Night Fall

Not to mention the registration card. It seemed to me that Don Juan would have left a few perfect prints on that card that matched the prints found on the wineglass and bottle at the beach, thereby placing him in both locations. His lady had left her prints on the wine bottle and glass, too, though probably not in the hotel room if it had been thoroughly cleaned. But if neither of them had ever been printed for anything, then that, too, was a dead end until such time as they were found by some other means and confronted with the fingerprints.

Mr. Rosenthal interrupted my thoughts and asked me, “Do I need to sign a statement?”

“No. Do you want to?”

“No… but I was wondering… you’re not taking notes.”

“I don’t need to. This is informal.” And if I took notes and I got busted, I’d be in even deeper shit. I asked him, “Didn’t you sign a statement five years ago?”

“I did. Did you see it?”

“I did.” Time to change the subject and the venue. I said, “I’d like to see your perso

“Of course.” He stood and said, “I’ll show them to you myself.”

“Thank you.”

We left Mr. Rosenthal’s office and descended the stairs toward the lobby. I turned on my cell phone and beeper again to see if I’d get a message beep. As the Internal Affairs guys on the NYPD or the FBI or CIA will tell you, the hardest person to bust is one of your own. There are no clever criminals-they’re all stupid and they leave more evidence of their activities than Santa Claus on Christmas morning. But cops, FBI agents, and CIA people are another story; they’re hard to detect when they’re up to no good.

Having said that, I had the distinct feeling I was under the eye, as cops say. I had maybe twenty-four hours before the poop hit the paddles. Maybe twenty-four seconds.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mr. Rosenthal escorted me to a door beneath the main staircase, which he unlocked with a key. We descended into the basement, which was dark and dank. He a

“Let’s see the wine cellar first.”

He chuckled at my first joke of the afternoon, which reinforced my favorable impression of him.

He unlocked another door and turned on a bank of fluorescent lights, revealing a big, low-ceilinged space filled with shelves and file cabinets in neat rows. He asked me, “You want the file on Christopher Brock?”

“Please.”

He went to a row of file cabinets and pulled out a drawer labeled A-D, then riffled through the files, saying, “These are inactive perso

There were only about two dozen files in the drawer, and if he hadn’t hit on Christopher Brock yet, he never would.

Mr. Rosenthal stepped back and said, “This is strange.”

Not really. The good news was that Christopher Brock’s file was at 26 Federal Plaza. The bad news was that I’d never see it. I asked, “How about Roxa

Mr. Rosenthal still seemed perplexed about the missing file and didn’t reply.

I prompted, “The college-educated maid?”

“Oh… yes. Follow me.”

I followed him to a row of file cabinets marked “Inactive Temps and Seasonal,” and he pulled open the drawer labeled S-U. “Roxa

I helped Mr. Rosenthal look through the tightly packed file drawer. Twice. I said to him, “Are you sure of her name?”

“Yes. She was here for two or three summers. Nice girl. Bright, pretty.”

“Hardworking.”

“Yes. Well… I can’t seem to find her file. Damn it. I’m a stickler for files. If I don’t do the filing myself, it never gets done right.”

“Is it possible that the FBI took the files and forgot to return them?”

“Well, they did take them, but they photocopied everything, then returned the files.”

“To who?”

“I… I’m not sure. I think directly back here. They spent a lot of time down here.” He said to me, “You should have the photocopies of these files in your office.”

“I’m sure I do.”

“Can you send copies to me?”

“I certainly will.” I asked him, “Do you keep any perso

“We do now,” he replied, “but we didn’t then. That’s why we keep these archives. Anyway, I’m a believer in paper files, not computer files,” he added.

I replied, “Me, too. Okay, how about Lucita Gonzalez Perez?”

He went to the file cabinet marked E-G, and we looked, but Lucita wasn’t there. We tried P, but she wasn’t there either.

Mr. Rosenthal said to me, “Apparently your colleagues either misfiled what you’re looking for, or they forgot to return the files for Brock, Scarangello, and Gonzalez Perez.”

“Apparently. I’ll check my office.” I asked him, “Is Mrs. Morales in today?”

“She is.”

“Can you get her down here?”

“I can.” He took a little two-way radio out of his pocket and called his assistant. “Susan, please have Mrs. Morales come to the records room. Thank you.”

Mr. Rosenthal asked me, “Do you want to see the wine cellar?”

“No. Just kidding. I actually don’t drink.”

“Do you want to see any other files?”

“Sure.” Mr. Rosenthal was a file freak, which was a good thing for visiting law enforcement people. And he was being very helpful to me, despite the fact that my colleagues had raped his files five years ago.

I pulled out a drawer at random and found a few files with Hispanic names, which I looked through. There wasn’t much information, except pay records and efficiency reports. There were no Social Security numbers, and no copies of their green cards, assuming they were guest workers. I remarked on this to Mr. Rosenthal, and he replied, “I’m sure the accounting department has all that information.”

“I’m sure they do.” I wasn’t here to bust Mr. Rosenthal for hiring illegal aliens, but I now had a few of his short hairs in my hand in case I needed to pull them.

Most of what I do for the Anti-Terrorist Task Force and what I did for the NYPD homicide division is plodding and procedural, though it does keep your mind working. There are enough “Eureka!” moments to reward the effort. And now and then, it does get exciting, like when people are shooting at you, or you’re ru

A formidable, middle-aged, Hispanic-looking lady entered the file room and said in slightly accented but good English, “Did you want to see me, Mr. Rosenthal?”

“Yes, I did, Mrs. Morales.” He looked at me and said to Anita Morales, “This gentleman would like to ask you some questions. Please try to be helpful.”

She nodded.

I didn’t identify myself, and asked Mrs. Morales, “Do you recall a woman who worked here five years ago named Lucita Gonzalez Perez? This was the lady who happened to see the guests from Room 203, the man and woman who the FBI was interested in.”

She replied, “I remember all of that.”

“Good. Did you speak to Lucita after she was questioned by the FBI?”

“Yes.”

I said to Mr. Rosenthal, “I just need a few minutes alone with Mrs. Morales.”

He left and closed the door. I asked the head housekeeper, “What was Lucita’s immigration status?”

Mrs. Morales hesitated, then said, “She had overstayed her work visa.”

“And the police promised to help her with this?”

“Yes.”

“And did they?”

“I don’t know.” She added, “She did not come to work the next day, and I did not see her again.”