked him to spell for me the name Roxanne Scarangello. He did, and he was fairly sure of the spelling. He obviously liked her. I asked, “How old was she?”
“About twenty-one, twenty-two.”
“Would you remember her birthday?”
“Uh… I think it was June. Can’t remember the date, but I recall the staff had a little party for her in the cocktail lounge every June. Popular girl.”
“Right. And Brock is B-R-O-C-K?”
“Yes.”
“He use any other names?”
“Not that I know of.” He said, “Excuse me, isn’t all this in your files?”
“Yeah. I’m going to find the files for you. Remember?”
“Oh, right. Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
I took a last look around, then walked back out to the terrace. Mr. Rosenthal followed.
While standing somewhere along this terrace five years ago, Lucita saw this couple, with the guy carrying a hotel blanket, coming out of this room-just as I saw the Schultzes making a hasty exit. It didn’t matter if she recognized Don Juan from the sketch, or that she didn’t see the lady that well-it only mattered that she had seen them coming from Room 203 and that there had definitely been a lady and a blanket.
I could see the parking lot about fifty yards away, and Lucita would have a clear view of this couple getting into their vehicle-a tan hatchback.
I decided to leave Mr. Rosenthal with a positive and happy memory of my visit, and I said nicely, “I’m done here. Thank you for your cooperation, and I hope I didn’t take up too much of your time.”
He replied, “I was happy to be of help again,” then added, “you won’t forget to send me copies of my missing files.”
“I’ll get right on it. Meanwhile, please don’t mention this visit to anyone.”
He asked me, “Are you any closer to finding out what happened to that plane?”
“We know what happened to it. It was an accidental explosion of the fuel tank.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes, it was. The case is closed, Mr. Rosenthal. My visit here was to check on the procedures and reports of the agents who worked here. File reconciliation.”
“If you say so.”
He was getting a little testy, so I reminded him, “You need to make photocopies of green cards and get Social Security numbers on all your employees.”
He didn’t reply.
I handed him the key to Room 203 and said, “I like your tie.”
I left Mr. Rosenthal standing on the terrace, descended the stairs, and walked to my Jeep in the guest registration parking.