The Devil's bed

chapter
thirty-five

Bo pulled up to the northwest gate of the White House at 6:00P.M. The Uniformed Division officer on duty checked him through. Bo drove to the West Wing, where Lorna Channing awaited him.

They’d agreed that it might be best for Bo to conduct whatever investigation he felt was necessary within the White House in the evening when many of the staff had gone home for the day. Even so, there seemed to be an enormous amount of activity in the West Wing.

Bo knew the White House employed more than 1,600 personnel. He’d heard it described as a small kingdom made up of innumerable fiefdoms, each with its own rules and ruler. Within such a setting, he could easily imagine intrigues. As he and Channing proceeded to the second floor, Bo caught glances directed his way. Eyes latched onto him and held in a way that made him feel exposed. How secret was his mission, he wondered.

Upstairs, Channing paused at a modest outer office. “Working late, Dorothy,” she said to the secretary there.

The nameplate on the desk said D. DELVITTO. She was a small woman, and when she glanced up from her computer screen, she looked tired. “There’s so much to do these days.” She gave Bo a quick once-over.

“I’m picking up some items from Bob’s office,” Channing said.

Dorothy Delvitto nodded somberly. “The president left word you’d be dropping by.”

Channing led the way inside and Bo followed, closing the door behind them.

He stood in the middle of the room. He didn’t know where to begin, so for a moment he simply tried to take in the place, hoping to get a feel for how Robert Lee might have worked, how he might have organized himself, where he might have put certain things. All of which would have been easier if Bo had the slightest idea what he was looking for.

Lee was a neat man. The office was clean and orderly. There were shelves of books dealing with law and with congressional issues, several filing cabinets, and near the window, a hutch with a computer, monitor, and printer. In one corner sat a large safe. A big desk was central and, except for a couple of neat stacks of papers, was free of clutter. To the left on the desktop, set in a gold frame, was a photograph of Lee standing proudly beside his docked sailboat. Another photograph, in a much larger frame, occupied a place to the right. This one was a family portrait, Lee and his wife flanked by two sons who very much resembled their father. They all looked happy with life and with one another.

“Where do we begin?” Lorna Channing asked.

“Let’s see what he’s got on his desk.”

Bo began by checking the stacks of papers. Memoranda, mostly, composed but lacking Lee’s signature initials. Not sent? Nothing of their content leaped out at Bo as significant to his purpose. Channing shook her head as well.

They went carefully through the desk drawers and drew a blank there.

“The computer?” Lorna Channing said.

Bo went to the hutch and turned on the PC. It booted and asked for a password. Bo looked at Channing, who just shrugged her shoulders.

“Ask Ms. Delvitto if she knows,” he said.

When she came back, she said,“Maggie.”

Lee’s wife. It made sense. Bo typed in the name, but was denied access.

“He must have changed it without telling his secretary.”

“I wonder when,” Channing said. “And why.”

Bo sat back a moment. “What are his sons’ names?”

“Nick and Cal.”

Bo tried them both, then Nicholas and Calvin. No luck.

“Any pets?”

“Not that I know of.”

“All right,” Bo said. “Let’s check the file cabinets.”

He abandoned the computer and, with Channing, went through the cabinets, drawer after drawer. He didn’t hope to stumble across anything marked as obviously asSenator Dixon’s Conspiracy, but he hoped something might 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.

“The boat your father was sailing. Is it a big boat?”

“A twenty-six-foot Seaward. It’s not exactly a yacht but it’s a handful.”

“Is it hard to sail alone?” Bo asked.

“For me, yeah. But not Dad.”

“I don’t know about sailing, Nick. Your father’s accident, does that kind of thing happen a lot?”

“Not to sailors like him.”

Bo glanced around the room again. “Look, Nick, I wonder if I could be alone here for a while.”

Nick thought about it and nodded. “I’ll be down the hall.”

Bo checked the desk. It was neat, no stacks of paper, only a few letters that looked like they were awaiting Robert Lee’s reply. He opened the drawers, then checked the file cabinet. He considered the computer, wondering about files Lee might have created. Going there would be time-consuming and intrusive. He went to the door. Nick stood down the hallway. When he saw Bo, he returned.

“Find what you were looking for?” Nick asked.

“Not yet. I may have to get into the computer. Do you know the password?”

“Yes.”

Bo didn’t want to go there if he didn’t have to. “Nick, is this where your father did all his office work when he was home?”

“His paperwork. If he was thinking about something, usually he’d go out to the greenhouse and goof around. He’s got a board out there that he writes stuff on.”

Bo thought about it. It would be easier than scanning computer files. “Could I see the greenhouse?”

“Sure. This way.”

They went out a sliding door in the study. The back lawn was large. Bo could feel the sweep of the Potomac somewhere in the dark beyond it. There was a swimming pool, a garden, and the greenhouse. Inside the greenhouse, the heat and the humidity of the night became oppressive. There were rows of long planter boxes that held flowers, exotic-looking things.

“Dad loved raising orchids and tropical flowers,” Nick said. “It seemed boring to me, but I guess he found it relaxing.” Nick touched one of the boxes. “Safer than sailing anyway.”

On a wall near the door was a large chalkboard, full of scribbling. Nick pointed toward it.

“That was Dad’s notebook. If he thought of something out here, he’d chalk it up there. If he couldn’t find a place, he’d just erase enough other stuff to fit it in.”

It was a mix of information. Telephone numbers, some with identifying names, some just floating. Snippets of thought. Get clear on Snyder-Brookins bill. Cryptic things. A quote Bo recognized from John Donne. No man is an island. There was a drawing of a horse. Or maybe it was a dog. Lee was no artist. Written small, down in one corner, was the name Dixon. It was not identified as Clay or William. Just Dixon. Bo wondered if there was something somewhere on the board that connected with the name.

He was sweating in the humid heat, and he took off his blazer. He pulled out a pen and a notepad from the inside pocket and began to write everything down that was on the chalkboard, noting where in relation to everything else it was. He wrote quickly, but carefully, while Nick stood quietly and watched him.

As Bo began to write the Donne quote, he realized he’d made a mistake when he first read it. It didn’t say, No man is an island. It said, NOMan is an island.

NOMan. National Operations Management. Bo felt as if he’d finally found something he could hold on to. He finished recording everything from the chalkboard, then he put his pen and notepad away.

“Thanks, Nick. I think I have what I need.”

Nick saw him to the front yard, skirting a trip through the house. Bo appreciated that. On the front walk, Bo asked, “The inlet where the accident happened, do you know it?”

“Sure. It was one of Dad’s favorite places. He usually ended his day’s sail there so he could watch the bald eagles. He liked it because there’s almost never any other boats around. He liked having the water and the eagles to himself.”

An isolated place Robert Lee was known to frequent. It violated the most basic rules of protection.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Bo said.

“Thank you.”

He shook the young man’s hand. Because there was nothing more he could offer, and nothing more he needed, he turned away and headed to his car.