I looked at an entry at random, which read, “August 22, Received, ‘Gold Coast,’” followed by a barely legible signature, and a room number, in this case, 105. A handwritten notation said, “Returned.”
I asked Peter, “Does the guest need to show identification?”
“Not usually. For any room charge, bar, restaurant, and so forth, if your name and the room number you give matches what’s in the computer, that’s sufficient.” He informed me, “Standard practice in most good hotels.”
“Okay…” Having lived in a bad hotel for the last six weeks, I wouldn’t know. I thought of Don Juan’s lady, who might not even know what name he’d checked in under. I asked Peter, “Let’s say it doesn’t match.”
“Well, sometimes it doesn’t because a second person in the room may not have the same last name as the registered guest. Then, usually the showing of a room key is sufficient, or just the name of the guest to whom the room is registered.”
“Okay, if I forgot my room key, and I can’t even remember the name of the person I’m sleeping with, would you let me sign out a book?”
This was Peter’s chance for revenge, and he looked at me closely and said, “No.”
I flipped through the receipt book, but I didn’t see any information on the guests, other than a signature and the room number. Now and then, there was a second name written on the receipt, which I assumed, as per Peter, was the name of the registered guest, which was not the same as the book borrower.
I asked Peter, “Since my last visit, has anyone from the FBI come here?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Okay, let’s check me into Room 203.”
Peter did what he does best, and within five minutes, I was checked into Room 203 using my American Express card, which hadn’t gotten much of a workout in Yemen. The post-season price had dropped to a hundred and fifty bucks, which was cheap if I hit pay dirt here, and a paper trail for the OPR if I didn’t.
Mr. Rosenthal was taking his sweet time, and I, being a man of both action and extreme impatience, considered kicking down a few doors, just like in the movies. But that might upset Peter.
I sat in a wing chair in the lobby and waited for Mr. Rosenthal, who had the key to the archives, and possibly the golden key that opened the door to the short path through the bullshit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Mr. Leslie Rosenthal walked into the lobby dressed casually in slacks and sport shirt, sans whale tie.
I stood and said, “Good evening.”
“Good morning is more like it.” He asked me, “Are you here for more file reconciliation?”
“I am.”
“At one-thirty in the morning?”
“The FBI, sir, never sleeps.”
“I do.” He observed, “I have the feeling you are not here on a routine assignment.”
“What was your first clue?”
“The hour, for one thing. What’s this all about?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Did you bring your keys?”
“I have. Have you brought my missing files?”
“Actually, since I saw you last, I’ve been in the Mideast. See my tan? Want to see my airplane ticket?”
He didn’t respond to that and asked me, “What would you like to see?”
“Your receipt books for the video lending library.”
I watched him ponder this, then he said, “We got rid of the video library about three years ago and donated all the tapes to a hospital.”
“That’s very commendable. But you kept the receipt books, of course.”
“I believe so. Unless some idiot threw them out.”
“Other than yourself, what other person has the keys to the file room?”
“No one.”
“Well, there you are. Let’s take a look downstairs.”
I followed him to the basement door, which he unlocked. He turned on the lights, and we descended the stairs.
He unlocked the door to the archives room and went directly to the rear of the room, where cardboard storage boxes were stacked on metal shelves. Each box was labeled and dated, and within a minute we found a box labeled, “Video Library Receipts-Feb ’96-March ’97.”
I stared at the box, and asked Mr. Rosenthal, “Did the FBI ask for these receipts in 1996?”
He replied, “I showed them how the file cabinets were organized, then left them alone. I don’t know what else they looked at.”
On that note, I took the box down from the shelf and set it on the floor.
Mr. Rosenthal said, “I suppose you think that this couple may have signed out a videotape.”
Everyone’s a detective all of a sudden. I replied, “The thought has occurred to me.” I opened the box, which was filled with receipt books. Truly the work of an anal compulsive.
I started removing the receipt books from the box, noting the start and end dates written on the cover of each book, half expecting to discover a missing book, replaced by a note from Liam Griffith saying, “Fuck you, Corey.”
I asked him, “Why do you save these?”
He explained, “I have a policy of saving all records for seven years. You never know what the IRS or sometimes the hotel owners want to see.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Or the FBI. Seven years is safe.”
“Cover your ass, I always say.”
I found a receipt book dated, “June 12-July 25, ’96.”
I moved under a hanging fluorescent light and began flipping through the pages of video receipts. My hands were actually a little unsteady as I flipped the pages toward July 17.
The first receipt for that date was at the top of a page and was signed, Kevin Mabry, Room 109, and Kevin borrowedButch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The next receipt was signed Alice Young, Guest Cottage 3, who borrowedLast Tango in Paris. Go, Alice. Then, an indecipherable signature in Room 8, which must have been in this building, and that person borrowedThe Godfather. I flipped the page and read two more signatures and movie titles for July 17, but neither person had given their room number as 203. Then the last receipt at the bottom of the page was dated July 18, the following day.
I stood there and stared at the open receipt book.
Mr. Rosenthal asked, “Any luck?”
I didn’t reply.
I flipped back a page and looked at the pre-printed red receipt numbers, then flipped forward. Three numbers were missing from the sequence.
I bent the book back and could see where a page had been neatly razored out of the receipt book. “Bastards.”
“Excuse me?”
I threw the book into the box and said, “I’d like to see the receipts for borrowed library books.”
Mr. Rosenthal retrieved the appropriate box and I found the receipt book for the period in question. I flipped through the receipts, thinking that perhaps Don Juan or his lady had taken out a book, but no one in Room 203 had borrowed a book on July 17, 1996. I dropped the book in the box and said, “Let’s go.”
We walked toward the door, with Mr. Rosenthal glancing over his shoulder at the mess on the floor.
In the back of my mind-but not too far back-I knew that the FBI could not possibly have stayed in this hotel for two months without thinking about the lending library. I mean, they weren’t real detectives, but they certainly weren’t brain-dead either.Damn it.
But Ihad proved something-someone in Room 203 had borrowed a videotape, and thus the missing page. Great deductive reasoning, leading to another piece of missing evidence.Bastards.
Mr. Rosenthal was about to lock the door of the archives room when I thought of something Roxanne said and stopped. I said to him, “I didn’t see any pink carbons in the receipt books.”
“They’re given to the guest when the book or videotape is returned.”
“What if it’s not returned?”