I was five years and two months behind the curve on this one, but it’s never too late to re-open a case.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
To a New Yorker, Philadelphia-about a hundred miles south of Midtown-is like the Statue of Liberty: historical, close, and totally avoidable.
Nonetheless, I’ve been to the City of Brotherly Love a few times for police conferences, and a few times to see a Phillies-Mets game, so I know the place. All things considered, to paraphrase W. C. Fields, I’d rather be in Yemen. Just kidding.
At about 7:30P.M., I pulled up to a five-story apartment building at 2201 Chestnut Street, not far from Rittenhouse Square.
I found a parking space on the street, got out of my rental car, and stretched. I called Roxanne Scarangello’s apartment, and a female answered, “Hello?”
“Roxanne Scarangello, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Ms. Scarangello, this is Detective John Corey with the FBI. I’d like to speak to you for a few minutes.”
There was a long silence, then she asked, “About what?”
“About TWA Flight 800, ma’am.”
“I’ve told you all I know about that, five years ago. You said you wouldn’t be calling me again.”
“Something new has surfaced. I’m outside your apartment. May I come up?”
“No. I’m… not dressed.”
“Why don’t you get dressed?”
“I… I’m actually late for dinner.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“I can walk.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
I heard what sounded like a deep sigh, then she said, “All right. I’ll be right down.”
I turned off my cell phone and waited in front of the apartment building, which seemed like a decent place on a nice tree-lined street, within walking distance of the University of Pennsylvania, an expensive Ivy League school.
It was nearly dark, and the night was clear. A soft breeze carried a hint of autumn.
You don’t appreciate these things until they’re gone, and if you’re lucky, you get to appreciate them again with new eyes and ears.
America.
It was some kind of delayed reaction, and I felt like kissing the ground and singing “God Bless America.”
A tall, attractive young woman with long dark hair, dressed in black jeans and a black sweater, came out of the apartment house.
I said, “Ms. Scarangello? I’m John Corey, FBI task force.” I held up my credentials and said, “Thank you for your time.”
She replied, “I’ve really told you all I know, which is almost nothing.”
That’s what you think, Roxanne. I said, “I’ll walk with you.”
She shrugged, and we began walking toward Rittenhouse Square. She said, “I’m meeting my boyfriend for dinner.”
“I, too, have a dinner date. So I won’t keep you.”
As we walked, I asked her some inconsequential questions about the university, her first day of classes, Philadelphia, and about her doctorate program, which she said was in English literature.
I yawned, and she asked me, “Am I boring you?”
“Not at all. I just got in from the Mideast. See my tan? Do you want to see my ticket?”
She laughed. “No. I believe you. What were you doing there?”
“Keeping the world safe for democracy.”
“You should start here.”
I remembered I was speaking to a college student and replied, “You’re absolutely right.”
She went into a rap about the last presidential election, and I nodded and made positive sounds.
We got to a restaurant called Alma de Cuba near Rittenhouse Square and entered. It was an upscale, trendoid kind of place, and I wondered how big that stipend was.
Ms. Scarangello suggested a drink while we waited for her boyfriend.
There was a cocktail lounge in the rear, decorated with plantation shutters and black-and-white photos of old Cuba projected onto the white walls. We found a table and ordered a carafe of white sangria for her and, to continue the theme, a Cuba libre for me.
I said to her, “Let me get right to the point. You were the cleaning person who went into Room 203 of the Bayview Hotel in Westhampton at about noon on July 18, 1996, the day after the TWA 800 crash. Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“No other cleaning person or staff had been there before you. Correct?”
“As best I know. The guests hadn’t checked out, and they weren’t answering the phone or the knocks on the door. Also, there was a Do Not Disturb sign on the door.”
That’s the first I’d heard about that. But it made sense if Don Juan and his lady wanted to put time and distance between themselves and the hotel. I said, “And you entered with your passkey?”
“Yes, that was the procedure after the elevenA.M. check-out time.”
The drinks came, I poured some sangria for her, and we clinked glasses.
I asked her, “Do you recall the names of the FBI people who first interviewed you?”
“Not after five years. They only used their first names.”
“Well, think hard.”
She replied, “I think one of them had like an Irish name.”
“Sean? Seamus? Giuseppe?”
She laughed. “That’s not Irish.”
I smiled. “Maybe Liam.”
“That’s it. The other was… can’t remember. Don’t you know?”
“Yeah. Probably Ted.”
“I think that’s it. Nice-looking guy.”
And an asshole.
She asked me, “Are you still looking for that couple? Is that what this is about?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why are they so important?”
“We’ll know when we find them.”
She informed me, “They probably weren’t married to each other. They don’t want to be found.”
“Well, but they need marriage counseling.”
She smiled. “Yeah. Right.”
I asked her, “Did the FBI show you a composite sketch of the man?”
“Yes. But I didn’t recognize him.”
“How about the woman he was with?”
“No. I never saw a sketch of her.”
I said to her, “Okay, so you walked into the room and what?”
“Well… I called out in case they were, like, in the bathroom, you know? But I could see they were gone. Nothing around. So I dragged my cart in, and I started by stripping the bed.”
“Okay, so the bed was slept in?”
“Well… probably not. It was just, like, the bed cover was at the foot of the bed, the blanket was gone, and probably they lay down on the top sheet, maybe to nap or watch TV, or… whatever. But it didn’t have that overnight slept-in look.” She laughed. “I got real good at the nuances of hotel room use.”
“I wasn’t an English major. What’s a nuance?”
She laughed again. “You’re funny.” She surprised me by lighting a cigarette. She said, “I only smoke when I drink. You want one?”
“Sure.” I took a cigarette, and she lit it for me. I used to smoke, so I didn’t choke on it.
I said, “So, the blanket was missing?”
“Yes. And I made a note to tell the head housekeeper.”
“Mrs. Morales.”
“Right. I wonder whatever happened to her.”
“Still there.”
“Great lady.”
“She is.” I asked, “Did you know Lucita? The cleaning lady?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“How about Christopher Brock, the desk clerk?”
“I knew him, but not well.”
“Did you speak to him after the FBI questioned you?”
“No, we were told not to speak to anyone. And they meantanyone.”
“How about the manager, Mr. Rosenthal? Did you speak to him?”
She replied, “He wanted to talk to me about it, but I said I couldn’t.”
“All right. And you left the hotel shortly after that day?”
She didn’t reply for a while, then said, “I did.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Nope.”
“Well… these FBI guys said it would be best if I left my job at the hotel. Because I might be tempted to talk to news people, and maybe I’d be harassed by the media feeding frenzy and all that. So I said I couldn’t afford to leave my job, and they said they’d make up my salary if I cooperated and left, and… kept quiet.”