Night Fall

“You should be a detective.”

She was on a roll and said, “That’s what they did in the room that afternoon. Watched a movie. That’s why the VCR was turned on.” She thought a moment and said, “In fact, there were two pillows propped up on the headboard, like they were watching TV.”

I nodded. Actually, if Don Juan signed out a tape, he wasn’t leaving his real name. But if thelady signed out a tape, maybe she did.

I asked Roxa

“I don’t think so. I think just your name and room number.” She added, “You should check with the hotel.”

I nodded and asked, “What did the guest sign? A book? A card?”

She lit another cigarette and replied, “It was one of those receipt books with a pink carbon copy. The guest wrote the name of the book or movie on the receipt, signed it, and wrote their room number. Then, when the guest-or the maid-brought the book or videotape back, they got the pink carbon copy as a receipt, marked ‘Returned.’ Simple.”

I thought of Mr. Leslie Rosenthal and his archives, which would put the Library of Congress to shame. The guy was a pack rat and probably didn’t even throw away his gum wrappers. I said to her, “Mr. Rosenthal, who I had the pleasure of meeting, seemed to be a saver.”

She smiled and said, “He was a little anal.”

“You knew him?”

“He liked me.”

“Did he ever take you down to the basement to see his archives?”

She laughed, then thought a moment, and said, “Those library receipt books could be down there.”

I said to her, “Please keep all of this to yourself.”

“I haven’t opened my mouth about this in five years.”

“Good.”

I thought a moment. What were the chances that Don Juan or his lady borrowed a videotape? The VCR in Room 203 had been turned on, but the most likely explanation for that was they’d hooked up their video camera into the VCR to play the camera’s mini-tape, to see on the TV screen what they thought they’d seen on the beach that night.

On the other hand, they were apparently in their room for two and a half hours that afternoon, so maybe one of them went to the lending library and got a movie. But would either of them sign their real name?

I had this sudden sinking feeling that I was grasping at straws. But when all you’ve got is straws, you grasp them.

The boyfriend arrived, slightly out of breath I thought, and he leaned over and kissed Roxa

I stood and we shook hands. He had a limp shake, and in fact, was kind of dweeby, but he looked nice enough. He asked, “You teach philosophy?”

“I do. Cogito ergo sum.”

He smiled and informed me, “I’m in the advanced physics program. I don’t get philosophy.”

“Neither do I.” It was time for me to leave, but I wasn’t finished with Roxa

Sam, too, sat, and there was a moment of silence, then I said to Roxa

She glanced at Sam, then back at me and replied, “I think it was eight to eight.”

“What if a guest checked out before or after those times and wanted to return a book or videotape?”

She seemed a little uncomfortable, smiled quickly at Sam, then said to me, “They gave it to the desk clerk, who kept the library receipt book when the library was closed.”

I nodded. “Right. Makes sense.” I said to Sam, “You want a drink?”

Sam replied, “Uh… maybe we should go to the table. They’re holding it… would you like to join us?”

“No, thanks.” I said to Roxa

“Uh… no. No, I don’t.”

Sam said, “I’m not following any of this.”

I looked at Sam and asked, “Does the physical world exist outside our minds?”

“Of course. There are a thousand instruments that can record and verify the physical world and do it better than the human mind.”

“Like a camera.”

“Right.”

I stood and said to Roxa

She stood, we shook and she said, “Thanks for the drinks, professor.”

I patted Sam on the back and said, “You’re a lucky man.” I caught Roxa

As I was paying the tab, Roxa

“I will. You can call me if you need anything else. You want my cell phone number?”

“Sure.” I took her cell number and said, “Thanks.” I added, “Sam’s a nice guy.”

I left Alma de Cuba and began walking back to my car on Chestnut Street.

My butt was dragging, but my mind was already at the Bayview Hotel.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I headed back to New York on the New Jersey Turnpike, which is very scenic, if you close your eyes and think of someplace else.

I was pushing the pedal a bit, though there was no particular urgency in checking out a lead in a case that was closed and five years old; the urgency had to do with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility, who I assumed had not forgotten me in my absence, and had undoubtedly calendared my return from overseas. If they were wondering where John Corey was tonight, they’d have to ask me tomorrow.

I tuned in to an all-news cha

On the other hand, the National Security Agency had sent out a secret advisory informing everyone that radio chatter among our Islamic friends had been extraordinarily heavy this summer, which was not a good sign.

I turned my mind to more immediate concerns, and thought about my conversation with Roxa

After twenty years of doing this, you develop a real sixth sense. Therefore, the lending library thing was not dumb luck; it was John Corey being tenacious, brilliant, perceptive, clever, charming, and motivated. Mostly motivated.

I mean, I wasn’t getting paid for this, so I needed a non-monetary reward. Basically, I wanted to stick this one up Koenig’s ass so far it would part the Brylcreem in his hair. Liam Griffith, too. And I wished for a moment that Ted Nash were alive so I could stick it up his butt while I was at it.

It was 9:10 on my dashboard clock, and I wondered what time it was in Dar es Salaam. Same as Yemen, actually, which would be the wee hours of the morning. I pictured my angel asleep in a three-star hotel overlooking the Indian Ocean. She’d e-mailed me once, “It’s so beautiful here, John, I wish you were with me.” As if it was my idea to go to Yemen.

Actually, I realized that I missed her more than I thought I would. I was honestly happy that she’d been sent to a decent place, and not to Yemen, which, if I haven’t mentioned it, sucked.

Yes, there were uncharitable moments when I wished she was in Yemen and I was in the Bahamas, but they were only passing moments, followed by loving thoughts of our reunion.

I continued north on the New Jersey Turnpike, clipping along at about 85 mph. I was tired, but alert.

I understood that the only thing I might find in the Bayview Hotel archives would be Mr. Rosenthal, scratching his head and saying, “What happened to those library receipts?”

Iwas now on Montauk Highway on Long Island, approaching Westhampton Beach. It was half past midnight, and a light fog was rolling in from the ocean and bays.