Mayor Carlucci was aware of the value of good public relations.

What Walter Davis thought when he saw Payne, M. on the membership board of the Rittenhouse Club was first that Payne was almost certainly a regular rather than non-voting, ex officio member, and second that the FBI was always looking for outstanding young men to join its ranks.

He had, he realized, had that thought before.

Why didn't I follow through with it then?

His lunch with Randy Andy Tellman (turtle soup, London broil, and asparagus) went well until he called for the check to sign. Tellman snatched it from his hand and scrawled his initials on it.

"I didn't know you belonged," Davis blurted.

"Out-of-town member," Randy Andy told him. "The firm picks it up."

As soon as he returned to his office, Davis told his secretary to ask ASAC Towne if he could spare him a minute.

Towne answered the summons immediately.

"Correct me when I'm wrong, Isaiah," Davis told him. "The subject is Detective Matthew Payne of the Philadelphia Police Department."

"Yes, sir?"

"To the best of your recollection, nothing came up in your FBI that would disqualify him for the Bureau?"

"No, sir."

"Including his physical condition? What caused the Marines to reject him?"

"It was some minor eye problem, as I recall, sir. I don't think the Bureau even looks at that sort of thing."

"And I think we have an agent to whom it was suggested that getting close to Detective Payne might be a good thing to do?"

"Yes, sir. Special Agent Jack-John D.-Matthews."

"Refresh me. How did Matthews come to meet Detective Payne?"

"I believe it was in connection with the vice presidential threat," Towne said. "We sent Matthews over to liaise with the Secret Service. The Special Operations Division of the Philadelphia Police Department was providing the Secret Service with bodies to help find that lunatic. I believe they became friendly while that was going on."

"And, if memory serves, despite Agent Matthews's best efforts, we have learned virtually nothing, via Detective Payne, of interesting things going on within the Philadelphia Police Department that we would not have learned of through other channels?"

"I'm afraid that's true, sir."

"That speaks well for Detective Payne, wouldn't you say, Isaiah?"

"From the viewpoint of the Philadelphia Police Department, yes, sir, I would say it does."

"It has occurred to me, Isaiah, that Detective Payne might very well have the makings of an outstanding FBI agent. How does that strike you?"

"Absolutely," Isaiah Towne said. "He would bring to the Bureau a level of practical experience-"

Davis cut him off.

"See if Matthews is in the office, please," he said. "If he is, why don't you and I have a little chat with him about recruiting Detective Payne?"

Towne picked up one of the telephones on Davis's desk, pushed the button marked "Duty Officer," learned that Special Agent Matthews was in the office, and told the duty officer to send him to the office of the SAC.

Detective Matt Payne's concentration was finally broken by the ringing telephone. He muttered a routine obscenity; pulled the dictating machine's headset out of his ears; turned from the typewriter; looked around the office and saw that it was deserted and that it was dark outside; muttered another routine obscenity; glanced at his wristwatch, saw that it was half past seven; muttered a third routine obscenity; and picked up the telephone.

It had been a long, tiring, and not very productive day.

He had been working without interruption on the obscenity-deleted tapes since Weisbach's meeting in the morning.

All he had had to eat all day was a hamburger and a small fries. Jason Washington, who had felt sorry for him, had brought that to him in the middle of the afternoon.

He was nowhere near finished, and at half past four, Sergeant Sandow had informed him he was expected in Personnel in the Roundhouse anytime after half past nine, to go through the records of the men on Five Squad.

"Special Investigation, Detective Payne," Matt said, as courteously as he could manage.

"As an act of Christian charity, your friendly local FBI agent is prepared to spring for supper," his caller said.

"Jack, I'm really up to my ass in work."

"You have to eat," Special Agent Jack Matthews said, reasonably.

"Where are you?"

"At the FOP."

The Fraternal Order of Police Building was on Spring Garden Street, just off North Broad Street. The well-patronized bar was in the basement. Matt could hear bar sounds; Matthews was using the phone on the bar.

"This is social, then, rather than official?"

"A little of each, actually," Matthews said, surprised at the question. "Why did you ask?"

"You're going to deliver a friendly lecture on the criminal penalties provided for interfering with FBI agents, right?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You're right. I have to eat. You said you're paying?"

"Right."

"In that case, since I really deserve it, something expensive. A lobster comes immediately to mind. Does Bookbinder's, the Old Original, on Second Street, make you want to regret your kind offer?"

"Not at all. This feast goes on the expense account."

"So those assholes did report me? I thought they'd be too embarrassed."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't. You want to meet me there? Or should I pick you up?"

"I'll meet you there. When can you leave?"

"As soon as I can turn out the lights. I'm starved."

He hung up, looked out the window and saw that it was not only dark but raining, and went to what had been the classroom's cloakroom for his trench coat. When he picked it up, there was something heavy in the pocket. He fished it out. It was the small tape recorder that had come with the dictation system he had bought to transcribe the Kellog tapes, still in its box with compartments for the device, batteries, and three tape cassettes.

He started to put it on his desk, but changed his mind when he thought it might be useful to transcribe information at the Roundhouse. He put it back in the trenchcoat 's pocket, turned off the lights, and left.

"If you had a decent paying job, you wouldn't have to put in so much overtime," Special Agent Matthews, a tall, muscular, fair-skinned man in his late twenties, said to Detective Payne when Matt slid onto a stool beside him in the bar.

"Why do I suspect there is something significant in that remark?" Matt said. "What are you drinking?"

"Johnny Walker Black," Matthews said. "Would you like one?"

"You're paying?"

"The Bureau is paying."

"In that case, yes, thank you, I will," Matt said. He caught the bartender's eye and signaled for the same thing. "I will ask why the Bureau is paying later. I would have thought they would be just a little annoyed with me."

"Whatever for? The purpose of this little rendezvous is to point out to you all the nice things that would happen if you joined us."

"You're kidding."

"Not at all. Davis called me into his office and ordered me to wine and dine you with that noble purpose in mind."

Matt chuckled.

"You can tell Mr. Davis what I told the two assholes. One of my best friends is an FBI agent, but I wouldn't want my sister to marry one of them."

"Which two assholes would that be?"

"The two I led on a wild-goose chase up and down the alleys of North Philadelphia."

"FBI agents?" Matthews asked. Matt nodded. "Did they have names?"

Matt called the names from his memory.

"Jernigan and Leibowitz," he said. "Leibowitz seemed to be the brighter of the two."

"Never heard of them," Jack Matthews said. "Why did you lead them on a wild-goose chase?"