There were faster ways for Dr. Stewart Palmiotti to get to work. As the President’s doctor, he had a prime parking spot on West Exec. Not a far one either. Up close. Closer even than the spot reserved for Minnie. And Minnie was the President’s sister.
From there, it was just a short walk through the West Wing. There was no need to take the long way around and walk past the Oval. But after that call last night… Palmiotti had been White House doctor for over three years. He’d been Wallace’s dearest friend for over three decades.
Palmiotti wasn’t some twentysomething novice. Rather than getting close, where he’d be spotted by the morning swirl of staffers and secretaries, he strolled casually past the Roosevelt Room, which had a clear view of the Oval Office’s front door. Even back when he was governor, Wallace was always at his desk by at least 7 a.m. Even the day after he buried his mom.
Palmiotti glanced at his watch: 7:27. He looked over at the Oval. There were no suit-and-tie agents standing guard outside the door. The President still wasn’t in.
No reason to panic just yet.
From there, Palmiotti picked up the pace and made his way back outside, eyeing his own breath as he rushed down the West Colonnade and past the Rose Garden, whose snow had been melted away by the gardening staff. With a sharp left through the French doors, he stepped onto the long red-and-gold-trimmed carpet of the Ground Floor Corridor.
“He’s still up there, huh?” he called out to Agent Mitchel, the uniformed Secret Service agent who was posted outside the private elevator on the left of the corridor.
Mitchel nodded, but the mere fact that the agent was there told Palmiotti that the President was still upstairs in the Family Residence.
“He’s gonna be in a mood, isn’t he?” Mitchel asked as Dr. Palmiotti headed to his own office, the White House Medical Unit, which sat directly across the hall from the elevator. Most staffers thought the Medical Unit was poor real estate, too far from the Oval. But as any doctor knew, the real action always happened at home.
“Depends,” Palmiotti lied, well aware that from the phone call last night that something must’ve happened. “We know where he is?”
For a moment, the agent stood there.
“C’mon, I’m just trying to figure out what kind of day we’re gonna have,” Palmiotti added.
He wasn’t stupid. After three years, he knew the Service protocol by now. To maintain some level of privacy, there were no agents or cameras allowed in the Residence. But to maintain some level of safety, the Service wired the floors of nearly every room up there. They did the same in the Oval: Weight-sensitive pressure pads under the carpets let them know exactly where President Wallace was at all times.
“Workout Room,” Mitchel finally said, referring to the small room on the third floor installed by President Clinton.
Palmiotti rolled his eyes. The only time Wallace worked out was when he had something that needed working out.
“This from what happened last night?” the agent asked.
“Sorry?”
“I saw the call log. President called you at three in the morning?”
“No, that was nothing,” Palmiotti said. “Same as always-just pulled his back again.”
“Yeah, always his back,” the agent said. “Though if that’s the case, you really think he should be working out right now?”
This time, Palmiotti was the one who stood there. The Secret Service wasn’t stupid either.
“Oh, by the by-Minnie’s been looking for you,” the agent added, referring to the President’s sister.
Nodding politely, Dr. Stewart Palmiotti glanced down at his watch: 7:36. A new Wallace record.
“This something we should worry about, Doc?” the agent asked.
“No,” Palmiotti replied, staring up at the red light above the elevator, waiting for it to light up… waiting for the President of the United States to come downstairs and tell him what the hell was going on. “I’m sure he’s just running late.”