“What?”

“The euphoria induced by a tax cut, which overcomes people’s recollection that it was their money in the first place. Anyway, attacking that sweet, senile old man with the dyed pompadour would’ve turned people off big-time. So the media softballed him.”

“To be fair,” Ben said, “Clinton did lie about the affair.”

“Yeah, and Reagan lied about Nicaragua. Dubya lied about having a drunk driving record and he’s been obscenely evasive about his past drug use. Why wasn’t the liberally biased press all over that? Because dumb as the man is, he comes off on television as very likable, a regular guy. Clinton was smart and capable but not necessarily someone you’d want over for dinner; they could beat up on him all night long.” He grinned. “That’s your main problem in this case, you know, Ben. Everyone knows Glancy is smart. Very, very smart. You’d be much better off if you were representing an amiable dunce.”

Ben glanced at his watch. “Fascinating as this is, it looks like it’s time for us to get back to the salt mines.”

“Right.” Padolino swiveled his feet around and stretched. “One more question, though. That partner of yours. Miss McCall.”

“What about her?”

“Are all the lady lawyers in Oklahoma that hot? ’Cause that sure isn’t how we grow them up here.”

Ben couldn’t think of an answer that wouldn’t insult someone, so he kept his mouth closed.

“My assistants tell me you and she have a thing going. True?”

Ben licked his lips, stuttered. “A-a thing? I don’t know what that means.”

“The hell you don’t. Tell me the truth. Some of my people think you’re working your mojo on that saucy little intern of Glancy’s-”

“Shandy?”

“-but my investigators, the ones I really trust, say you and Christina are the item. One step away from wedding bells.”

“Well, I-I wouldn’t go as far as-”

“So it wouldn’t bother you if I asked her out? Because I really want to ask her out.”

Ben coughed, grabbed his briefcase. “I-I can’t tell you what to do. Your business, not mine.” He hustled toward the door, suddenly feeling more stressed than he had when he came in. “Enjoyed the chat. See you in court.”

Loving sat by himself on the side of the cavernous wood-paneled room, eyes wide. He’d seen some pretty weird stuff in his time, especially since he’d started working for Ben Kincaid. But this joint was setting a new personal best for weirdness. Compared to this, the Goth club was a set from Leave It to Beaver.

The most prominent features of the room, so far as Loving could tell, were inlaid wood, low lighting, cobwebs, and dust. He had the impression that it had once been used for something else, but the former owners had stripped it clean, which explained why there was nothing hanging on the walls-no books on the shelves, no furniture other than the most rudimentary tables and chairs. The dust and cobwebs also signaled a lack of care, or perhaps just a décor that appealed to the members of Circle Thirteen.

As the hour passed, the room slowly filled with people. They were quiet, somber folks; even the ones who entered with a group tended not to interact much. They were here for a reason, Loving surmised, but unlike the habitués of Stigmata, they weren’t here to party. As with the Goths, the attire of the denizens of Circle Thirteen tended to be predominantly black, but Loving saw none of the tongue-in-cheek, campy, Haunted Mansion spirit that he’d spotted at Stigmata. Here it was monotone black suits, even tuxes, floor-length drab dresses, some of them with a long train. There was no music, no dancing. Whatever it was these guys were planning on doing, they took it very seriously.

Loving and Daily had had no trouble getting in. This time they’d had the sense to dress in solid black, head-to-toe-Loving even forked over some cash for a pair of black high-top sneakers. There were no bouncers or bodyguards here, thank God. But if they didn’t worry about security, did that mean nothing of interest would happen? Loving saw no signs of drugs or booze-not even smoking. Not that he was looking for trouble, but if they didn’t encounter any, it probably meant they weren’t on the right track.

“You think they’re okay?” Loving whispered to Daily.

“Sure. They’re clean-cut, law-abiding vampires.”

“They did have a website, even if it was supposed to be restricted. I don’t think they’d have a website if somethin’ criminal was goin’ down.”

Daily scoffed. “Where have you been, Loving? I read in the Post about drug dealers that have their own websites, making deals, transferring funds via PayPal. They use code words to describe the goods, but the transactions are still taking place on the Web. The pushers’ once ubiquitous cell phones have been replaced by instant messaging.” He paused. “You know what instant messaging is, right?”

“Wrong. And I don’t want to, either. Look, let’s split up. We stand out enough individually. Together, we look too much like cops for anyone to talk to us.”

Daily nodded and headed for the opposite end of the room. Loving walked over to a round table large enough to accommodate eight people. If he sat, maybe someone would join him, drawn by his animal magnetism. Did vampires have animal magnetism? he wondered. Well, then they’d be drawn by their sonar. Whatever.

He hadn’t been sitting long before he was joined by a woman who appeared to be in her midthirties. She was very tall, very thin, with a clinging chemise that draped around her feet. Long jet-black hair almost reached her waist. Dark eyes, dark mascara. Since she didn’t introduce herself, Loving decided he would call her Morticia.

“You’re new,” she said. It was not a question.

“Yeah,” Loving replied, trying to size her up as he spoke. What would a nice girl like her… never mind. “I’m lookin’ for someone.”

“Oh, no, no, no.” She wagged a finger back and forth. “Don’t say that. They’ll ride you out on the rails. Tell them you’re interested in joining the Circle.”

Well, this was going to be easier than he’d imagined. He hadn’t even had to perform any silly circus tricks. “That’s what I meant to say. I’m interested in joinin’ the Circle. Any particular reason you’re helpin’ me?”

“We’re destined to be together.”

Loving blinked. “We are?”

“Yes. I knew it the moment I saw you sitting there. Well, I didn’t exactly know it. It was more something I sensed, a psychic vibration, if you will. But I’ve learned to trust those vibrations.”

That was a line he hadn’t heard back at the Tulsa honky-tonks.

“You seem… more mature than most of our new recruits.” She leaned closer, revealing a voluptuous bosom thinly veiled by her chemise. “I’ve been waiting a long time for some fresh blood. And I mean that in every possible way.”

Loving felt an anxious tingling at the base of his skull. “So, you’re a… a… member of the Circle?”

“I am.”

“And that means…”

“Right.” Her eyes come-hithered him in a big way. “But I assume that’s a turn-on for you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

Loving cleared his throat. “Like I said, I’m lookin’ for someone.”

And she smiled again, even more broadly than before. “You found her.”

The prosecution’s next witness was Steve Melanfield, the Kodiak Oil lobbyist Ben had first met in the Senate Dining Room. Funny how many of the people who were so friendly to Glancy five months ago ended up on the prosecution’s witness list. Nature of the town, Ben supposed. Friends and enemies changed sides in a heartbeat. It was all a matter of who wanted what at any given moment.

Padolino established that Melanfield was a professional lobbyist, that he had been working for Kodiak Oil for nine years, and that because Glancy came from one of the top oil-producing states in the union they had frequent contact with one another. That was to be expected. What was not to be expected was that he might have had contact with Veronica Cooper.