The economy was going south, but the Bayview’s prices were heading north. I said, “I’ll take it.”
“Very good. How long will you be staying with us?”
“Do you have half day rates?”
“No, sir. Not in the summer.” He added, “Come back in the fall if you want a quick roll in the hay for half price.”
He didn’t actually say that last line, but that was the message. I said, “One night.”
“Certainly.” He slid a registration card and pen across the counter, and I saw he had buffed nails. I began filling out the card, which I noticed had a hard, glossy finish that would leave latent prints if anyone cared to dust the card.
The clerk, whose actual name on his brass tag read “Peter,” asked me, “How will you be settling your account, sir?”
“Cash.”
“Very good. May I have a credit card to take an imprint?”
I pushed the registration card toward him, saying, “I don’t believe in credit cards. But I can give you five hundred dollars in cash as a security deposit.”
He glanced at the registration card, then at me and said, “That would be fine, Mr. Corey. May I make a photocopy of your driver’s license?”
“I don’t have it with me.” I put my business card on the counter and said, “Keep that.”
He looked at the card, which had the FBI logo on it, and he hesitated, then asked, “Do you have any other form of identification?”
I had my Fed creds, of course, but I wanted to see if I could get a room the way Don Juan got a room. I said, “I have my name sewn into my underwear. Wanna see?”
“Sir?”
“That’s it, Peter. Cash for the room, security deposit, and my business card. I need a room.” I pushed two twenties into his hand and said, “That’s for your trouble.”
“Yes, sir…” He pocketed the money and took a receipt book from under the counter and began writing on it, then looked back at my card to write my name and said to me, “You’re… with the FBI?”
“That’s right. Actually, I don’t need a room. I need to speak to Mr. Rosenthal.” I held up my creds long enough for him to make out the photo and said, “This is official business.”
“Yes, sir… can I-”
“Mr. Rosenthal. Thank you.”
He dialed a three-digit number and said into the phone, “Susan, there’s a gentleman here from the FBI to see Mr. Rosenthal.” He listened and said, “No… I don’t… all right.” He hung up and said to me, “Ms. Corva, Mr. Rosenthal’s assistant, will be along shortly.”
“Terrific.” I took my business card and the registration card from the counter and put them in my pocket, but softie that I am, I let him keep the forty bucks for his next manicure. I looked around the lobby, which was a lot of dark mahogany, potted plants, heavy furniture, and lace curtains.
To the left were open double doors that led into the bar/restaurant where some lunchers sat. I smelled food, and my stomach growled.
To the right was another double door that led into a sitting room and library that Marie had mentioned. Toward the rear was a big staircase, and coming down the stairs was a young, attractive woman wearing a dark skirt, white blouse, and sensible shoes. She walked up to me and said, “I’m Susan Corva, Mr. Rosenthal’s assistant. How can I help you?”
Following procedure, I again held up my credentials and said politely, “I’m Detective Corey with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, ma’am. I’d like to see Mr. Leslie Rosenthal.”
“May I ask what this is about?”
“It’s an official matter, Ms. Corva, that I’m not at liberty to divulge.”
“Well… he’s quite busy at the moment, but-”
“I’m quite busy, myself.” I added, as I always do, “I won’t take much of his time. I’ll follow you.”
She nodded, turned, and we climbed the staircase together. I said, “Nice place.”
“Thank you.”
“How long have you been here?”
“This is my second summer.”
“Do you close in the winter?”
“No, but it’s pretty quiet after Labor Day.”
“What happens to the staff?”
“Well… most of the staff is let go. They know this coming in. We get lots of floaters.”
“Floaters?”
“Locals and some out-of-towners who just work for the summer. Teachers, students. Also professional staff who follow the seasons and head south after Labor Day.”
“I see. Do you get the same staff back every summer?”
We reached the top of the stairs, and she replied, “A lot of them. The money is good, and they like it here on their days off.” She looked at me and asked, “Is there a problem?”
“No. Just some routine stuff.” FYI, when a cop says “routine,” it’s not.
There were numbered guest rooms along a wide hallway, and off a small side corridor was a door marked PRIVATE-STAFF ONLY, which Ms. Corva opened. We entered an outer office where four ladies were sitting at computer stations and answering telephones.
Ms. Corva led me to another door, knocked, opened it, and motioned me inside.
Sitting behind a big desk was a man of late middle age wearing a dress shirt open at the collar with a brightly colored tie hanging loose. He stood and came around the desk, and I saw he was tall and thin. His face looked intelligent enough, though there was a slightly worried look in his eyes.
Ms. Corva said, “Mr. Rosenthal, this is Mr. Corey from the FBI.”
We shook hands, and I said, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Not a problem.” He said to Ms. Corva, “Thank you, Susan.” She left and closed the door. Mr. Rosenthal said to me, “Have a seat, Mr…?”
“Corey. John Corey.” I didn’t offer him my card, but I did show him my credentials to get him in the right frame of mind.
I sat across from his desk, and he went back to his big wing chair and said, “How can I help you, Mr. Corey?”
The FBI trains you to be very polite to citizens, which is a good thing. They also want you to be polite to suspected criminals, spies, illegal aliens, and foreign terrorists, which is a challenge for me. But the FBI has an image to protect. Mr. Rosenthal was a citizen, not suspected of anything, except owning a bad tie-it had little whales on it. I said to him, “I’m doing some follow-up work on the TWA 800 crash.”
He seemed relieved that it wasn’t something else, like employing illegal aliens. He nodded.
I said, “As you know, sir, it’s been five years since the tragedy, and this anniversary has been marked by a great deal of news coverage, which has, in some ways, renewed public awareness and concern about this event.”
Again, he nodded and said, “I’ve been thinking about it myself in the last few days.”
“Good.” I looked around Mr. Rosenthal’s office. He had a college degree on the wall from Cornell University, plus dozens of civic and professional awards, plaques, and citations. Through the big window behind his desk I could see the bay and the new two-story Moneybogue Bay Pavilion, which still looked like a motel. To the right, along the road that went down to the beach, I saw the parking lot for the motel wing, nearly empty at this hour during prime beach time.
I turned my attention back to Mr. Rosenthal and continued, “In order to address some of these concerns, we are revisiting some of the issues.” Sounded like bullshit to me, but Mr. Rosenthal nodded. “As you recall, two possible witnesses to the crash stayed at your hotel on July 17, 1996, the day of the crash.”
“How could I forget? Did you ever find those two?”
“No, sir, we have not.”
“Well, they never came back here. At least not as far as I know. I would have called you.”
“Yes, sir. Do you have a contact name and number?”
“No… but I know how to call the FBI.”
“Good.” I said to him, “I’ve read the file report from the agents who were here at that time, and I’d like you to clarify a few things for me.”
“All right.”
Mr. Rosenthal seemed like an okay guy, straightforward and cooperative. I asked him, “Is the desk clerk still here who checked in this possible witness?”