Annie shrugged. “He was legitimately nominated the last two years but didn’t make it. I imagine it’s sticking in his craw that his cronies didn’t endorse him. By the way, Abner called with his mobile number, one that only a very few people have. He also wanted to know if you want his secure, as in secure phone, issued to him by the White House. I said of course, so here they are.” She handed over a sticky note with two numbers on it.

“I’m thinking he’s going to go nuclear if I call the one issued by the White House. But I think I will wait until Espinosa can document his reaction to that.” Maggie laughed. “How about if I make the call to his cell phone now, and you can listen in?” Maggie wiggled her eyebrows to make her point. Myra and Annie laughed out loud.

“Go for it, dear,” Myra said.

Lincoln Moss sat down at a ridiculously long dining-room table that seated eighteen comfortably, twenty-two if needed. He sat at the head like the king he thought he was. The table was set perfectly for one. A delicate Bavarian lace place mat, Baccarat crystal, fine Lenox china, sterling silver utensils. A spray of orchids that he insisted be fresh every day sat in a cut-crystal vase to his left. To the right of his coffee cup sat a small crystal bell that he tapped for coffee refills or seconds if he really enjoyed whatever he was having for breakfast.

Four newspapers were to his left: the Post, the Wall Street Journal, and the New York Times along with a copy of In the Know.

Breakfast for the most part was always the same because he liked routine. Fifteen minutes to eat whatever he was having, then forty-five minutes to peruse the four papers along with a second cup of coffee. On rare occasions he dabbled with a third cup but rarely finished it.

Moss chewed his way through six gluten-free pancakes with sugar-free syrup, four strips of crisp crunchy turkey bacon with two slices of six-grain toast slathered with sugar-free strawberry jam. He looked at his watch when he touched the bell for his plate to be taken away. Fourteen minutes. He held up his index finger to indicate he wanted a refill on his coffee. His cup was filled immediately just as the housekeeper shook out the Post and placed it precisely in front of him on the table. He jerked back when he saw his own picture staring up at him. In his opinion, it was an unflattering picture, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the people at the Post had chosen that particular one on purpose. Probably, the bastards. He was livid when he finished reading the write-up that said, he thought, snidely, that maybe the third time would be the charm for Lincoln Moss. That, he decided, was a definite insult. He debated a full five minutes about calling the paper to ask them to withdraw his name but decided that might look petty on his part. Still, he seethed. If he lost again this year, the damn political machine would never let him live it down. It didn’t and wouldn’t matter if Gabriel Knight, President of the United States, voted for him or not. What the hell good was a vote of one?