Dunne decided to speak freely with her—more or less freely. Often you have to yield information to gain information. But mostly Dunne felt unencumbered by caution. His career was over. He had one shot here.

“Trying to find a man named Raymond who ran something like an escort service. That wouldn’t be who you were—”

“’Something like’? Why were you looking for him?”

“A tip that he might have information on the assassination.”

Lancette propped herself up in the bed.

“You’re working on the official investigation?” she asked.

“Not exactly. I wanted to vet this lead before turning it over.”

“And it vetted?”

“Not yet.”

She recalled the recent newspaper stories about Dunne. He had been accused of not sufficiently reviewing security procedures. He had been replaced as head of the White House detail. He had lost a president. Now he was on his own.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“And you?” he asked.

“A tip, too.”

She told him. Not everything, but much of it. A source had informed her that a man—the source did not know his name—who used to work at the Gauntlet might have information regarding the murder. The man had a scar on his ear and a glass eye. She went to the bar looking for him. Nothing came of it. She said nothing about the tattoo. That, she thought, might be too much.

“And your source?” Dunne asked.

“And yours?”

“Mine is no longer available.”

“Neither is mine now.”

“Trust is a funny thing, Ms. Lancette.”

There was a rap on the door. Jake Grayton entered, carrying yellow tulips.

“Hello,” he said. He paused to look at Dunne. “Small world.”

Grayton placed the flowers on a table.

“Doing alright?” he asked her.

“Not too bad.”

“Sorry I didn’t insist on driving you home. Hope it wasn’t the wine.”

“Had nothing to do with the wine,” she said.

Grayton pulled a chair to the side of the bed opposite Dunne.

“Guess you have a pretty good excuse,” he said to Dunne, “for not finishing the personnel evaluations.”

“Still working on them, Jake.”

“Good. What a surprise to see that you two were involved in the same accident last night. Never met before?”

“No,” Lancette answered.

“You’re lucky Clarence was there to help?”

“Yes,” she said. “Very.”

“Clarence, what were you doing on the parkway? I thought you lived in Bethesda?”

“My wife left her glasses at our boy’s house. I was running over to pick them up.”

“So late at night,” Grayton remarked. “That was fortunate. And the other driver?”

“Didn’t stop,” Dunne said. “No word on him yet.”

“Asshole,” Grayton said. “Julia, I’m sorry I let you drive home alone—”

“That wasn’t the problem.”

“You need a ride now?” Grayton asked.

She thought of her bashed-up Dart sitting at a repair shop.

“Clarence already offered,” Lancette said.

Dunne hadn’t, but he nodded.