“They’ve agreed to come out and look,” Amy said, more guardedly. “But, Jake, if he speaks up in favor of MHD it’ll bring national recognition to Franklin! It’ll cinch the primary!”

“You think so?”

“Really!” she enthused. “Be at Bob Rogers’s office at noon tomorrow. We’ll have a picnic lunch on the way to Lignite.”

“I’ll be there.” As Jake hung up the phone he remembered Lev Cardwell’s advice: Make the victim a party to the crime. That’s what they’re doing: The electric utilities will benefit from MHD, so make them support us publicly. Make them a party to the crime.

*   *   *

Amy’s “we” turned out to be Tomlinson, Amy herself, one of the publicists from the campaign staff, Bob Rogers, and Francis X. O’Brien—with two of his own public relations men, all crammed into a monstrously long black stretch limousine.

The others were already in the limo when Jake crawled in behind Bob Rogers. Tomlinson introduced them both to O’Brien and ignored the man’s two PR aides and his own publicist.

Francis X. O’Brien was a tiny man, lean and narrow-jawed, with a hooked nose and a toothy smile. A rat’s face, Jake thought. His hair was so luxuriantly dark and perfectly coiffed that Jake thought it had to be a toupeé. It didn’t match the wrinkled, faded pallor of his face, nor his cold gray eyes. He had a reedy nasal voice with a flat midwestern accent. Jake got the feeling that despite his pasted-on smile, O’Brien probably had a volcanic temper. He wore a dark three-piece suit with a pale blue tie knotted perfectly. His two PR flacks were in identical dark suits, although their ties were striped burgundy and pearl gray, respectively.

Despite the limo’s size, Jake felt uncomfortable, wedged in between Rogers and Tomlinson’s publicity guy—who was in a suede sports jacket, not much different from the one Jake was wearing. Tomlinson and O’Brien sat on the rear bench, with Amy between them, showing plenty of leg in a mid-length slitted skirt.

Lunch was awkward. Amy asked the PR man sitting closest to the raised partition that sealed off the limo’s driver to hand her the wicker basket and plastic cooler that had been stowed by the partition. He passed it from one set of hands to another until they were resting at Amy’s feet. It was difficult to eat the sandwiches she pulled out of the basket without getting crumbs everywhere, despite the checkered paper napkins Amy handed out. The cooler was deposited between Jake and Rogers, and the men pulled out cans of beer and soft drinks.