and filing cabinets and shelves loaded with three-ring binders
and piles of loose memos. There was a portrait of the current
President on the wall and a furled Stars and Stripes in a corner.
A coat rack next to the flag. Nothing else. Everything was
tidy. Nothing was out of place. Behind the secretary’s desk was
the fire exit. It was a stout door with an acetate plaque showing
a green man running. Above the exit was a surveillance camera.
It stared forward like an unblinking glass eye. Opposite the
secretarial station was a single blank door. It was closed.
‘Stuyvesant’s office,’ Froelich said.
She opened the door and led them inside. Flicked a switch
and bright halogen light filled the room. It was a reasonably
small office. Smaller than the square anteroom outside it. There
was a window, with white fabric blinds closed against the night.
‘Does the window open?’ Neagley asked.
‘No,’ Froelich said. ‘And it faces Pennsylvania Avenue, anyway.
Some burglar climbs up three floors on a rope, somebody’s
going to notice, believe me.’
The office was dominated by a huge desk with a grey composite
top. It was completely empty. There was a leather chair
pushed exactly square against it.
‘Doesn’t he use a phone?’ Reacher asked.
‘Keeps it in the drawer,’ Froelich said. ‘He likes the desktop
clear.’
There were tall cabinets against the wall, faced with the same
grey laminate as the desk. There were two visitor chairs made
of leather. Apart from that, nothing. It was a serene space. It
spoke of a tidy mind.
‘OK,’ Froelich said. ‘he mail threat came on the Monday in
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the week after the election. Then, on the Wednesday evening,
Stuyvesant went home about seven thirty. Left his desk clear.
His secretary left a half-hour later. Popped her head in the door
just before she went, like she always does. She confirms that
the desk was clear. And she’d notice, right? If there was a sheet
of paper on the desk, it would stand out.’
Reacher nodded. The desktop looked like the foredeck of a
battleship made ready for inspection by an admiral. A speck of
dust would have stood out.
‘Eight o’clock Thursday morning, the Secretary comes in
again,’ Froelich said. ‘She walks straight to her own desk and
starts work. Doesn’t open Stuyvesant’s door at all. Ten after
eight, Stuyvesant himself shows up. He’s carrying a briefcase
and wearing a raincoat. He takes off the raincoat and hangs it
up on the coat rack. His secretary speaks to him and he sets his
briefcase upright on her desk and confers with her about something.
Then he opens his door and walks into his office. He’s
not carrying anything. He’s left his briefcase on the secretary’s
desk. About four or five seconds later he comes back out. Calls
his secretary in. They both confirm that at that point, the sheet
of paper was there on the desk.’
Neagley glanced around the office, at the door, at the desk, at
the distance between the door and the desk.
‘Is this just their testimony?’ she asked. ‘Or do the surveillance
cameras record to videotape?’
‘Both,’ Froelich said. ‘All the cameras record to separate
tapes. I’ve looked at this one, and everything happens exactly as
they describe it, coming and going.’
‘So unless they’re in it together, neither of them put the paper
there.’
Froelich nodded. Fhat’s the way I see it.’
‘So who did?’ Reacher asked. ‘What else does the tape show?’
°The cleaning crew,’ Froelich said.
She led them back to her own office and took three video
cassettes out of her desk drawer. Stepped over to a bank of
shelves, where a small Sorry television with a built-in video
nestled between a printer and a fax machine.
Fhese are copies,’ she said. The originals are locked away.
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The recorders work on timers, six hours on each tape. Six in
the morning until noon, noon until six, six until midnight,
midnight until six, and start again.’
She found the remote in a drawer and switched the television
on. Put the first tape in the mechanism. It clicked and whirred
and a dim picture settled on the screen.