click. Nothing did.
He turned his attention to the big safe, which occupied a whole corner of the room. It was a Wilson, bolted securely to the floor, and locked. “Do you know the combination?”
“No,” Channing said. “Maybe Dorothy does.”
She stepped outside and returned a minute later.
“Aside from Lee, only Ned Shackleford and John Llewellyn know the combination. I’d rather not alert them to what’s going on.”
Bo sat in the chair at Lee’s big desk, made a steeple of his fingers, and thought for a while. He looked at the family portrait and considered how Lee’s death hadn’t just robbed a man of his life. It had destroyed the lives of those who loved him as well.
He looked at the photo of Lee with his beloved sailboat and recalled the documents and reports he’d gone through that dealt with the investigation of what had happened on the inlet of Choptank River. He nodded to the computer.
“TryGryphon,”he said, and spelled it out.
“Gryphon?”
“It’s a mythical animal. Body and hind legs of a lion, head and wings of an eagle.”
Lorna Channing stepped to the keyboard and typed. “We’re in,” she said. “How did you know?”
“It’s the name of his boat.”
First Channing did a search for files whose label names contained the wordsWilliam Dixon. There were none. Next she searched for files that containedWilliam Dixonin the text. There were several dozen.
“This could take a while,” she said.
“Try files created since the president put Lee on the senator’s tail.”
There was only one, a file labeledW. D. Schedule.
“Let’s see what it is,” Bo said.
A document several pages in length came up. The upper right-hand corner of each page contained the notationWilliam Dixon.
Bo said, “What do you make of it?”
Channing looked the pages over. “I’d say they’re Senator Dixon’s daily schedules. Meeting agendas, appointments. They don’t look like much.”
“Sometimes important things don’t. Let’s print it out.”
When the printer had finished, Bo gathered the pages. “I’ll take these and see if I can make anything of them. Are you sure you don’t want to contact Shackleford or Llewellyn about the safe?”
Channing shook her head. “The fewer eyebrows we raise around here, the better.”
It was nearing seven-thirty when he returned to his hotel. He hadn’t eaten since he’d lunched with the president, and he was hungry. He ordered a chicken Caesar from room service, and while he waited for his food, he took a careful look at the documents he’d taken.
On the surface, the information provided seemed pretty mundane. As Lorna Channing had surmised, they were simply the daily schedules for Senator William Dixon over a period of three days. They began the day after the president had asked Lee to look into the activities of his father, and they ended Friday, the day before Lee was killed. They didn’t appear to be formal schedules, the kind Dixon’s office might prepare, but had been created, perhaps, from the information such schedules might provide. Bo scanned the list of appointments and meetings. The senator seemed to be very conscientious in greeting his visiting constituents. A substantial portion of each morning was dedicated to this. The senator also met with several lobbyists every day. He attended committee hearings. He had physical therapy sessions, and an appointment with his dentist. There was one meeting Bo couldn’t quite decipher. It was simply noted as “NOMan. 3:00P.M.-5:00P.M.” Apparently Robert Lee had had trouble with this one as well. Parenthetically, to the side, he’d queried, “(National Operations Management?).” For some reason, the name rang a bell with Bo, but he couldn’t quite place it. He made a note to check what the hell NOMan was.
By the time he finished his dinner, he’d gone over the pages of scheduling several times. Nothing of particular importance leaped out at him. Still, he hoped there was something he was missing.
Bo knew what his next move should be, but he was reluctant to do it. He should check Robert Lee’s home for anything he might have left there. However, Lee was to be buried the next day, and Bo didn’t want to intrude on the family’s preparations, nor did he particularly relish the thought of wading into all that grief. On the other hand, if the family knew the concern, they’d probably want him to pursue his investigation with all due speed and thoroughness. Or that’s what he told himself, anyway.
He called the White House and was connected with Lorna Channing. Because of the uncertainty about the integrity of White House phone communications, she and Bo had agreed to exchange information only when they met in person. Bo didn’t explain what he’d found on the computer, but he was clear about what he now needed. Channing agreed to help.
• • •
Robert Lee’s home was outside Alexandria, along the south bank of the Potomac, in an area where the houses were big, mostly brick, with yards the size of football fields, and surrounded by stately trees that had probably been around when the British still ran things. Several cars sat parked in the drive when Bo pulled up. He walked a long sidewalk to the house. The door had a black wreath hung on it. Night had come. The wide porch was lit by a fixture styled like an old gas lantern. Moths bumped against the glass. Bo rang the bell.
A white-haired man answered the door. He wore a black knit shirt and black slacks. His face wore a black expression.
“Yes?”
“I’m Special Agent Bo Thorsen. Secret Service.” He held open his ID.
The man looked at him blankly. “What do you want, Agent Thorsen?”
“I understood the White House would call about my visit.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Grandpa.” A kid, maybe seventeen, stepped up beside the older man. He had brown hair and brown eyes, like Robert Lee. Under other circumstances, he might have had Bobby Lee’s famous smile as well. Bo recognized him from the family portrait on Lee’s desk in the West Wing. “Mom got a call. She knows someone’s supposed to be coming to get some things from Dad’s office. She said to let them in.”
“Oh.” The man stepped back and allowed Bo to enter. “Can we handle this without disturbing my daughter? She’s upset. Understandably so.”
“Of course,” Bo said.
“Nick, will you show this gentleman to your father’s office.”
The young man nodded. “Follow me.”
Bo went with him down a hallway that led past the living room, where several people sat talking quietly. They glanced up at Bo as he passed. Their expressions seemed to ask what he was doing intruding in this stricken home. He followed the kid named Nick to a large room at the back of the house. Nick stepped inside, and Bo came in after him.
“This is Dad’s office,” Nick said. He looked down. “Was.”
It appeared to be a combination study and den. A desk, a computer, two file cabinets, a few shelves of books. There was also a twenty-seven-inch television, a compact refrigerator, a small bar, and a gas fireplace. The wormwood paneling was hung with lots of photographs. Bo saw that several of them were of Robert Lee, sailing. In some, he was alone, but most included his sons, and in a few, his wife was with him.
“You all sail?” Bo asked.
“Mostly Dad, Cal, and me. Mom sometimes gets seasick,” Nick said.
“But you didn’t sail Saturday.”
“No.” Nick shook his head. He gazed out one of the windows. “I got a job working in a summer camp in the Blue Ridge. Cal works there, too.” He nodded toward a picture that included a kid slightly younger than Nick, and a little stockier. “This summer, Dad sailed alone most of the time.”
Bo could tell it ate at Nick. He’d probably been telling himself if only he’d stayed back, gone sailing with his father, this never would have happened. Kids took a lot of useless blame on their shoulders. Bo knew that.
