Night Fall (32 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

To a New Yorker, Philadelphia-about a hundred miles south of Midtown-is like the Statue of Liberty: historical, close, and totally avoidable.

Nonetheless, I’ve been to the City of Brotherly Love a few times for police conferences, and a few times to see a Phillies-Mets game, so I know the place. All things considered, to paraphrase W. C. Fields, I’d rather be in Yemen. Just kidding.

At about 7:30P.M., I pulled up to a five-story apartment building at 2201 Chestnut Street, not far from Rittenhouse Square.

I found a parking space on the street, got out of my rental car, and stretched. I called Roxanne Scarangello’s apartment, and a female answered, “Hello?”

“Roxanne Scarangello, please.”

“Speaking.”

“Ms. Scarangello, this is Detective John Corey with the FBI. I’d like to speak to you for a few minutes.”

There was a long silence, then she asked, “About what?”

“About TWA Flight 800, ma’am.”

“I’ve told you all I know about that, five years ago. You said you wouldn’t be calling me again.”

“Something new has surfaced. I’m outside your apartment. May I come up?”

“No. I’m… not dressed.”

“Why don’t you get dressed?”

“I… I’m actually late for dinner.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“I can walk.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

I heard what sounded like a deep sigh, then she said, “All right. I’ll be right down.”

I turned off my cell phone and waited in front of the apartment building, which seemed like a decent place on a nice tree-lined street, within walking distance of the University of Pennsylvania, an expensive Ivy League school.

It was nearly dark, and the night was clear. A soft breeze carried a hint of autumn.

You don’t appreciate these things until they’re gone, and if you’re lucky, you get to appreciate them again with new eyes and ears.

America.

It was some kind of delayed reaction, and I felt like kissing the ground and singing “God Bless America.”

A tall, attractive young woman with long dark hair, dressed in black jeans and a black sweater, came out of the apartment house.

I said, “Ms. Scarangello? I’m John Corey, FBI task force.” I held up my credentials and said, “Thank you for your time.”

She replied, “I’ve really told you all I know, which is almost nothing.”

That’s what you think, Roxanne. I said, “I’ll walk with you.”

She shrugged, and we began walking toward Rittenhouse Square. She said, “I’m meeting my boyfriend for dinner.”

“I, too, have a dinner date. So I won’t keep you.”

As we walked, I asked her some inconsequential questions about the university, her first day of classes, Philadelphia, and about her doctorate program, which she said was in English literature.

I yawned, and she asked me, “Am I boring you?”

“Not at all. I just got in from the Mideast. See my tan? Do you want to see my ticket?”

She laughed. “No. I believe you. What were you doing there?”

“Keeping the world safe for democracy.”

“You should start here.”

I remembered I was speaking to a college student and replied, “You’re absolutely right.”

She went into a rap about the last presidential election, and I nodded and made positive sounds.

We got to a restaurant called Alma de Cuba near Rittenhouse Square and entered. It was an upscale, trendoid kind of place, and I wondered how big that stipend was.

Ms. Scarangello suggested a drink while we waited for her boyfriend.

There was a cocktail lounge in the rear, decorated with plantation shutters and black-and-white photos of old Cuba projected onto the white walls. We found a table and ordered a carafe of white sangria for her and, to continue the theme, a Cuba libre for me.

I said to her, “Let me get right to the point. You were the cleaning person who went into Room 203 of the Bayview Hotel in Westhampton at about noon on July 18, 1996, the day after the TWA 800 crash. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“No other cleaning person or staff had been there before you. Correct?”

“As best I know. The guests hadn’t checked out, and they weren’t answering the phone or the knocks on the door. Also, there was a Do Not Disturb sign on the door.”

That’s the first I’d heard about that. But it made sense if Don Juan and his lady wanted to put time and distance between themselves and the hotel. I said, “And you entered with your passkey?”

“Yes, that was the procedure after the elevenA.M. check-out time.”

The drinks came, I poured some sangria for her, and we clinked glasses.

I asked her, “Do you recall the names of the FBI people who first interviewed you?”

“Not after five years. They only used their first names.”

“Well, think hard.”

She replied, “I think one of them had like an Irish name.”

“Sean? Seamus? Giuseppe?”

She laughed. “That’s not Irish.”

I smiled. “Maybe Liam.”

“That’s it. The other was… can’t remember. Don’t you know?”

“Yeah. Probably Ted.”

“I think that’s it. Nice-looking guy.”

And an asshole.

She asked me, “Are you still looking for that couple? Is that what this is about?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why are they so important?”

“We’ll know when we find them.”

She informed me, “They probably weren’t married to each other. They don’t want to be found.”

“Well, but they need marriage counseling.”

She smiled. “Yeah. Right.”

I asked her, “Did the FBI show you a composite sketch of the man?”

“Yes. But I didn’t recognize him.”

“How about the woman he was with?”

“No. I never saw a sketch of her.”

I said to her, “Okay, so you walked into the room and what?”

“Well… I called out in case they were, like, in the bathroom, you know? But I could see they were gone. Nothing around. So I dragged my cart in, and I started by stripping the bed.”

“Okay, so the bed was slept in?”

“Well… probably not. It was just, like, the bed cover was at the foot of the bed, the blanket was gone, and probably they lay down on the top sheet, maybe to nap or watch TV, or… whatever. But it didn’t have that overnight slept-in look.” She laughed. “I got real good at the nuances of hotel room use.”

“I wasn’t an English major. What’s a nuance?”

She laughed again. “You’re funny.” She surprised me by lighting a cigarette. She said, “I only smoke when I drink. You want one?”

“Sure.” I took a cigarette, and she lit it for me. I used to smoke, so I didn’t choke on it.

I said, “So, the blanket was missing?”

“Yes. And I made a note to tell the head housekeeper.”

“Mrs. Morales.”

“Right. I wonder whatever happened to her.”

“Still there.”

“Great lady.”

“She is.” I asked, “Did you know Lucita? The cleaning lady?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“How about Christopher Brock, the desk clerk?”

“I knew him, but not well.”

“Did you speak to him after the FBI questioned you?”

“No, we were told not to speak to anyone. And they meant
anyone
.”

“How about the manager, Mr. Rosenthal? Did you speak to him?”

She replied, “He wanted to talk to me about it, but I said I couldn’t.”

“All right. And you left the hotel shortly after that day?”

She didn’t reply for a while, then said, “I did.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Nope.”

“Well… these FBI guys said it would be best if I left my job at the hotel. Because I might be tempted to talk to news people, and maybe I’d be harassed by the media feeding frenzy and all that. So I said I couldn’t afford to leave my job, and they said they’d make up my salary if I cooperated and left, and… kept quiet.”

“Pretty good deal.”

“It was. I mean, it’s peanuts to the Federal government. They pay farmers not to grow crops. Right?”

“Right. They pay me not to take care of the office plants.”

She smiled.

I asked, “What was it that the FBI didn’t want you talking about?”

“That’s just it. I didn’t
know
anything. But there was like this big thing about this couple in Room 203 and them going to the beach and seeing the plane crash. It didn’t seem like a big deal, but they made a big deal out of it, and the news people got wind of something going on. Next thing I know, I’m retired and out of there.”

I nodded. The Feds come on like gangbusters, cause a shit storm, then try to wipe up the shit with money.

I asked her, “Did they help you with your scholarship?”

“Sort of. I think so. Don’t you know?”

“That’s not my department.”

Ms. Scarangello’s cell phone rang, and she answered it. I could tell she was talking to her boyfriend, and she said to him, “Yes, I’m here. But take your time. I’m in the bar, and I ran into one of my old profs. I’m fine. See you later.” She hung up and said to me, “That was Sam-my boyfriend. He’s at the apartment now.” She added, “I’m not supposed to ever mention TWA 800. Right?”

“Right.”

“So, see, wasn’t that good?”

“Excellent. Do I look like a professor?”

She laughed. “No. But you are when Sam gets here.”

Carafe two, Cuba libre two.

“So,” I said, “take me through everything you did and saw in that room, things you might have smelled or touched that seemed out of the ordinary, and even completely ordinary.”

“Oh, jeez… it’s been five years.”

“I know. But if you start talking, then it’ll start coming back.”

“I doubt it. But, okay… next I went into the bathroom because this is the least pleasant part of the job, and I wanted to get it over with. I started in the shower-”

“The shower had been used?”

“Yes, but not that morning. I could tell it had been used, maybe the night before. Soap and shower stall were dry, and so were the used towels. I remember telling one of the FBI guys that it was like the bathroom was hardly used. Just a quick shower and out.”

“Was there sand on the floor? In the bed?”

“There was beach sand in the bathroom. I told the FBI guy that.”

“Okay, so you went back in the bedroom.”

“Yes. I first emptied the wastebaskets, then the ashtrays-”

“They were smoking?”

“No… I don’t think so. But that’s what I usually do.”

“Try to separate this room on this day from the hundreds of other rooms you’ve cleaned.”

She laughed. “Sure. More like two thousand over three summers out there.”

“I know, but you were questioned for a long time about this one room. So you can remember what you said to the FBI guys. Right?”

She replied, “Actually, I wasn’t questioned that long. They just asked me what I did and saw in the room, then thanked me.”

I nodded. Neither Liam Griffith, who was probably an OPR guy, nor Ted Nash, CIA, knew how to wring a witness dry. They weren’t detectives. I am. I asked Roxanne, “Did this couple leave a tip?”

“No.”

“See? You remember that.”

She smiled. “Cheap bastards.”

“I’m buying drinks tonight.”

“Good.”

“Okay, what was in the wastebaskets?”

“I really don’t remember. Just the usual. Tissues. Whatever.”

“How about a box from a video camera cassette?”

“No… you think they videotaped themselves… like, doing it?”

“I don’t know. How about cellophane, gum wrappers, price tags, receipts for anything?”

“No… but there was a Band-Aid wrapper in the ashtray.” She shrugged.

“Any sign of blood?”

“No.”

“Okay, tell me how you cleaned a room. Any room.”

“Sometimes I varied it because it was mind-numbing, but I had a routine.” She proceeded to give me a lesson in room cleaning, which I might actually need in case my cleaning lady died.

I asked her, “And there was definitely lipstick on a wineglass?”

“Yes. I think that was the first thing that made me aware that there had been a woman in the room.”

“Any other sign of a woman? Dusting powder? Makeup? Long hair?”

“No. But you could tell two people had been there. Both pillows were squashed. Lots of towels used.” She smiled and said, “Guys use one towel, women use them all and call for more.”

“I’ll ignore that sexist remark.”

She smiled again and gave herself a little slap on the face. She was either very cute, or I’d been in the desert too long.

She went on, and her memory was getting better with the wine and cigarettes.

When she was finished, I asked her, “Is this more or less what you told the FBI guys?”

“Mostly less. Why is this important?”

“We never know until we ask.”

She lit another cigarette and offered me one, which I declined.

I realized that my time with Roxanne was running out, given the fifteen-minute walk from her apartment, which, if I was her boyfriend, I’d do in ten minutes.

She sensed I was about to wind it down and said to me, “Stay and meet Sam.”

“Why?”

“You would like him.”

“Would he like me?”

“No. That’s the point.”

“Don’t be a bitch.”

She laughed, then said, “Really, don’t leave.”

“Well… I need a cup of coffee before I drive back to New York.”

“You live in New York?”

“I do. Manhattan.”

“That’s where I’d like to live when I graduate.”

“Good move.” I signaled a waitress and ordered coffee.

Roxanne and I made small talk, which I can do while my brain is elsewhere. I didn’t come all the way from Yemen to Philadelphia just to flirt with a college girl. Or did I?