“I’m interested in the security here at night.”
“You’re looking at the security here at night. Half of it, anyway.”
Bo already knew from the contingency reports that two security officers in the hospital after hours was SOP. “Do you patrol?”
“We rotate. Here two hours, patrol two hours.”
“You lock the front doors at ten-thirty?”
“Yeah. Then the only public access is through the E.R. We move to a desk down there.”
“Your shift ends at eleven-thirty?”
“Graveyard comes on then.”
“Contact your partner and bring him down here. I’d like to talk to you both about security while the First Lady’s here.”
“They already talked to us about that. Plenty.”
“I’d like to go over a couple more items.”
With an obvious effort, C. J. Burke closed the newspaper on his desk and reached to the walkie-talkie lying there. He raised his partner and passed along Bo’s request. In less than three minutes, Randy O’Meara strode briskly out of the elevator and approached them. Bo was relieved to see that at least one of the men took the job seriously. O’Meara was big and broad shouldered, midtwenties. He had brown hair, neatly trimmed. His uniform was pressed, and his shoes were polished.
“This is Agent Thorsen, Randy. More Secret Service,” Burke said.
O’Meara brought out a nice smile and offered Bo a firm handshake. “How do you do?”
“Good, thanks.”
“What can I do for you?”
“He wants to talk about security for the First Lady,” Burke said without enthusiasm.
“Not really,” Bo told him.
“I thought you just said-”
“It’s not the First Lady I’m concerned about here. It’s Tom Jorgenson. I’d like to make a few suggestions.”
“Go ahead,” O’Meara said.
“First, I’d like to suggest you do the rounds tonight without rotating with Burke.”
O’Meara glanced at his partner. “Why?”
“Someone needs to be able to make a consistent assessment of the security of the hospital, particularly the floor where Jorgenson’s room is located. Rotating might cause you to lose that perspective.”
O’Meara shifted on his feet and hooked his thumbs into his belt. “What exactly are you worried about?”
“I’m concerned about Tom Jorgenson’s vulnerability. Some people don’t feel about him the way most of us Minnesotans do.”
“You think somebody might try to hurt him?”
“I’d just like to make sure that security in the hospital is as good as it can be.”
“We’ll do whatever we can,” O’Meara promised.
“I’d also like to suggest varying your rounds. Don’t keep to the same routine.”
“Because that would make it easier to plan something?”
“Exactly.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Bo looked at Burke, who hadn’t bothered to rise from his seat. “Are you okay with this?”
He shrugged. “Randy’s the one whose feet are going to get tired.”
Bo turned again to O’Meara. “Would you mind showing me around?”
“My pleasure. What would you like to see?”
“Let’s start with Tom Jorgenson’s floor.”
• • •
As they walked, O’Meara explained that he worked the night shift because he was taking day classes toward 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.