a degree in law enforcement at Metropolitan State University. He had experience as an EMT and held a brown belt in tae kwon do. Hearing these things reassured Bo. O’Meara showed him all the possible routes to Jorgenson’s floor. These included four public elevators, a freight elevator, and the stairs. The guard explained, as had Burke, that once the main doors were locked at ten-thirty, the only public entrance was through the E.R. Security personnel there barred unauthorized access to the rest of the hospital.
“Any other doors?” Bo asked.
“Four emergency exits. They’re all secured against outside entry and have alarms. There’s the loading dock. We lock those doors every afternoon at five. And then we go through the tunnel to the laundry and lock up there.”
“Tunnel?”
“The laundry’s in a separate building connected through a tunnel.”
“Mind showing me?”
They descended to the basement and followed a corridor that brought them to an old, gated elevator. Laundry carts fitted with canvas bags were parked on either side of the elevator door. Bo and O’Meara took the elevator up a floor to the main laundry room, which was large and lined with industrial washers and dryers. Long tables were set in the middle for folding linen. Except for a man working on a pile of linen at one of the tables, the place was empty. The room felt stifling from the heat that had been generated during the day by the big machines. Classical music poured from a boom box on the table where the man folded linen. Bo spotted the exit door to the laundry, walked to it, and swung it open. The door led out to a small parking lot. Although the August afternoon was hot, the outside air felt cool compared to what lay trapped in the laundry.
“You say you lock up at five?”
“That’s right,” O’Meara confirmed.
“What happens if this door is opened after it’s been locked?”
“An alarm goes off. Unless it’s been disabled there.” He pointed at the wall, to a metal plate and switch labeledALARM.
Bo pulled the door closed. It was only four o’clock, and O’Meara made no move to lock up yet.
“The laundry staff has left for the day?”
“They’re off at three. Only one here is that man, Max Ableman. He’s the whole night shift.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“Hey, Max!” O’Meara called out.
The man seemed to notice them for the first time. He paused in his work and eyed them, but he made no move to come their way. Bo walked to him. O’Meara followed.
“Locking up already?” Max Ableman asked.
He was of average height and build, but Bo could see that his body was taut and muscular. He had thinning blond hair. His voice was gentle, feathery.
“No,” O’Meara replied. “Just showing Agent Thorsen around. He’s Secret Service.”
Ableman nodded.
“Nice music,” Bo said. “Debussy?”
Ableman shrugged. “It’s quiet. That’s all I care about.”
“Mr. Ableman, after the doors are locked, do you ever step outside? For a smoke, say?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Fresh air then? Maybe leave the door open for a while?”
“Never.”
“You don’t think it’s hot in here?”
“You get used to it.”
“I suppose,” Bo allowed, although the man had rolled the sleeves of his T-shirt all the way up to his shoulders.
“Haven’t seen you for a couple of days,” O’Meara said in a friendly way.
“Flu,” Ableman replied. He didn’t seem interested in offering them anything further, but neither did he seem concerned that they’d disturbed his solitude.
“Thank you for your time,” Bo said. He turned and headed away with O’Meara. “Those scars on his upper arms, any idea what they’re about?”
“I don’t know,” O’Meara replied. “He’s new, just started a few weeks ago, and he never talks much. Maybe he was in the military or something.”
“And what’s with the sunglasses?”
“He’s ultrasensitive to sunlight, as I understand it. That’s why he works the night shift.”
chapter
ten
It was an evening affair, the kind the president loved.
Before dinner, the Texas Panhandlers performed some fancy clogging for Clay Dixon and the guests assembled in the East Room of the White House. Then the president made a brief speech about preserving the heritage of the nation’s folk traditions. The meal itself, served in the State Dining Room, paid homage to American cooking-fried chicken, mesquite barbecued ribs, corn on the cob, collard greens, corn bread, and watermelon. Afterward, the Dixie Maids played some lively bluegrass, and Clay Dixon asked if he could join them. He borrowed a banjo and sat next to a black-haired fiddle player. She worked her bow with a vengeance, and his own fingers danced. The guests of the White House enjoyed an old-fashioned hoedown, and they gave the president an exploding round of applause while the cameras of the press corps flashed like fireworks. D. C. Dixon was in his element and had the world by the balls.
When it was over, he approached the senior senator from Colorado, who sat at the banquet table with the president’s daughter leaning against him. Stephanie’s eyes were closed, and she appeared to be asleep. The senator said, “She’s dead tired. Long past this young lady’s bedtime. Be glad to give a hand, Clay.”
“I’ll take care of it,” the president said.
“After that, I’d like a word with you.”
Dixon nodded. “In my study.” He eased his daughter upright. “Time for bed, kiddo.” He lifted her and she laid her head on his shoulder. He carried her upstairs and helped her shrug off her dress and put on her pajamas. He pulled the covers over her.
“Read,” she murmured, though she could barely keep her eyes open.
Dixon kissed her softly and said, “Tomorrow. Go to sleep, sweetheart.”
He waited until her breathing was regular, then he tiptoed out and went to his study. The senator was waiting for him.
Senator William Dixon walked with a cane, a necessity due to injuries sustained during the Second World War. He’d been a hero. A bona fide hero with an array of medals to prove it. On his next birthday he would be seventy-eight and, God and the electorate willing, into his eighth term in the Senate. He was tall and lean and, with the help of his cane, stood straight. His linen suit, wrinkled from sitting at the banquet, smelled of cigar smoke.
Clay Dixon asked, “Care for a brandy, Dad?”
“Supposed to be on the wagon. Doctor’s orders. Supposed to be off cigars, too.”
“I never knew you to be a man who paid much attention to what someone else said you should do.” The president handed his father a snifter and poured one for himself. “What’s on your mind?”
“Same thing that’s on everybody’s mind. Kate.” Dixon swirled his brandy and eyed his son sternly. “You and I haven’t always seen eye to eye. Especially about that girl.”
“Woman, Dad.”
“Girl, woman. All trouble.” He spoke with a broad accent that hinted at Oklahoma, where he’d been born and raised before he migrated to the cattle country of southern Colorado. His speech was slow and deliberate, a pacing
