Night Fall

“What is her name?”

“Roxa

“Is she local?”

“No. She lived down around Philly. Went to Pe

“And you keep those?”

“We do. Tax stuff. Also, we rehire the good ones, so we sometimes phone them in May.”

“Right.” Roxa

I asked Mr. Rosenthal, “Do you recall the names of the Federal agents who came to your hotel inquiring about the person in Room 203?”

“No. I never really got their names. Some guy came around earlier that morning… it was Friday after the crash, and he wanted to know if any of the staff had reported a missing bed blanket. Someone got the head housekeeper, and she said, yes, there was a blanket missing from Room 203. Then this guy asked to see me, and asked permission to speak to my staff, and I said, sure, but what’s it all about. And he said he’d fill me in later. Meanwhile, these three FBI guys showed up, and one of them said it had to do with the crash, and he had this blanket in a plastic bag marked Evidence, and he showed it to me and to the head housekeeper and a few maids, and we said, yes, that could be the blanket missing from Room 203. Then they wanted to look at my registration cards and computer records and speak to the desk clerk who was on duty that day.” Mr. Rosenthal added, “But you know all of this.”

“I do. Did you remember the name of this agent who initially came to the hotel inquiring about a missing blanket?”

“No. He gave me his card, but then later took it back.”

“I see. Please continue.”

Mr. Rosenthal went on, recounting the events of that morning and afternoon five years ago with the clarity of a man who’d told the story to his friends and family about a hundred times, not to mention the memory of a man who’d had to deal with Federal agents ru

There wasn’t much new in what he was saying, but I listened carefully in case there was. He continued, “So, it turns out that this guest who checked in had used a phony name… we have a policy here of not catering to that sort of trade-”

“Except during the slow season.”

“Excuse me?”

“Go on.”

“We need to know who our guests are. And Christopher, the desk clerk, did follow procedure up to a point… but now we insist on a credit card, or a driver’s license, or some sort of photo ID.”

I had news for Mr. Rosenthal, but this was not the time to a

“Well… we had a disagreement over his handling of that guest check-in. I wasn’t faulting him for it, but I wanted to go over the procedures again. He didn’t seem particularly upset, but a day or two later he quit.” Mr. Rosenthal added, “Hotel staff-especially the men-are a little high-strung.”

I thought about that, then asked, “What happened to the five-hundred-dollar cash deposit?”

“We’re still holding it for the guest.” He smiled. “Minus thirty-six dollars for two half bottles of wine from the mini-bar, and the missing blanket.”

I returned his smile and said, “Let me know if this gentleman ever returns for his deposit.”

“I certainly will.”

So, Don Juan and his lady had consumed some wine before or after going to the beach. I asked, “Do you have full bottles in the room?”

“No.” He paused. “One of the FBI guys asked me that, too. Why is that important?”

“It’s not. So, this guest’s business card said… what?”

“I don’t remember the name. I think it was an attorney’s card.”

“Did the desk clerk, Christopher, say that this guy looked like an attorney?”

This question seemed to throw Mr. Rosenthal off a bit. He said to me, “I… what does an attorney look like?”

It was all I could do to resist a punch line to my setup question. I said, “Please continue.”

He went on awhile about the four other Federal agents joining the three that were there-three men and a woman, who would be Marie Gubitosi. Mr. Rosenthal said, “They questioned everyone-staff and guests, and it was a little disrupting, but everyone wanted to be as cooperative as possible because it had to do with the crash. Everyone was very upset by what had happened, and it was all anyone could talk about.” Mr. Rosenthal continued his recollections of that day.

My little hangover was feeling a lot better, and I was able to nod my head without pain. I slipped my cell phone and beeper out of my pocket and turned them on, waiting for a message beep. You get about ten minutes before they can track the signal, usually longer, but sometimes they get lucky and fix your position within ten minutes. I waited about five minutes while Mr. Rosenthal spoke, then shut off the power. My initial a

It occurred to me that Kate may have been called into some boss’s office, or the OPR office, and she was right now answering a few tough questions. It occurred to me, too, that even though I hadn’t mentioned this trip to Kate-and I was sure I hadn’t been followed out here-the OPR people may have guessed where I was spending my sick day. I half expected Liam Griffith and three goons to bust through the door and take me away. That would surprise Mr. Rosenthal. But not me.

He was saying, “A lot of the guests here checked out early because they didn’t want to go down to the beach… because… things were washing up…” He took a deep breath and continued, “But then, the curiosity seekers started to check in, plus a lot of news media people and a few politicians. The FBI offered me one-month guaranteed stays for thirty rooms if I’d take a reduced rate. So, I took it, and I’m glad I did because they renewed it and some of them stayed until well past Labor Day.”

“You made out okay.”

He looked at me and said, “Everyone out here did. But you know what? I would have given the rooms for free if it meant helping the investigation.” He added, “I served a free breakfast to everyone involved in the investigation.”

“That’s very generous of you. Did any of these FBI people who interviewed you and your staff stay on here?”

“I believe at least one or two of them did. But after five years, I really can’t remember. I had almost nothing to do with them.” Mr. Rosenthal inquired, “Isn’t all of this in the official report?”

“It is. This is what’s called file reconciliation.” I made that up, but he seemed to buy it. I was hitting all the expected dead ends, but I had two new names-Christopher Brock, the desk clerk, and Roxa

“Anita Morales.”

“Is she still with you?”

“Yes. She’s permanent staff. Very good supervisor.”

“Good.” I wished I could say the same about my supervisor. “Back to Roxa

“I did… but she was told not to discuss her statement with anyone, including me.”

“But she did say that she saw lipstick on a wineglass in the room, and that the shower had been used, and the blanket was missing.”

He replied, “She didn’t discuss that with me.”

“All right. Did the FBI take any fingerprints from any of your staff?”

He replied, “Yes, they did. From the desk clerk, Christopher, and from the maid, Roxa