“Yeah.”
“You’ll be working with Sheriff Quinn-Gruber. He’s been notified. If any jurisdictional disputes arise, direct them to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It was almost dark. The yard light was on. Ishimaru stood near Bo, and she shook her head. “I don’t like this feeling that I’m authorizing a wild goose chase.”
“Things don’t add up, Diana. Somebody should be finding out why.”
She took a deep breath of resignation. “Keep me posted,” she said as she turned to her car.
Bo went directly from Wildwood to the St. Croix Regional Medical Center. It was 10:30P.M., and a security guard was locking the front doors. Bo flashed his Secret Service ID and was allowed to enter. The guard relocked the doors behind him.
“The First Lady’s not coming tonight, is she?” the guard asked. His name badge read: H. BLOCK.
“No. I’m checking on another matter. Mind if I head down to the laundry?”
“Be my guest. I’m closing up shop here and going down to the E.R. station. If you need me, that’s where I’ll be. My partner’s finishing his rounds.”
Bo took the elevator to the basement and followed the tunnel to the laundry building. The lights were on, but the laundry was deserted. Bo remembered that Ableman made a final trip to gather soiled linen near the end of the shift, so he waited. The laundry seemed a harsh place. The machines were huge, and the fluorescent lights glinted off the metal with a sterile gleam. The linen-folding tables were empty. They reminded Bo of rows of autopsy tables. The ceilings were high and full of pipes. The whole place had a cold industrial feel.
The laundry elevator began to climb from the basement. Bo waited. But it wasn’t Ableman pushing the cart that emerged. This man was older and heavier. He stooped in his labor, and he eyed Bo with a sour look. “Who’re you? What’re you doing here?”
Bo offered his ID. “I’m looking for Max Ableman.”
“Makes two of us.” The man pushed the cart past Bo.
“I thought he worked evenings,” Bo said, following.
“I thought so, too. Guess maybe he thinks different. Didn’t show, didn’t call. If I didn’t need him so bad, I’d fire his ass.” He positioned the cart between two big washers.
“Did you try calling him?”
“Hell, yes. No answer.” He was wearing yellow rubber gloves, and he began to reach into the cart and sort out linen into different machines. Some of it was blue surgical linen heavily bloodstained and still wet. Some of it was bedding, badly soiled. The strong smell of blood and human waste rose from the cart, and Bo could understand why the job was a hard one to hire for and to keep filled.
“Has he pulled this kind of stunt before?” Bo asked.
“He was good for the first month. Lately, he’s called in sick a lot. And tonight he didn’t call at all.” He looked with disgust at the linen in his hands. “Christ, I hate covering for these worthless jokers.”
Bo left the hospital and headed to the Bayport Court. Several cars were parked in the lot, but the old Chevy pickup wasn’t there. Room ten was dark. Bo knocked on the door and got no answer. He walked to the office. The hour was late, but the desk was still occupied. He was surprised by the desk clerk he found on duty. The kid looked to be no more than eighteen, and wore a white Stillwater High football jersey, number 7. There was innocence in his blue eyes and the natural blush of youth and health in his cheeks. He’d been watching a rerun ofSaturday Night Liveon Comedy Central, but he stood up as soon as Bo walked in, and he stepped attentively to the desk.
“You in charge?” Bo asked.
“Yes, sir. Need a room?”
“No thanks.” Bo looked him over, then impressed the kid with his Secret Service ID. “You work here?”
“Not really. My uncle owns it. During the summer, he likes to spend time at his cabin up in Wisconsin, so I help out. I get a little extra money toward tuition, and a hell of an education.” The kid smiled wide, white teeth in a face that could have done milk commercials.
“I’m interested in the man renting number ten. Have you seen him this evening?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Sure. See him head off to work in the afternoon. Don’t see him very often when he comes back. It’s usually pretty late. Times I’ve seen him he’s been covered with dirt. I figure he must work construction somewhere. Maybe roadwork they got going at night, you know.”
“You haven’t seen him today?”
“No, sir.”
Bo glanced back at the lighted walkway that ran in front of the rooms the length of the court. “I’d like to see his room.”
“I don’t know-” the kid began.
“I can have a warrant in a couple of hours, but I’d prefer to see the room sooner. It may well be an issue of national security, son.”
The kid caved easily. He reached into a drawer and drew out a key. “It’ll open every door.”
“Thanks.” Bo started away but turned back and asked, “What does he drive?”
“An old pickup. Green, I think.”
“Hang on a minute,” Bo said. He went to his car, got the faxed photo of Luther Gallagher, and brought it back into the office. “Have you ever seen this man before?”
“No.”
“Never in the company of the man in number ten?”
“No. But then, I’m not here that much.”
Bo unlocked the door of Max Ableman’s room, stepped in, and turned on the light. It looked as if no one had ever been there. The bed was neatly made. Through the opened doorway to the bathroom, Bo saw that the towels hung perfectly folded. He walked to the closet. Empty. He went to his car and punched in Diana Ishimaru’s home phone number. She answered, sounding groggy from sleep.
“Diana, this is Bo. I need a fingerprint technician. Now.”
chapter
sixteen
Clean,” Rosie Mortenson said. “Not a print anywhere. Not even any residuals in the usual places. The bathroom fixtures, the lamp, the doorknobs, the jambs, the television. Christ, even the damn Gideon Bible. They’re all absolutely clean. What does that tell you, Bo?”
“If this were the Hilton, I’d say excellent housekeeping.” Bo shook his head. “He knew what he was doing.”
“I did pull a few prints off the headboard, but they were in a place where someone might grab hold in the throes of passion, if you know what I mean. I’ll run them, but don’t get your hopes up.”
“Thanks, Rosie.”
“I wish I could have been more help.”
“You came out at a god-awful hour, and what you found tells me a lot.”
The fingerprint technician began to pack up her gear. Diana Ishimaru stood in the doorway to room ten, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her jeans, her eyes on the carpeting. “Who is Max Ableman?” she asked, more to herself than to Bo.
“I’ve been asking myself that for a while,” Bo said.
“Do you have a photograph?”
“No. He probably had a picture taken for his hospital ID. I’ll get it first thing in the morning.”
“Let’s contact the Washington County sheriff’s office and have them put out an APB on the pickup.”
