“So far.”
“Good. Now what’s wrong with this story that we’re getting from this FBI guy?”
I replied, “Anything you get from the FBI has something wrong with it.”
She smiled. “Come on, John. Work a little.”
“Okay, what’s wrong is why does anyone care about two more eyewitnesses?”
“Right. Like, why are we wasting time and resources on two people who maybe saw this accident from the beach, when we have witnesses lined up out the fucking door of the Coast Guard station, and the hotline number is ringing off the hook. What is special about these witnesses? Do you know?”
“No. Do you?”
“No.” She said, “But there was something else going on here.”
What was going on was the video camera lens cap on the beach blanket, but apparently this FBI guy who was doing the briefing did not mention that to his troops. Dick Kearns knew about it from the local cops, but apparently Marie hadn’t heard that rumor. As with any investigation, if you spoke to enough people and triangulated information, eventually things started to take shape. But Marie understood, because she was smart, that something else was going on. I asked her, “Who was this FBI guy who was briefing you?”
“I told you—no names.”
“Did you know this guy?”
“A little. Kind of a hard-on who thought he was a hard-ass.”
“Sounds like Liam Griffith.”
She smiled. “That’s a good name. Let’s call him Liam Griffith.”
“Who was with him?”
“Like I said, two other guys. Fed types, but I didn’t know them, and they were never formally introduced. They just sat there while Griffith briefed us.”
I described Mr. Ted Nash to Marie, reluctantly using the words “good-looking,” and she replied, “Yeah . . . I mean, it’s been five years, but that sounds like one of them. Who is he?”
Against my better judgment, but to keep Marie happy and intrigued, I said, “CIA.”
“No shit?” She looked at me and asked, “What are you on to?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“No, I don’t. But . . . maybe I’ve said enough.”
I looked at the kid in the playpen, then back at Marie. I said, “Are we afraid of them?”
She didn’t reply.
It was time for a little speech, and I said, “Look, this is the United States of America, and every citizen has the right and the obligation to—”
“Save it for your departmental hearing.”
“I will. How about this: Are you satisfied with the conclusion of this case?”
“I’m not answering that. But I’ll tell you what happened that day at the Bayview Hotel, if you level with me.”
“I am leveling with you. You do not want to know.”
She thought about that, then nodded. “Okay . . . so one of the four NYPD asks Griffith why this is so important, and Griffith is annoyed that a cop is actually questioning him about this, and Griffith replies, ‘Let me worry about why we need to find this person or persons. Your job is to question staff and guests.’ So Griffith explains to us that a maid there at the Bayview reported a missing blanket in Room 203. The blanket was shown to the maid and to the manager, and they say this could be the blanket missing from the room, but they also say they have, like, six different kinds of synthetic blankets, and they can’t say for sure if that’s the one that was missing from Room 203, but it could be.”
“Okay. So who was registered in Room 203? Or don’t we know?”
“Obviously we don’t know yet, or we wouldn’t be there. What we do know is that a guy came to the Bayview Hotel about four-fifteen P.M. on the day of the crash—Wednesday, July 17, 1996—with no reservation and asks for a room. The clerk says there are rooms available, and the guy fills out a registration card and pays two hundred bucks in cash for the room. The clerk asks for a credit card backup, in case of damages, mini-bar, and so forth—but the guy says he doesn’t believe in credit cards, and he offers the clerk five hundred bucks as a security deposit, which the clerk accepts. Then, according to Griffith’s briefing, the clerk asks to photocopy the guy’s driver’s license, but the guy says it’s in his other pants or something, and the guy gives the clerk his business card, which the clerk accepts. The clerk gives the guy a receipt for his five hundred bucks and hands the guy the key to Room 203, which is in the modern wing of this hotel, away from the main building, which is what this guy requested. So the clerk never actually saw this guy come back in the lobby, and the clerk never saw the guy’s car or if he’s with anyone. Follow?”
“Yeah. I think I see a problem with IDing this guy.”
“Right. But when Griffith arrived on that Friday morning, he probably thought he’d hit pay dirt. He runs the vehicle info from the hotel registration card—make, model, and tag number—which turns out to be bogus. Griffith also tells us, according to my notes, that the business card says Samuel Reynolds, Attorney-at-Law, with a Manhattan address and phone number, but this is also bogus, of course.”
Marie looked at me and said, “So, what we seem to have here is a typical Don Juan who’s done this before, and he’s with a lady he’s not supposed to be with. Right?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
She smiled. “Me neither. Anyway, the clerk knows it’s a shack job, but he’s got five hundred bucks security, and probably a few bucks for himself. Bottom line, Don Juan left no paper trace, so that the Bayview Hotel will not be mailing him a thank-you note or special offers to his home address.”
“Married guys learn this stuff fast.”
“I think it’s an instinct.”
“Whatever. When did Don Juan check out?”
“He didn’t. He just disappeared sometime before eleven A.M. the next day, which is check-out time. According to Griffith, a maid knocked on the door of 203 about eleven-fifteen A.M. that day, but got no reply. Then, the desk clerk—a new clerk—called the room about noon, but got no answer. So the maid entered the room and reported that there was no sign of the guest, no luggage and stuff, and that the bed blanket seemed to be missing. Apparently this guy was gone and skipped out on his five hundred bucks. Griffith says to us that this is suspicious.” She laughed. “Like, what was your first clue, Liam?”
I smiled and said, “Hey, he’s not a detective.”
“No shit. Anyway, what starts out as your everyday hanky-panky-nooky-pooky now looks like something else. For a cop, the next thing that comes to mind is a felony in the room. Rape, assault, murder. Right? But the room shows no sign of anything like that. Though that’s not to say this guy didn’t murder whoever was with him and dump her in the car trunk before he snuck out. But we have this other thing to consider—the blanket on the beach that looks like it may have come from his room. The way I see it, this guy and his lady were having a thing they weren’t supposed to be having, and they were on the beach, and they saw the crash, and they didn’t want to be identified as witnesses. So they get back to the room after the crash, collect their stuff, and beat feet out of there. Right?”
“Sounds like it.” I knew from Kate that there were two people on that beach blanket, but I didn’t know yet how Marie or Liam Griffith could be sure there were two people in that room. I asked, “How could you be sure there was a woman?”
“The maid said there were definite signs of two people in the room. A man and a woman. Lipstick on a glass for starters. The FBI completely dusted the room for prints and vacuumed for hair and stuff. But this maid had cleaned the room since this couple beat it, so the only prints this guy left was on his lady’s ass, and she’s gone, too.” She thought a moment and said, “So Griffith tells us we now have to question the staff and any guests who’d been there the day of the crash and see if they noticed this guy and/or his lady. We had a description of the guy from the desk clerk—Caucasian, about five-foot-ten, medium build, brown hair, brown eyes, fair complexion, no facial hair, no glasses, no visible scars or tattoos, no ap
parent disabilities or deformities. The clerk described him as well dressed with tan slacks and a blue blazer . . . what am I leaving out?”
“The bulge in his pants.”
She laughed. “Yeah. He had a pocket rocket. Anyway, the clerk was working with an FBI sketch artist when we got there, and later we got the sketch to show around.” She added, “Nice-looking guy.”
“Did you keep the sketch?”
The mobile had wound down, and the kid was getting worried. He started making these sounds like he was yelling at the mobile to get moving.
Marie stood and rewound the thing, cooing to me, or to junior, “Little boy loves his happy faces.”
The mobile started spinning again and playing “It’s a Small World.” Twenty years from now, this kid was going to become a serial killer who hummed “It’s a Small World” as he strangled his victims.
Marie glanced at her watch and said to me, “I have to check on Melissa. Be right back.”
She left the kitchen, and I could hear her climbing the stairs.
I thought about what I’d heard so far and thought about that couple. They arrived together, or separately, and picked the Bayview Hotel at random, or by choice. It’s not a hot-sheet motel, where there are few questions asked—it’s a two-hundred-dollar-a-night place, so I got an image of a guy with some bucks and maybe a lady who needed clean sheets with her romance. The wine on the beach was expensive, too. Citizens like this are usually easy to find, but the guy knew how to cover his ass when he checked in. It’s all instinct.
Then, assuming they witnessed the crash, and assuming one or both of them was married, they panicked, left some stuff on the beach, and hightailed it back to the hotel. Then, thinking that maybe someone saw them and that the cops might come snooping around, or maybe that their spouses would be calling their cell phones about the crash, they left the hotel without checking out, which sent up a red flag.
I had an image of a couple that had a lot to lose if they were caught. I mean, nearly every married person falls into that category, from the President of the United States to Marie’s husband, the route delivery guy.
I tried to imagine what I’d do if I was in that situation. Would I go to the authorities like a good citizen? Or would I hide evidence of a possible crime to save my own ass and my marriage? And if I was discovered and confronted by the authorities, would I compound my problem even further by lying?
I actually had a case like that once. The woman wanted to report a shooting that she’d seen, and the guy didn’t want to explain what they were doing together.
I wondered if this couple at the Bayview Hotel had a similar disagreement. And if so, how was it resolved? Amicably? Or not?
Before I could think about that, Marie came back in the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Marie sat down and asked me, “You want kids?”
“Huh?”
“Kids. You and your wife plan on having a family?”
“I have a family. They’re all nuts.”
She laughed and asked me, “Where were we?”
“The FBI sketch of Don Juan. Did you keep it?”
“No. Griffith handed out four photocopies, and he got four photocopies back.”
“Did you get the desk clerk’s name?”
“No. Never spoke to him and never saw him.” She added, “He belonged to the Feds.”
“Right. So you started questioning guests and staff.”
“Yeah. We needed to see if anyone other than the desk clerk saw this guy, or saw his car, or saw the lady he was with, and got a description of her. We also needed to check their movements and see if they went to the hotel bar or restaurant and used a credit card and all that. I mean, Griffith is telling us what to do like we’ve never done this before.”
“They do tend to over-brief.”
“No shit? But the thing is, I’m still thinking, ‘What’s the point? Who gives a shit? Are we doing a matrimonial or an airline crash investigation?’ So, I asked him, ‘Are we looking for two witnesses, or are we actually looking for two suspects?’ I mean, the only way this made any sense is if we were looking for suspects with a rocket in their car. Right?”
Not quite, but I said, “Sounds like it.”
“So I ask this question, and this seems to give Griffith a bright idea and he says, ‘Every witness is a potential suspect,’ or some shit like that. So we each get a list of maids, kitchen and wait staff, office staff, groundskeepers and all that. About fifty staff who were supposed to be on duty during the time in question—four-fifteen on Wednesday, July 17, to noon the next day. I had about a dozen staff to interview.”
“What kind of place is this?”
“A big old house that was like an inn with maybe ten guest rooms, plus this separate modern wing with maybe thirty rooms, and some cottages on the bay. Bar, restaurant, and even a library. Nice place.” She looked at me and said, “You’ll see for yourself when you go out there.”
I didn’t reply.
Marie continued, “We stayed there all day and into the late evening so we could catch some shift changes, plus I had a list of fourteen guests who’d been there since July 17, and were still there. Also, there was a list of guests who’d been there on the 17th but who’d already checked out, and we were supposed to follow up on them the next day, but we never did.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Maybe some other people followed up. Or maybe Griffith and his two pals hit pay dirt that night. Do these guys ever tell you anything?”
“As little as possible.”
“Right. They’re into bullshit big-time. For instance, Griffith says we were all going to meet at about eleven P.M., place to be announced. But Griffith and these other two Fed types were moving around all day talking to us and sitting in on some of the interviews, so one by one Griffith thanks us and tells us to knock off, and the meeting never happened, and I was never able to compare notes with the other three detectives. I don’t think there was ever going to be a meeting.”
I had the distinct impression that Marie Gubitosi was not happy with the way she or her NYPD colleagues had been treated. And that was why Marie was talking to me even after she’d been told five years ago not to talk to anyone. I wanted to get to the outcome of that investigation, but she needed to vent a little—and quite possibly venting was all she had to give me.
She asked me, “You want a beer?”
“No thanks. I’m off-duty.”
She laughed and said, “God, I’ve been pregnant or nursing for so long I can’t remember what a beer tastes like.”
“I’ll buy you a beer when you’re ready.”
“You’re on. Okay, so I started on my list, and I was interviewing staff. Prelim interviews, and I’m showing the sketch around. I narrowed the list to four staff and two guests and asked them to meet me at different times in a back office of the hotel. Okay, so I’m interviewing this maid named Lucita, who just got on duty and who probably thought I’m with Immigration and Naturalization, and I show her the sketch of Don Juan, and she says she doesn’t recognize him, but I see something in her face. So I ask to see her green card or proof of citizenship, and she breaks down and starts crying. Then, overstepping my bounds a little, I promise her I’ll help her get legal if she helps me. Sounds like a good deal for everyone, and she says, yes, she saw this guy with a lady leave Room 203 about seven P.M. Bingo.”
“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 sa
ndals. 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.”
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