“I did some checking after listening to that recording. The Secret Service had a file on Mark Tipton. He was a good agent. Served with distinction. But he died twenty years ago. His son lives nearby, so we made contact and hit pay dirt.”
She knew what that meant. His chief of staff, Edwin Davis, had done all the checking. “Where is Edwin?”
“Doing me a favor. I’ve worked him pretty hard the past few days.”
“Was he the one who found the recording at Hyde Park?”
“Yep. Can’t draw that hound dog far off the scent.”
“And what favor is he doing for you in the wee hours of the morning?”
“It’s a president thing. He’ll be along soon enough. This with Tipton I have to do alone.”
“Except you’re not alone.”
“I like to include you in the definition of me.”
Only in the privacy of a car, with just the two of them, could words like that be spoken. Never had anything improper occurred between them, but she was looking forward to exploring the possibilities that might lie ahead.
They found the house, downstairs lights burning in several rooms. The man who answered their knock was short with features that clearly belonged to age—gaunt cheeks, coarsened hair, veined hands. But his smile seemed genuine and the eyes were devoid of fatigue.
They introduced themselves.
“I thank you for meeting us at this hour,” the president said. “and on short notice.”
“How often do you have the president of the United States come to your house? It’s an honor.”
“Though you don’t sound overly impressed,” Danny said.
“I’m an old man, Mr. President, who’s seen and heard a lot. My father protected presidents nearly all his life. I don’t impress much anymore. Lucky for you, though, I’ve always been a night person. Never did sleep much. My father was the same.”
Inside, Stephanie caught a warm, homey feel from dark wooden floors, worn furniture, and frayed rugs. Lots of framed photographs adorned the tables and mantel. Not a computer or cell phone in sight, though, only a flat-screen TV. But there were lots of books on shelves and four lay stacked on a table beside Tipton’s recliner. Apparently this man was a bit old-fashioned.
They sat in a dimly lit den.
Tipton crept to his chair with a broken-kneed gait. “When your chief of staff appeared at my doorstep yesterday, I really wasn’t all that shocked. My father said it might happen one day.”
“Your father seems like a smart guy.”
“He served Hoover, Roosevelt, and Truman. He was really close, though, with Roosevelt. Being crippled, FDR always needed someone to do things for him.”
She got it. Things that should not see the light of day. “We heard the recording, where your father and FDR spoke in the Oval Office.”
“Mr. Davis, yesterday, allowed me to hear it, too. I assume that’s why we’re talking now.”
They sat silent for a moment.
“You were right at the door, Mr. President,” Tipton said. “I didn’t vote for you, either time.”
Danny shrugged. “That’s your call. It doesn’t bother me.”
Tipton smiled. “But I do have to say, you turned out to be a pretty decent guy.”
“My time’s about over.”
“That happens. Presidents come and go.”
“But civil servants stay on, right?”
“It’s what my father used to say.”
“Why didn’t you want to talk at the White House?” Danny asked.
The older man shrugged. “My father told me that if anyone ever wanted to discuss this, do it in private. I doubt anything that goes on at the White House is ever private.”
“It is the proverbial fishbowl.”
“Do you know what happened the day Roosevelt died?” Tipton asked. “April 12, 1945.”
“Just what I’ve read in the history books.”
“There are things you won’t find in those books. Things only the people there that day knew. FDR was in Georgia, at Warm Springs, for a few weeks of rest. My father was with him.”
Mark Tipton watched as Dr. Bruenn finished his daily examination of the president and asked his patient, “How do you feel today?”
“Other than a slightly sore neck, a bit better than usual.”
Roosevelt actually looked better than he had a few days ago. Less fatigued. More color to his pallid hue, which of late stayed sickly, drained of all blood and strength. But the cheeks remained collapsed, the weight loss continuing. He probably topped off at barely 150 pounds.
“I’ll make my usual report to the White House,” Bruenn said.
“Tell them I’m not dead yet.”
And the president added one of his trademark smiles.
But everyone knew FDR was slowly slipping away and no earthly power could stop that. Bruenn, a navy cardiologist, had quietly said yesterday, outside the president’s hearing, that the heart, lungs, and kidneys were all failing. Blood pressure stayed off the charts. A stroke was a near certainty. But still the illusion was maintained. Fatigue was the diagnosis both Roosevelt and the country were told. Nothing that a little rest would not cure. But Tipton knew they were fooling no one, especially Roosevelt. He’d been with the man long enough to notice the telltale signs. Like of late, when the president ventured out, the cordial waves to well-wishers had become uncharacteristically weak. Sometimes they were nonexistent. Never in the past had FDR ignored the public. And on this trip the president had conspicuously avoided heading to the nearby rehabilitation center’s warm pool for a swim, which had always brought him joy.
Bruenn left and Roosevelt reached for a cigarette, slipping it into the holder clenched between his teeth. The president found some matches and lit one, but his hand shook uncontrollably. So much that he was unable to connect the flame to the end. Tipton wanted to help, but knew better. That was not allowed. He watched as Roosevelt slid open the drawer of the desk before him and rested his elbow inside, then partially closed it, which helped secure a firm hold on the hand. The tremors had definitely grown worse.