Night of the Full Moon
Based on a True Story
by
Herbert D. Clough
Smashwords edition
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Copyright 2008, 2011 by Herbert C. Clough
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or henceforth invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, blog, website or broadcast.
Published by Criterion House at Smashwords
ISBN: 978-1-884162-29-9 (Smashwords Editions)
ISBN: 978-1-884162-16-9 (Print Edition, available at many retailers and at http://www.criterionhouse.com)
NIGHT OF THE FULL MOON, is a work of creative nonfiction* based on the real-life kidnapping of socialite Elaine Chaddick on May 8, 1979 in Palm Springs, California.
The names of FBI agents, law enforcement officers and others directly involved in this case have been changed for privacy reasons. The names of the victim and her husband, the kidnappers and the author are true.
*Creative nonfiction is used by the National Endowment for the Arts to describe the various writing styles that have the following in common: factual prose that is also literary and infused with the stylistic devices, tropes, and rhetorical flourishes of the best fiction and the most lyrical of narrative poetry. It is fact-based writing [that has] foremost a fidelity to accuracy and truthfulness.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This story is in print because of the strong encouragement I have received over the years from my family and friends. “You must write a book,” they’d say after I shared my FBI experiences, usually during cocktails and dinner. I rarely ran out of true stories to tell, as I had many exciting cases in my FBI career. So, dear family and cherished friends, thank you for your support and encouragement.
My wife, Ruth, deserves much credit for her original painting for the front cover — and her patient valued advice and typing skills in this endeavor.
I must also acknowledge my publisher, Criterion House, for their help in getting this work to print. I especially want to recognize Phyllis Humphrey, patient teacher, grammar detective, and author of ten novels, for meticulously editing a “final” draft of the entire manuscript, and making suggestions for improvement.
DEDICATION
This story is dedicated to my wife, Ruth, my son, Keith Clough, daughter, Leslie Clough Francis, and to two very important families in my life.
To the Clough family extended, everywhere, past, present and future.
To the FBI family everywhere, who served in the past, serve now, and those who will be lucky enough to serve our country in the future.
FOREWORD
Night of the Full Moon is a gripping story based on the true 1979 kidnapping of socialite Elaine Chaddick in Palm Springs, as told by my friend and FBI colleague, Herb Clough.
In 1979, Herb Clough was a veteran Special Agent in Charge (SAC) with almost thirty years of service. He commanded the Los Angeles Field Division, which was the second largest field division in the country, staffed by numerous experienced and dedicated FBI agents.
SAC Clough's style was to assign experienced and capable agents to key roles and then, provide the latitude for them to use their instincts and experience to achieve their investigative objective. However, Herb was always present to make the ultimate key decisions and provide law enforcement liaison at the highest level.
The reader will be hard-pressed to put this book down without staying with the action to the very end. This thrilling story brought back fond memories of my own service with Herb Clough and other proud men and women of the FBI.
Edgar N. Best
SAC Los Angeles, FBI (retired)
Director of Security, 1984 Olympics, LA
Director of Security, 1994 FIFA World Cup
CHAPTER 1
Tuesday, May 8, 1979
Elaine Chaddick, sixty-five, loved children, animals and most people even before she became a wealthy Chicago and Palm Springs socialite. She and her seventy-seven-year-old husband, Harry, owners of the prestigious Palm Springs Tennis Club, annually enjoyed their winter season in Palm Springs, California. The handsome couple hosted two major parties a year at the club, which had many national and Hollywood celebrities as members.
Elaine’s philosophy was that anyone able to enjoy the privileges of wealth should share it with the less fortunate. Her own charitable deeds attested to the fact that she lived her life according to that philosophy. She realized how providential it was to have married Harry twenty-six years before. Over those years, Harry remained a hard-charging, decisive, and phenomenally successful investor and real estate contractor, both in Chicago and in the Palm Springs area.
Harry enjoyed his reputation as a tough negotiator and shrewd businessman. At home, Harry was a kind and considerate soul-mate, and Elaine loved him dearly. She was very much aware that her world was one that most women could only dream about.
Elaine’s nightmare began at 5:05 p.m. on May 8, 1979. At home in Palm Springs, she was on the phone chatting with Harry who was in Chicago on business.
“Harry, honey, I was thinking that I might accept the chairperson’s position for a grand cocktails and dinner benefit at the club. It will be for those wonderful people at the Braille Institute for the Blind. What do you think?”
He chuckled, “What do I think? All right sweetheart, take it, take it. You know, you really don’t have to run another event as an excuse to buy a fancy new gown. Next time you’re here in Chicago, just go out and buy the damned thing on our account at Marshall Field’s.”
“Oh, I don’t have to travel to Chicago for a pretty gown. Bullock’s here has a pretty darn good selection, and they aren’t so pricey.”
Elaine heard voices coming from the kitchen area and called out to the maid, “Who is it, Rita?”
“Be careful, honey,” Harry joked. “Don’t let any good-looking strange men in the house while I’m gone.”
Elaine laughed. “Don’t be silly, I’ll hang up now. Call me tomorrow, same time. Love you.”
“I love you too, Hon. I’ll be back in Palm Springs just as soon as the city signs the new mall project contract. It’s a big one. Should be able to pay for your new gown.” They both laughed and hung up.
Curious, Elaine walked into the kitchen and noticed Rita Edwards, her maid, warily eyeing a tall, powerfully built and heavily-bearded man at the door. He wore a navy blue suit, white shirt, red tie, and carried a large briefcase. He pulled out a clipboard with a petition and said, “Mrs. Chaddick, I have a petition here. It’s to improve police services to the community. Please read it thoroughly before you sign.”
Elaine said, “Well, I think our street lights could be a great deal brighter, but I do believe that our police services here are very good. In fact, Chief Kendall is a member of our Tennis Club.” She took the petition and the pen he offered and led him into the kitchen. She sat at the table, adjusted her eyeglasses and started to read the petition.
While she read it, she was unaware that he casually reached deep into his briefcase and pulled out a black .45 caliber pistol and a coil of rope. Elaine signed the petition and looked up, staring straight into the barrel of the gun. The stranger calmly and coldly announced, “I’m kidnapping you for one million dollars. You’re coming with me. Don’t try to scream or run. Don’t make me have to kill you both.” Rita screamed despite his stern warning, earning a fierce look from the man.
Elaine, a short attractive blonde, was not easily intimidated. She rose from the table, faced him, and yelled, “My God, are you crazy?”
The bearded kidnapper hit her with the back of his hand and knocked her to the floor.
Elaine sat there awkwardly, shocked, confused, and in a state of disbelief. She ran the palm of her hand over her throbbing cheek. The blow convinced her that he was deadly serious. She moaned. “Why do you want me? I’m an old lady. I have health problems. I take a lot of prescription drugs. Why me?”
“Because you’re rich and we need money. We know all about your prescription drugs, all about your husband, Harry, all about your daughter, Christine in Chicago, all about your family and all about your money. We’ve been following you for months. You and your husband’s names are in the society gold book. You’re rich. Harry must think you’re worth at least a million dollars. I think he’ll pay that amount to get you back alive, don’t you? It’s that simple.”
Rita moved to help her employer and friend of six years, but the kidnapper slapped her hard and knocked her, whimpering, to the floor as well. He put the gun in his jacket pocket, bound Rita’s hands and feet with the rope and covered her mouth with duct tape. Finished, he ordered Elaine to get up.
Still feisty, she snapped, “If you want me to get up, you can help me up like a gentleman.”
He yanked her to her feet, “Don’t give me any crap, lady, you’re coming with me. Get used to the idea and keep your smart mouth shut. Come quietly and you won’t get hurt.”
He gripped her arm tightly and guided her into the master bedroom. Her heart pounded, her knees weakened. Ohmigod, was he going to rape her?
He checked his watch, let her loose and said, “Okay, you have exactly three minutes to get your pills, some clothes and whatever you’ll need for three days. Put them all in a pillow case — go!”
Under his watchful eye, she stripped the cover from a large pillow and frantically moved from the bedroom to the bathroom, collecting items and stuffing them into the case. A blouse, slacks, panties, a bra, socks, tennis shoes, an old raincoat she was about to give to charity, toothbrush, toothpaste, prescription drugs for cataracts and thyroid problems, aspirin, sun glasses, eyeglasses, Kleenex, and her rosary beads. She returned to the bedroom and fumbled around in a bureau bottom drawer.
The man she now thought of as “The Beard,” grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back against him. Her body shuddered. He said, “Okay, that’s enough, let’s go — now!”
Frisky, the Chaddicks' small terrier, bared his teeth and growled at the intruder. The Beard aimed a vicious kick at the pet, missing him by inches.
“Don’t you dare hurt my dog!” Elaine shrieked.
He said, “Okay, that’s it, we’re going now.” He twisted her frail arms behind her back and fastened handcuffs around her thin wrists.
The Beard gave Rita his final order, “When you get loose, call Mr. Chaddick in Chicago. Tell him we have his wife. It’ll cost him one million dollars to get her back. Tell him to return here immediately, get the million dollars together and be ready for our ransom payment instructions. And tell him, if he calls the police or the FBI, she is fucking dead, got that?”
The wide-eyed, thoroughly terrified maid nodded, and kept nodding.
He crammed a motorcycle helmet onto Elaine’s head. It hurt. She couldn’t see, as the helmet’s visor had been covered with duct tape. The kidnapper propelled Elaine out of the house and into the back seat of an old white Cadillac parked next to the Chaddick residence. He pushed her face-down, hard, onto the back seat, put her raincoat over her, and warned, “Don’t move, and don’t even think of opening the doors. I removed the door handles. Don’t yell, or try to get up and look out the windows, or I swear to Christ, I’ll shoot you in the head and nobody will know.”
Tears flowed uncontrollably down her cheeks and she prayed. Please Lord, Harry has high blood pressure. Please don’t let him have a heart attack when he hears that I’ve been taken away from him.
The Beard turned the ignition key and the Caddy engine coughed, but didn’t start. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled. The engine coughed twice more before it reluctantly came to life. The Caddy picked up speed and headed out. A half block behind, a white camper pulled out from the curb and followed.
Elaine felt numb and confused, wondering if she would ever see Harry and her home again. She could feel the car taking her farther away from her world. She forced herself not to panic, and instead to concentrate, to remember details, the smell of the oil on the seat, the sounds she heard, the feel of the Caddy making right and left turns to its unknown destination. She hoped that somehow those recollections would help her survive.
The Caddy moved out of the downtown stop-and-go traffic. It increased in speed. The humming tires and the turns suggested to her that they were probably heading out of town on Highway 111 or maybe Indian Canyon Drive, heading north. Then she felt as if the car had exited to a couple of different roads and started climbing a long steep grade, level out for approximately forty-five minutes, then make a right turn onto a pebbly dirt road.
The Caddy slowed down and stopped. The kidnapper said, “You can sit up now. It gets bumpy from now on.” He reached back, grabbed Elaine’s shoulder and helped her up to a sitting position. The Caddy continued on the bumpy dirt road for about eight minutes, and turned left, onto and up a steep, rocky road to a flat plateau where the journey ended.
The Beard opened the rear door and pulled her out. He removed her helmet but not the handcuffs. She blinked, her eyes cleared and she saw it was dusk. Fading light painted the terrain of yellow sand on the valley floor and up wide aprons of rock and debris to small, steep valleys formed by old flash floods which had streamed down the mountains. Then she noticed a white camper parked in a shallow gully below. She guessed they might be somewhere in the Mojave Desert but wasn’t certain, as from all appearances it could just as easily be on the surface of the moon. Her bearded kidnapper had done his homework well — dead or alive, no one would find her there.
He led her along a narrow, rock-strewn path that ended at the opening of a long-abandoned mine shaft. He pushed her toward the semi-dark opening and said, “You’re staying in here tonight.”
Elaine froze when she noticed slithering shapes just inside the opening and recognized the dry rattle warning of rattlesnakes. Her skin crawled, her heart sank and she screamed, “Don’t put me in there!”
Her legs buckled beneath her and she fell to her knees sobbing and begging, “Shoot me if you want, but please, please, for the love of God, don’t … put … me … in there!”
CHAPTER 2
Rita, the Chaddicks' maid, struggled frantically for forty-five minutes with the ropes that bound her hands and feet until finally, she was free. She ripped the duct tape from her mouth. It hurt. Exhausted from the effort, she managed to crawl to the telephone and call Fred Rozelle, manager of the tennis club. Between breath-catching sobs, she moaned, ”Mrs. Chaddick’s been kidnapped — big white man with a beard — big black gun — he hit her — hit me — couldn’t help her. The man said Mr. Chaddick has to come home quick and pay money — pay one million dollars to get her back — I couldn’t help her. He yelled at me, said don’t call the police or he’ll — he’ll kill her.” Rita surrendered to her uncontrollable sobbing and broke down completely.
Rozelle said, “Rita, calm down, get hold of yourself, rest, lie down. Don’t leave the house. Don’t call anyone. I’ll be right over.”
***
Harry Chaddick, dressed in his favorite royal blue bathrobe and matching slippers, paced back and forth in the spacious living room of his Chicago penthouse. Before he retired for the night, he finished reviewing the final contract details for the construction of a large shopping mall to be awarded to his firm. Once again, Harry reveled in the wonderfully warm feeling of success whenever he won a multi-million dollar contract. He and his firm had won many large contracts over the years. He rewarded himself with a favorite nightcap, Jack Daniels on the rocks. He swished the drink around, enjoying, as always, the special sound of ice cubes clinking against the glass. Damn, there he was, seventy-seven-years-old, but he never got tired of coming out on top!
He opened the drapes to reveal his favorite, always hypnotic, view of Chicago’s skyline at night. He sipped his drink again, smiled, and enjoyed being alive.
The phone rang. Harry sensed that any call to his residence that late at night would not be good news.
”Chaddick here.”
“It’s Fred. Sit down, Harry, we have a serious problem. Elaine has been kidnapped.”
“Whaaat? What the hell happened, Fred?”
Rozelle recited Rita’s version of Elaine’s abduction and added, “They want a million dollars ransom for her. The kidnapper warned Rita if you call the police, Elaine will be killed.”
Lightheaded, Harry sat. His mind went blank, he couldn’t speak.
“The kidnapper wants you back here in Palm Springs by tomorrow. Harry? Harry, you there?”
“I’m here, trying to think, don’t know, I don’t think...give me a minute.” He put his drink down and tried to absorb what he had just heard, to review the elements of the problem and find a solution, just as he did every business day. This was different; it was out of his world.
“Fred, I really have no choice. Call Chief Kendall at the Palm Springs Police Department. He’s a member of the club. Tell him what happened. I’ll arrange to get on the next flight out. I’ll call you with the flight details.”
“Okay, Harry, I’ll be here for you.”
Harry hung up, tossed the rest of his drink into the kitchen sink and called American Airlines. He was able to book the next available flight leaving O’Hare at seven a.m. He shuffled, zombie-like, into the master bedroom, stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling, feeling a dull sense of helplessness. Good God, his poor Elaine. What should he do now? Harry cried out loud for the first time since he was five years old.
* * *
In Palm Springs, the law enforcement machinery was activated immediately after Fred Rozelle reported the kidnapping. Chief Tom Kendall dialed the number of the FBI’s Palm Springs Resident Agency, a Los Angeles Division sub-office. The Senior Resident Agent answered, “Special Agent Hinderliter.”
“Tom Kendall, Ted.”
“How’s your game going, Tom? You beat me by four strokes last ti...”
“Ted, hold on, stop. We have a kidnapping.”
“A what? Here? Who? Okay, I’m ready to copy. Go ahead.”
“Victim, Elaine Chaddick, c-h-a-d-d-i-c-k, wife of tennis club owner, Harry Chaddick, was abducted around five o’clock this afternoon by a heavy-set white male with a full beard. Mr. Chaddick, wealthy guy, is in Chicago right now. The kidnapper is demanding a one-million-dollar ransom. That’s all I know right now. I have a couple of my detectives interviewing the maid at the Chaddick residence. Ted, we need you over here at the station, ASAP. We’re going to need all the help we can get from the FBI.”
“I’ll be there after I alert our headquarters in L.A. See you in twenty, thirty minutes max. We have to keep this away from the media.”
“Damn right we do!”
“Okay, see you in a few.”
Agent Hinderliter hung up and dialed the Los Angeles FBI division which occupied the top four floors of the imposing seventeen-story federal building at 11000 Wilshire Boulevard, Los Angeles.
A husky-voiced male answered, “FBI Los Angeles, Special Agent Jim Nelson speaking. How may I help you?”
“Jim, Ted Hinderliter, Palm Springs RA. We have a kidnapping here.”
“Okay, I’m ready to copy, go ahead.”
“All we know so far is the victim is Elaine Chaddick, spelled c-h-a-d-d-i-c-k. She’s the wife of Harry Chaddick, owner of the Palm Springs Tennis Club.
“Chief Tom Kendall, Palm Springs PD, reported she was abducted around five this afternoon by a heavy-set white male with a full beard. The ransom demand is one million dollars. Call Pete Nordstrom, Supervisor of the Major Case Squad. Tell him to round up his people and be ready to head out here. I can be reached at the Palm Springs PD station.”
“I have their number. Ted, I’ll be on duty until midnight. Any way I can help, you have it.”
“Thanks. Assign the case to Jack Warden and call SAC Clough. I know he’ll want to be out here on the scene. He may be out making a speech, but call his home number anyway and track him down.”
“Okay, got it.”
CHAPTER 3
I arrived at my home in Westlake Village, California, tired and ready to relax with a cocktail and a swim in the pool. It had been a busy day, most of which had been spent brainstorming with my Foreign Counterintelligence (FCI) supervisors. The day had been productive but now I just wanted to unwind.
I opened our front door and was greeted by the voice of my wife, Annjane, calling from the kitchen. “Your office is on the line, Herb. They say it’s important.”
No surprise there; the office wouldn’t bother me at home unless it was important.
“Hello, Herb Clough.”
“Boss, this is the duty agent, Jim Nelson. We have a kidnapping in Palm Springs.”
“Give me the details, Jim.”
Nelson recited the known details, which I hastily jotted down on a yellow, lined pad.
“Who have you called on this?”
“Pete Nordstrom, Sir. Gave him everything we know so far. Told him SRA Hinderliter suggested he muster his Major Case Squad and be ready to deploy to Palm Springs. Ted wanted the case to be assigned to Jack Warden.”
“Yes, Warden’s a seasoned pro. Have you called Bureau Headquarters?”
“Not yet, I thought you should know what’s happening first.”
“Good thinking, Jim. Take notes. This is what I want you to do — in this order: Call Nordstrom — tell him I want him and as many of his people as he can round up quickly to head out to Palm Springs immediately. The stragglers can catch up.
“Next, call the Bureau and give them the known details. Tell them that I, along with Major Case Supervisor Nordstrom and his thirty-five agents are en route to the scene. Ask them to conduct an immediate, thorough record search on Harry and Elaine Chaddick and send us a teletype summary of everything significant that they have in the files, ASAP. Call in the midnight-to-eight duty agent now to help you prepare teletypes and whatever else you need."
"Is there anything else, sir?"
"Yes, I want you to stay on duty through the night, Jim. I like the way you're handling this."
"Thanks, Mr. Clough. I'll be here."
* * *
I told Annjane, “There’s been a kidnapping in Palm Springs. I’m going to have to head out there.”
“Naturally. I’ll get your suitcase.”
I changed clothes and was packed in fifteen minutes. I gave Annjane a quick peck on the cheek and said, "I'll see you when I see you," a phrase familiar to most FBI agents and their wives.
CHAPTER 4
En route to Palm Springs, I drove "LA-1," my 1979 black Pontiac FBI car, as fast as traffic would allow. I wondered if this kidnapping case might be the last major case of my career since I was approaching the mandatory retirement age of fifty-five. Where had the years gone?
I loved the FBI and FBI people and was thankful to have been lucky enough to be appointed as a special agent in 1951. I vividly recalled the providential circumstances involved with that appointment.
On New Year’s Eve, 1950, my wife and I were enjoying the warm camaraderie of our New Dorp High school Class of 1944 “gang” at a friend’s party in Staten Island, New York. I was enjoying singing barbershop quartet songs in the kitchen with high school buddies, Bill(Coxie) Cobb, Burgis Coates, Phil Burghart, Jack Monroe and Dick Nelson. At about fifteen minutes to 1951, the sounds of chatter and laughter from the living room stopped abruptly. Someone called out, "Herb, the FBI is here to see you!"
FBI Special Agent Fred Daley, who was assigned to the New York Office's Staten Island Resident Agency, stood in the entryway, heavy snowflakes swirling in from behind him. I invited Agent Daley in and the curious partygoers gathered around.
"Is this a raid?" someone asked only half-jokingly. The gang laughed nervously.
Daley handed me a yellow Western Union telegram and said, "Congratulations, Mr. Clough, you've been accepted into the FBI. This is from Director J. Edgar Hoover. You start FBI training in Washington, D.C. on February 12th.”
I grinned broadly, yelled “Oh yeah!” and pumped Daley’s outstretched hand.
“Welcome to the Bureau, Herb.”
The gang showered me with congratulations and best wishes and the place went wild. I recalled saying to Agent Daley, “I'd be honored if you'd have a drink with us to celebrate the New Year and my good fortune. Would you?"
Daley shook his head. “I’d like that very much, but I’m on duty.”
“Do you have any more telegrams to deliver?”
He hesitated. "No, yours is the only one."
I spread my arms apart, palms up and asked, "Well, doesn't that mean you’re off duty?”
Agent Daley smiled broadly. "Okay, I guess I'm off duty. I’ll have a bourbon and water, please.” He then joined in with the gang, celebrating at the stroke of midnight, with a sweet cacophony of horns blowing, noisemakers, laughter, hugs, kisses, and sincere best wishes for the new year, 1951.
I remembered feeling a warm, visceral pride that night, a palpable confidence that my life was about to take on new meaning — service to the FBI and my country.
CHAPTER 5
As I sped past West Covina on Interstate 10, my memories turned to past kidnapping cases in which I’d participated, and the valuable, on the scene, lessons I learned. I knew that kidnappings were the most emotionally involved cases investigated by law enforcement. While each case is unique, the FBI's priority goal remained constant — the safe return of the victim to his or her family.
Contrary to media writers’ claims of widespread institutional conflict, there was rarely a problem of investigative jurisdiction between the FBI and state or local police in kidnapping cases. Following the historic 1932 Lindbergh baby abduction and murder, Congress adopted a federal kidnapping statute, popularly known as the Lindbergh law.
Congress believed that the FBI could more effectively deal with kidnapping cases because of their ability to operate across state lines. The act contains a twenty-four-hour presumptive clause, meaning it is presumed that the victim has been taken across state lines twenty-four hours after the abduction, thereby allowing the FBI to assume investigative authority. However, many years of practical experience taught law enforcement that kidnapping investigations are far more effectively conducted when the FBI is brought in immediately after the abduction and the agencies work together.
I had previously inspected the Palm Springs Resident Agency and met with law enforcement officials and officers in business and social settings. Based on conversations with them, it was clear to me that the Palm Springs-based agents were highly respected, well-liked and considered an essential component of the area's law enforcement community.
I drove off the I-10 freeway east onto Highway 111 toward the Palm Springs police department station, confident that my agents and I would be welcomed by Chief Kendall and his aides.
Usually, when law enforcement officers got together, there was a great deal of good-natured kidding and joking around. Not so at this meeting. It was a somber group, all business.
The FBI was warmly welcomed. In fact, at the outset of the meeting, Chief Kendall quickly suggested that, in view of the FBI's manpower, resources and experience, the Bureau should be in charge from the outset of the investigation with whatever assistance the police could provide.
All agreed that every effort would be made to prevent leaks to the media regarding Elaine Chaddick's abduction. We feared that if the media found out, the investigation would be critically hampered. The revelation would dramatically reduce her chances of survival and recovery. Past experience proved that when an unfolding kidnap story was broadcast on national TV and headlined in newspapers, the kidnappers tended to panic. They rarely released the victim on their own volition. Some kidnappers abandoned their victim to their own fate, mostly to die. Some victims were summarily executed.
Assignments were given to the detectives and officers whom the chief could spare to partner with FBI agents. Two senior detectives were assigned to the FBI’s Palm Springs Resident Agency. Chief Kendall would join me whenever he could, but he still had a department to run and a city to protect and serve. The chief would be kept current on the developments and plans involved in the investigation.
The meeting concluded with handshakes all around and “Good luck!” wishes. I chatted for a short time with my agents outside the police station, then drove to the Riviera Hotel where I checked into room 1210. The Riviera was a familiar and hospitable meeting place for many FBI supervisory personnel conferences held there in the past.