The Devil's bed

“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.”

Bo said, “I’d like to talk to Luther Gallagher.”

Ishimaru glanced at her watch. “Not at this hour. Go on home and get some rest. You can check him out tomorrow.” Rosie Mortenson slipped past them and went to her car. Ishimaru took one final look at the empty room. “I admit this is getting curiouser and curiouser, Bo. But we still have no evidence that connects Ableman to Tom Jorgenson’s accident. For that matter, we still have no proof that a crime has been committed.”

“I’ll get the proof.”

“Get it tomorrow, Bo. Tonight, get some sleep.”