Night Fall (21 page)

“This is not a coerced statement?”

“No. Well, yeah, but it’s for real. I know when it’s bullshit.”

“Okay. Could she describe the lady?”

“Not very well. Lucita was about thirty feet away when she saw this couple come out of Room 203, on the second-floor terrace that runs past the rooms. They turned away from her, and went down the steps. Lucita may or may not have gotten a good look at either of them, but they definitely came out of Room 203. Okay, the lady was a little younger than Don Juan, a little shorter than him, slim, wearing tan shorts, a blue shirt, and sandals. But she was wearing sunglasses and a floppy hat, like maybe she doesn’t want to be recognized.”

“Where were they going?”

“Double bingo. They were walking to the parking lot. The guy was carrying a blanket that Lucita said looked like it was taken from the room, which is why Lucita watched them, but she also says that people do that and they usually bring the blanket back, so she didn’t make anything of it. So, this is our couple. Right?”

“Right.” I asked, “Were they carrying anything else?”

“Like what?”

“Like… anything.”

She looked at me and replied, “That’s what Liam Griffith asked this maid about three times. What are we looking for, John?”

“An ice chest.”

“Nope. Just a blanket.”

I thought about that and concluded that if this was the couple in question-and it sounded like it was-they already had the ice chest and the video camera in the car. I said to Marie, “I hope Lucita noticed the make, model, year, color, and tag number of the car they got into.”

She smiled. “We don’t always get that lucky. But she did notice the car, though she couldn’t describe it, except that this couple opened a rear hatch. So, I take Lucita into the parking lot and showed her SUVs, station wagons, and minivans, and we got it narrowed down to about twenty makes and models. She wasn’t into cars, except that she said it was light-colored. Tan.”

I nodded and thought about the light-colored Ford Explorer that the Westhampton cop had seen coming from the beach right after the crash. It all seemed to fit, like a jigsaw puzzle that you were putting together facedown. Someone needed to flip it over and see the picture.

Marie continued, “Lucita said this couple got in the vehicle and drove off. End of lead.”

I asked Marie, “Did you get an artist’s sketch of the lady based on Lucita’s description of her?”

“No. I think there was a language problem there-plus, like I said, this lady was wearing shades and this big, floppy hat.” Marie smiled and said, “Lucita told me maybe it was a movie star.”

I smiled, and said, “Well, in a manner of speaking she may have been right.”

“Meaning what?”

“I’ll tell you later.” I asked Marie, “What was Lucita’s last name?”

“Gonzalez Perez according to my notes.”

I made a mental note of that, and I asked, “Did anyone speculate that the lady in Room 203 had her own car somewhere in that lot?”

“Yeah. And that would make it even more likely that they were married lovers on a rendezvous. But no one saw her in another car or anything. We ran the plates that were still in the parking lot to see if maybe a car was left there that couldn’t be accounted for. Like, there was still some thought that the lady was the victim of a crime, and the guy had offed her at the beach or maybe in the room, and threw her in the back of his vehicle, wrapped in the blanket. But nothing came of that-at least not that I know of.”

“Did anyone see them return to the hotel that night?”

“No, like I said, the first and only time they were spotted was by Lucita coming out of their room at seven. Sometime between then and when another maid entered the room the next day about noon, they disappeared and a blanket was missing from the room-apparently the blanket left on the beach.”

“Were you able to speak to this other maid?”

“No way. Griffith and his pals had already wrung her out, and she was never on our list. But Griffith did tell us that this maid remembered lipstick on a glass, the shower had been used, and the bed was still made but the blanket was missing. He said there was nothing left in that room that could give us a lead because this maid cleaned the room and removed anything that could be useful in IDing this couple.” Marie paused, then continued, “At least that’s what Griffith said.”

I suggested, “You need to learn to trust Federal agents.”

She laughed.

I thought about all of this. While I had a clearer picture of what happened at the Bayview Hotel five years ago, I was no closer to finding this couple than I was yesterday. I mean if Griffith, Nash, and the other guy had really hit a dead end five years ago, with all the resources in the world at their disposal, then I just hit a brick wall.

On the other hand, maybe they hit pay dirt.

It’s hard enough to solve an unsolved five-year-old case; it’s a lot harder to solve one that’s already been solved by someone else who’s hidden all the clues and the witnesses.

Well, all I had to do now was go back to the office and request files marked “TWA 800-Bayview Hotel,” or something like that. Right?

I said to Marie, “Can you think of anything else?”

“No, but I’ll think about it.”

I gave her my card and said, “Call my cell phone if you do. Don’t call the office.”

She nodded.

I asked her, “Can you give me a name?”

“I can’t. But I can make some calls and see if any of the other three cops want to talk.”

“I’ll let you know about that.”

“What’s this all about, John?”

“Well, I’ll tell you what Griffith didn’t tell you-on that blanket found on the beach was the lens cap of a video camera.”

It took her two seconds to say, “Holy shit. You think-?”

“Who knows?” I stood and said, “Keep that to yourself. Meanwhile, think about that day at the Bayview and about what you might have heard afterward. And thanks, Marie, for your time and your help.”

I ambled over to the kid’s playpen and wound the mobile, then said to Marie, “I’ll let myself out.”

She gave me a big hug and said, “Be careful.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Slobadan was sitting in the taxi, talking on his cell phone, and I got in and said, “St. George Ferry. Quicko.”

Still talking on the phone in some language that sounded like a leaf blower, he took off.

We got to the ferry terminal ten minutes before the 5:30 departure, and I paid the meter plus five bucks. I made a mental note to turn in my expenses to Ms. Mayfield.

There was an ice cream truck near the terminal, and in a moment of sheer nostalgia, I bought a sugar cone with a double scoop of pistachio.

I got on the ferry, which was still free, climbed to the top forward deck, and within a few minutes we cast off and set sail for Manhattan.

It’s a twenty-five-minute ride, and during that time, I thought about a few things that weren’t computing. Things that Kate said, or didn’t say. This job is about fifty percent information and fifty percent intuition, and my intuition was telling me that I didn’t have all the information.

I looked at the Statue of Liberty as we passed by, and yes, I was a little bit moved by patriotism and my sworn duty to defend the Constitution of the United States and all that, but I wasn’t yet convinced that what happened to TWA 800 was an attack on my country.

And then there were the victims and their families. As a homicide cop, I always tried not to get personally involved with the deceased’s family, but lots of times I did. This motivates you, but not always in a way that does you or the victims any good.

I flashed forward to a scene where I actually broke this case open-visualize success as they say, and you will succeed. I pictured Koenig, Griffith, and my immediate boss, NYPD Captain David Stein, shaking my hand while my colleagues clapped and cheered, and I was invited to the White House for dinner.

That wasn’t exactly what was going to happen if I succeeded in reopening this case. And I didn’t want to even think about what would really happen. In fact, there was no upside to this-only a very bad downside-except for fulfilling my need to indulge my ego and assert my slightly obnoxious personality.

And then, of course, there was Kate, who was counting on me. How many guys have fucked themselves up trying to impress a woman? At least six billion. Maybe more.

The ferry docked, and I got off and caught a cab to Delmonico’s on Beaver Street, a short ride from the ferry.

Delmonico’s has been around for about a hundred and fifty years, so I figured it hadn’t closed recently, leaving Ms. Mayfield out on the street. Being in the Financial District, it was full of Wall Street guys, and not frequented by anyone from 26 Fed, which was the point.

I went to the bar where Ms. Mayfield was engaged in conversation with two horny Wall Street types. I cut in between them and asked her, “Did it hurt?”

“Did
what
hurt?”

“When you fell from heaven.”

She smiled and said, “I hope you never used that line.”

“That’s not a line.” I ordered a Dewar’s-and-soda and said to her, “You look familiar.”

She smiled again and replied, “I’m new in town.”

I replied, “Me, too. My ship just came in. Actually, it was the Staten Island ferry.”

My Scotch arrived, and we clinked glasses. She asked, “Where were you?”

“I just told you. Staten Island.”

“Oh, I thought that was a joke.”

“I don’t make jokes. I was in Staten Island.”

“Why?”

“Looking for a house for us. Did you ever think about having children?”

“I… I have thought about it. Why do you ask?”

“I’m pregnant.”

She patted my gut and said, “So I see.” She asked, “What’s with the house and kids?”

“I just interviewed a female cop on Staten Island-home on maternity leave. She was ATTF back in ’96. She did witness interviews at the Bayview Hotel.”

“Really? How did you find her?”

“I can find anyone.”

“You can’t find two socks that match. What did she say?”

“She interviewed a maid who saw this guy who apparently took the room blanket to the beach. The maid saw his lady, too.”

Kate thought about that and asked me, “Did your friend know if the FBI identified this couple?”

“Not as far as she knew. The guy checked in under an alias.” I sipped my drink.

Kate asked, “What else did you learn from this lady?”

“I learned that the three Federal agents who were running this show didn’t share anything with the four NYPD detectives who were doing the legwork. But I already knew that.”

She didn’t reply.

I looked at her and said, “Meanwhile, tell me how this Westhampton police report about the blanket on the beach happened to come to your attention.”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “Just by accident. I was going through a lot of reports one night in my motel room, and this one caught my eye.”

“Try again.”

“Okay… Ted and I were having drinks one night, and he mentioned this to me. I think he had too much to drink.”

I was pissed off beyond belief, but I got myself under control and said very nicely, “You told me you never discussed this with him.”

“Sorry.”

“What else have you lied to me about?”

“Nothing. I swear.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“I… I just didn’t think it was important for you to know where I got that information. I know how you are when it comes to any mention of Ted Nash.”

“Really? How am I?”

“Psychotic.”

“Bullshit.”

We were attracting a little attention because I think I was raising my voice above the barroom din. The bartender said to us, “Everything okay here?”

Kate replied, “Yes.” She said to me, “Let’s go.”

“No. I like it here. Tell me what else you forgot to tell me. Now.”

Kate kept her cool, but I could see she was upset. I was not upset-I was fuming. “Talk.”

“Don’t browbeat me. You’re not-”

“Talk. And no bullshit.”

She took a deep breath and said, “Okay… but it’s not what you think-”

“Never mind what I think.”

“All right… Ted worked the TWA case, too, as you may know by now… and I knew him from the office… but we were never involved, which I told you a dozen times, and which is the truth.”

“Then why did he tell you about this blanket on the beach, and the video camera lens cap if this wasn’t your case?”

“I’m not sure… but we were having drinks one night at a local bar… about a week after the crash, and he was drinking too much… we all were… and he mentions this local police report and he says something like, ‘This couple was probably taping themselves having sex on the beach, and they may have videotaped the explosion.’ I asked him some questions, and he clammed up. Next day he called me and says they found this couple, and they were an older, married couple and the lens cap was from a regular still camera, not a video camera, and this couple didn’t see or photograph anything to do with the explosion.” She stirred her drink.

“Go on.”

“Okay, so it’s pretty obvious he’s sorry he opened his mouth the night before, and I say, ‘Well, too bad,’ or something like that, and we drop it. But I go to the Westhampton Village police, and they say the FBI was already there and took the written report, and they’re still waiting for the FBI to return a copy of it.” She added, “They’re probably still waiting. But I got the name of the cop who was on the beach and who wrote the report, and I talked to him and he’s not sure he should be talking to me, but he fills me in and mentions that he told the FBI that this blanket may have come from a hotel or motel. I’m up to my ears in witness interviews, so I didn’t follow up, and to be honest, I didn’t see any reason to. It was being handled by Ted and others. But a week or so later, I’m back in the office for a few days, and I made some phone calls to local motels and hotels, as I told you, and I hit this one-the Bayview-and talked to this manager, Leslie Rosenthal, who informed me that the FBI had already been there with this blanket, and they had spoken to his staff and guests. Rosenthal says that the FBI guy in charge never told him anything except that he wasn’t supposed to talk about this to anyone.” She looked at me and said, “That’s it.”