Night Fall

Meanwhile, my beloved Kate was whooping it up in Dar es Salaam. I had another beer and got my imagination fired up, concocting stories about wild tribal horsemen attacking my Jeep on the way to Sana’a, being jumped by assassins in the casbah, and narrowly escaping the bite of a deadly cobra placed in my bed by Yemen intelligence men.

I mean, this could have happened. I thought about trying one of these stories out on the bartender, but he was busy, so I just asked him for my cell phone.

I dialed Dom Fanelli’s cell phone, and he answered.

I said, “I’m back.”

“Hey! I was worried about you. I followed the news every day from Kuwait.”

“I was in Yemen.”

“Really? Same shit. Right?”

“Probably. I’m at JFK. Can’t talk long in case they’re still on my case. Where are you?”

“In the office. But I can talk.”

“Good. How’s my apartment?”

“Great… I would have cleaned it if I knew… anyway, how was Yemen?”

“It’s a well-kept secret.”

“Yeah? How are the babes?”

“I gotta tell ya-this place was like Scandinavia with sunshine.”

“No shit? They have nude beaches?”

“They don’t even allow women to wear bathing suits on the beach.” Which was true.

“Mama mia! Maybe I should put my papers in for the ATTF.”

“Do it soon, before the word gets out.”

“Yeah. Right. You’re jerking me off.” He asked, “How’s Kate?”

“Coming home in a few days.”

“That’s great. Let’s have a night out.”

“I’ll try. I’m on admin leave for ten days, and I’m taking some vacation time, so Kate and I are going to Paris.”

“Terrific. You deserve it. What are you doing tonight?”

“You tell me.”

“Oh, right. Those names.”

“I need to get off this phone in a few minutes, Dom. Talk to me.”

“Okay. Forget Gonzalez Perez. Brock, Christopher, two possibles who fit, one in Daytona Beach, one in San Francisco. You want the particulars?”

“Shoot.”

He gave me the addresses and phone numbers, and I wrote them on a cocktail napkin.

He said, “Roxa

“Ready.”

“Okay… where did I put that…?”

“On the bulletin board?”

“No… here it is. Okay, Scarangello, Roxa

“She start class?”

“Yeah. Well, she was registered. Should have started today, actually.”

“Current address?”

“Lives on Chestnut Street with a boyfriend named Sam Carlson. Mama’s not happy.” He gave me the address, apartment, and cell phone number. He added, “I did a standard credit check on her-those credit bastards have more background on people than the FBI-and I discovered she used to work summers at the Bayview Hotel in Westhampton Beach. That’s the babe, right?”

“Right.”

“I even got a photo from her college yearbook. Nice-looking. You want it?”

“Maybe. Anything else? Criminal? Civil?”

“No. Clean. But she’s got no visible means of support, except maybe the boyfriend, but he’s a student and his credit report sucks, too, and I did a background on her parents, who aren’t exactly rich.”

“Scholarship?”

“That’s it. Some kind of school scholarship, with a stipend. And knowing where you’re coming from, I checked further and found out that this is a U.S. government-supported scholarship, but maybe that’s just a coincidence.”

“Maybe. Nice work.”

“Piece of cake. Meet me for a beer. You owe me one.”

“I do, but I’m jet-lagged.”

“Bullshit. You’re going to Philly. Take a break, John. Meet me at the Judson Grill. Full of Hampton babes back after Labor Day. Hey, you might get a lead there.”

I smiled and said, “Dom, I’ve kept my dick in my pants for six weeks. Don’t tempt me.”

“Six weeks? How do you know it still works?”

“Go sanitize my apartment. I’ll be home late tonight, or early tomorrow. Ciao.”

“Ciao, baby. Welcome home. Think about what you’re doing-you don’t want to go back to Yemen.”

“Thanks.” I shut off my cell phone, then paid the bar tab and tipped the bartender a five for the electricity.

I walked into the terminal where a digital clock said it was 5:01P.M., and I reset my watch to earth time.

I actuallywas jet-lagged, and I’d been in the same clothes for over a day, and quite frankly I’d make a Yemeni camel jockey gag.

I should be going home, but I was going to Philadelphia.

I went to the Hertz counter and rented a mid-sized Ford Taurus, and within thirty minutes I was on the Shore Parkway, heading toward the Verrazano Bridge, the radio playing, and my cell phone plugged into the car outlet.

I called my home answering machine and retrieved a few dozen messages from people who seemed surprised or confused about us being out of the country. There were about six messages from Dom Fanelli, all saying, “Kate, John-you home yet? I thought I’d check your apartment for you. Okay, just checking.”

This is the guy who tellsme to be careful. Detective Fanelli was going to wind up on the wrong side of a domestic homicide case.

I shut off the cell phone, and left it charging. My beeper, in fact, had not worked in Yemen, but following Jack’s orders I’d left it on the whole time, and the battery was dead. But it was on.

I also recalled that Mr. Koenig had given me a direct order not to involve myself in TWA 800. I should have asked him to clarify that, which I’ll do next time I see him.

I drove over the Verrazano, across Staten Island, and across the Goethals Bridge, then onto I-95 in New Jersey, and headed south toward Philadelphia. I should be there in less than two hours.

Roxa