Night Fall (35 page)

“And after that?”

“As with all tax records, the pink carbons are archived for seven years.”

“Lead the way.”

Mr. Rosenthal led me to a cabinet marked “Tax Files, 1996,” and found a manila envelope marked “Library Receipts-Missing, Lost or Stolen,” and handed it to me.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a wad of pink receipts, held together by a rubber band. I snapped the rubber band, and began flipping through the two dozen or so receipts for missing books and videotapes.

Mr. Rosenthal asked, “Can I help-?”

“No.” They were not in strict chronological order, so I went through them slowly. Each was marked, “Not Returned.” Toward the middle of the stack, I stopped at a receipt dated July 17. The room number was 203. The borrowed item was a videotape-
A Man and a Woman.

The signature was scrawled, and the person had not pressed hard enough to leave a clear imprint on the carbon copy.

Printed on the receipt in a different handwriting were the words, “Not Returned,” and the name “Reynolds,” which, according to Marie Gubitosi, was the name that Don Juan had used when he checked in.

I asked Mr. Rosenthal about that, and he replied, “Apparently the person borrowing the videotape didn’t have a room key, so the librarian checked her computer and saw that the name signed on the receipt didn’t match the name of the guest in Room 203. She inquired of the person borrowing the videotape and that person gave the name of the registered guest, which matched the name on the computer.”

“Right.” The lady, then, knew what name Don Juan was using that day, so apparently, they’d done this before, which probably meant this was not a one-night stand.

I looked again at the signature, but the light was not good, though the handwriting looked feminine. I said, “Let’s go upstairs.”

We left the archives room with Mr. Rosenthal stealing backwards glances at my untidiness.

Upstairs in the lobby, I put the pink slip on the front desk under the bright desk lamp, and I asked Peter, “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

He retrieved a square magnifier from behind the desk, and I looked at the faint carbon signature.
Jill Winslow.
I looked at it closely, focusing on each letter.
Jill Winslow.

Peter was trying to steal a look at the pink slip, so I put it in my pocket, along with his magnifying glass. I motioned Mr. Rosenthal toward the library, and we entered the dark room. I said to him, “Knowing what you do about this matter, and having been in the hotel business-I assume for many years-do you think the female guest in Room 203 would have signed her real name to the video library receipt?”

He pondered that a moment, then replied, “I think so.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Well… it’s the same in the bar, or the restaurant, or the sundry counter… you’re asked to sign your name and room number, and you sign truthfully because the staff may go right into the computer while you’re there-or you may be asked to show your room key, or even a driver’s license at any point in the transaction.” He added, “Also, it’s just a natural reflex to sign your true name when asked.”

“Unless you’re traveling incognito. You know, having an affair. The guy didn’t check in using his real name.”

“Yes, but that’s different. Signing for a book or videotape is an inconsequential transaction. It’s best to use your real name and room number to avoid the risk of embarrassment.”

“I like the way you think, Mr. Rosenthal.”

“That’s very scary.”

Mr. Rosenthal had a dry, almost sarcastic sense of humor. I bring out the best in people.

I left the library, and Mr. Rosenthal followed.

He asked me, “Do you need to keep that receipt?”

“Yes.”

He made a little joke and said, “Then I’ll need a receipt for the receipt.”

I chuckled politely and said, “Put it on my room bill.”

We were at the front desk now, and he asked me, “Are you staying with us tonight, Mr. Corey?”

“I am. I got a good off-season rate.”

Mr. Rosenthal asked Peter, “What room did you give Mr. Corey?”

“Room 203.”

“Of course.” Mr. Rosenthal asked me, “Do you think the room will speak to you?”

I replied, “It already did.” I said to Peter, “I need a sevenA.M. wake-up call.”

Peter noted it in his book and asked, “Do you need help with your luggage, or directions to the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion?”

“I do not. Thank you for your help, gentlemen.”

I walked out of the lobby into the cool, foggy night.

I got into my rental car, drove to the Moneybogue Bay Pavilion parking lot, took my overnight bag, climbed a set of stairs, and entered Room 203.

A voice in my head, or in the room, said,
Eureka!

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I sat at a writing desk and turned on the lamp. I placed the pink receipt on the desk and looked at it with the magnifier.

The hand that wrote “A Man and a Woman” was definitely feminine and matched the handwriting on the date, room number, and the signature. Someone else, presumably the librarian, had written “Reynolds” and “Not Returned.”

I once took a handwriting analysis course at John Jay College, and there was a lot to be learned from a person’s handwriting and signature. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember much of the class. But I do remember that there was a distinct difference in handwriting when a person signed his or her real name as opposed to a made-up name or a forgery. This signature looked real. Maybe because I wanted it to be real. Maybe I was making this up.

I stood, turned on all the lamps, and went to the wall unit. Beneath the television was an empty shelf, and I now noticed in the lamplight that there were four small circles on the shelf-actually, discolorations in the white wood finish. They were the size of a dime, in a rectangular pattern. Obviously, this was where the VCR player had sat on its rubber pads until about three years ago.

This was not exactly a monumental discovery, but I feel good when I can physically verify what someone has told me.

I sat again at the small desk and dialed the cell phone of Dom Fanelli. I had no idea where he’d be at this hour, but the nice thing about cell phones is that it doesn’t matter.

He answered, “Hello?”

I could hear loud music in the background. “It’s your partner.”

“Hey, goombah! What’s with this Bayview Hotel shit on my Caller ID? What the hell are you doing there?”

“I’m on vacation. Where are you?”

“My phone started vibrating in my pants, and I thought it was Sally. Sarah. Whatever. Sarah, say hello to-”

“Dom, I can barely hear you.”

“Hold on.” A minute later, he said, “I’m outside. I was following a homicide suspect, and he went into this club on Varick Street. This is a tough job. What’s up?”

“I need a make on a name.”

“Again? What happened to the names I gave you? Did you go to Philly?”

“I did. What I need now-”

“Now you’re in Westhampton Beach. Why don’t you go home?”

“Why don’t
you
go home? Okay, the name is-”

“I tidied up your apartment. The cleaning lady will be there tomorrow. Fridays, right?”

“Unless she died. Listen-Jill Winslow.” I spelled it. “I’m thinking she’s maybe thirties, forties-”

“That narrows it down.”

“I don’t have anything solid on her, but she checked in here for a romp in the hay with a guy on a summer weekday-July 17, 1996.”

“Familiar date.”

“Yeah. The guy used an alias, so he’s probably married, and she may or may not be. But I think she is-”

“Married women are the safest if you’re married.”

“That’s what your wife says about her boyfriends. Okay, I’m thinking she lives on Long Island, but maybe Manhattan. How far would you drive for a romantic rendezvous?”

“I once drove to Seattle to get laid. But I was nineteen. What’s the farthest you’ve ever driven to get laid?”

“Toronto. Okay, so-”

“How about that FBI lady in D.C.? What’s farther? Toronto or Washington?”

“Doesn’t matter. You win with Seattle. Okay,
listen
— First, tap into DMV-there’s a tan Ford Explorer involved, at least five years old, but it may be his, not hers, and it could be sold by now. Then, tap into ChoicePoint and LexisNexis for a property search, divorce records, and so forth. I’m thinking upscale neighborhood on Long Island, so also check utility records with Long Island Power Authority for Winslows. But she could live in Manhattan, so also check Con Ed. Obviously get into telephone records, but they’re probably unlisted. Remember, all this stuff may not be in
her
name, but in her husband’s, so-”

“Here it is. Jill Winslow, Number 8 Maple Lane, Locust Valley, Long Island, New York, 1996 Ford Explorer, tan, husband’s name Roger. Just kidding. You should play with your computer, too. I’ve got homicides to solve.”

“This may be the biggest homicide you ever helped solve.”

There was a silence, then Dom Fanelli said, “I understand.”

“Good. And also check death records.”

“You think she died? Was she offed?”

“I hope not.”

“What are you on to? Tell me, in case you get killed.”

“I’ll leave you a note.”

“No joke, John-”

“Call me tomorrow at this number. Room 203. Leave a message if I’m not in. You’re Mr. Verdi.”

He laughed and said, “Hey, I never saw anyone so miserable as you at the opera.”

“Bullshit. I love it when the fat lady croaks at the end of La Traviata. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Ciao.”

I hung up, got undressed, and threw my clothes neatly on a chair. I took my overnight bag and went into the bathroom.

I shaved, brushed my teeth, and got in the shower.

So, Liam Griffith, Ted Nash, and whoever else was with them had discovered the video receipt book and taken the page out of the book. But they forgot the carbon copy. How dumb is that?

Well, but we all make mistakes. Even I make a mistake now and then.

More important, was Jill Winslow a real name, and did they find her? I think yes, on both counts. Which also meant they’d found Don Juan through her. Or they’d found Don Juan first, maybe through his fingerprints. In either case, both had been found.

I could picture Nash and/or Griffith talking to them, inquiring about them shooting a videotape on the beach, and about their relationship.

What were the possible outcomes of that discussion? There were three: one, this couple had not actually recorded TWA 800 exploding; two, they had, but they’d destroyed the tape; three, they’d recorded the explosion and saved the tape, which they’d turned over to Nash, Griffith, and friends in exchange for a promise that their affair would be kept secret-assuming that one or both of these people were married and wanted to stay that way.

In any case, this couple had spent some time on a polygraph machine as they answered these questions.

I had no doubt that I, or Dom Fanelli, would find Jill Winslow if she was still alive.

And I would speak to her, and she would tell me everything she’d told the FBI five years ago because I was an FBI person doing some follow-up.

But that wasn’t going to put the videotape in my hand, even if there had once been a videotape.

So, that was sort of a dead end, but at least I’d know the truth about this videotape, and maybe I could take that information to a higher authority. Maybe I’d disappear.

I had one more thought, and it had to do with
A Man and a Woman.
Why did Jill Winslow-or maybe Don Juan-swipe that tape? If you’re clearing out of a room fast, and you leave the key in the room and don’t check out at the desk, why would you shove a borrowed movie tape in your handbag or luggage?

I thought about that, and about something that Roxanne had said, and I thought I knew why Don Juan or Jill Winslow took that videotape. When I spoke to Jill Winslow, I’d ask her if I was right.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Peter called at 7A.M., and I thought I detected a malicious tone in his voice when he announced the time.

I rolled out of bed and instinctively felt under the pillow for my Glock, but then I remembered that we were temporarily separated.