Night Fall

From what I could make out from the talk show guy, and from his hapless guest-and from what I recalled from theNew York Post and from ATTF chatter-Ambassador Bodine, being a diplomat, did not approve of O’Neill’s highly aggressive investigation into theCole bombing while Mr. O’Neill was in Yemen. So, when O’Neill returned to Washington for a briefing-which may have been a setup-Ambassador Bodine would not let him back in Yemen.

Anyway, this talk show guy was practically frothing at the mouth, calling the State Department a bunch of sissies, cowards, and even using the word “traitors.”

The other guy, it seemed, was a State Department spokesman, and he was trying to make some point, but he had this mealymouthed NPR voice, which I find a

The talk show guy said, “We have seventeen dead sailors from the Cole and you people are hindering the investigation by caving in to this nothing country, and this yellow-bellied ambassador-Which side is she on? What side areyou on?”

The State Department guy replied, “The secretary of state has determined that Ambassador Bodine has made a reasoned and well-considered judgment in barring Mr. O’Neill’s return to Yemen. This decision is based on larger issues of maintaining good relations with the Yemeni government, who are cooperating with the-”

Talk show guy yells,“Cooperating? Are you kidding or insane? Those guys werebehind the attack on the Cole!”

And so on. I switched back to country-western where at least theysang about their problems.

The bottom line on international terrorism was, as I said, that no one wanted to give it the status of a war. Compared to the Cold War and nuclear Armageddon, terrorism was a gnat on an elephant’s ass. Or so they thought in Washington. And if Washington thought that, then 26 Federal Plaza also thought that-though they knew better.

I had figured that this new administration would ratchet it up a bit, but it didn’t seem like they were getting it. Which was scary if you believed that the talk show guys were getting it.

I left Nassau County and crossed into Suffolk County, at the end of which was the Hamptons.

I continued east and passed the exit for the William Floyd Parkway that Kate and I had taken two nights before when we went to the memorial service.William Floyd is a rock star. Right? I smiled.

I entered an area aptly named the Pine Barrens and began looking for an exit to Westhampton. There were exits for Brookhaven National Laboratory and Calverton, which reminded me why I was playing hooky today, why I’d had a fight with my wife, and why I was headed for trouble.

I got off the Expressway at an exit sign that promised this was the way to Westhampton.

I was traveling south now, toward the bay and the ocean, and within twenty minutes I entered the quaint village of Westhampton Beach. It was a little after 1P.M.

I drove around awhile, checking out the town, trying to imagine Don Juan doing the same thing five years ago. Did he have his lady with him? Probably not, if she was married. I mean, picking her up at her house for a date was not a good idea. So they drove out separately and rendezvoused somewhere around here.

They hadn’t wound up in one of the numerous hot-sheet motels along the Expressway, sometimes known as an Expressway Stop and Pop, so quite possibly they intended to stay overnight, and thus the expensive hotel. And if that were true, and assuming they were both married, then they had good cover stories, or stupid spouses.

I could almost picture these two having lunch in one of the restaurants that I was seeing as I drove along the main street, which was actually named Main Street. They either knew the Bayview Hotel, or they’d picked it out while they were driving around. The ice chest told me they had probably pla

I didn’t know where the Bayview Hotel was, but I had a feeling it was near the bay, so I headed south on a road called Beach Lane. You can’t learn these things at the police academy.

Real men don’t ask for directions, which is why a guy invented global positioning, but I didn’t have a GPS, and I was ru

I pulled into a small parking area for guest registration and got out.

Wearing basically what Marie Gubitosi told me that Don Juan had been wearing on July 17, 1996, I walked toward the front door of the Bayview Hotel.

This place was either going to be a brick wall, or it was going to be a magic window through which I could see back five years.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Bayview Hotel was as Marie described it: a big old house, in the Victorian style, that may have once been a private residence.

Beyond the house was a modern, two-story structure, looking like a motel, set among some old trees, and beyond that I could see a few small guest cottages. The land sloped down to the bay, and across the bay I could see the barrier island where Dune Road ran along the ocean. It was a very nice setting, and I could understand why a middle-aged, upscale couple might pick this place for an affair. On the other hand, it was the kind of place where Mr. and Mrs. Upper Middle Class might run into someone they knew. One, or both of them, I thought, was a little reckless. I wondered if they were still married to their spouses. In fact, I wondered if the lady was still alive. But maybe that was my homicide detective persona coming out.

I walked up a set of steps to a big, wooden, wraparound porch and entered the small, well-appointed, and air-conditioned lobby.

I looked back through the glass-paneled doors and noted that I couldn’t see my Jeep from the lobby.

The desk clerk, a dandy young man, said, “Welcome to the Bayview Hotel, sir. How may I help you?”

I replied, “I saw the Vacancy sign. I need a room, and I’d like one in the new building.”

He futzed with his computer and said, “We do have a room available in the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion. It has a nice view of the bay for two hundred fifty dollars a night.”

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?”