Something clattered in the distance. He froze and listened, but all he heard was his own accelerated breathing. His breath was smoky in the freezing air, which reminded him he hadn’t had a cigarette since dinner. Thinking of cigarettes reminded him of Adrian Carling, the she-beast of Washington; he wondered where her offices were. Upstairs, of course, somewhere with two-inch pile carpeting and imported coffee served in thin china cups.

He counted plain gunmetal gray doors. Six, eight, ten, twelve. At sixteen he stopped and fumbled for his keyring.

Christ, it was quiet. Should have brought a radio, that would help. Something to break the silence. He’d buy one tomorrow, maybe a Walkman. No, he couldn’t hear people coming with headphones on.

“Mr. Grady?”

He spun around, keys clutched like a weapon in his fist, and saw Adrian Carling standing only about ten feet away. She was shorter than he’d remembered, maybe five-foot-five. He couldn’t tell what she was wearing under the calf-length dark-red coat, except that it must have been a skirt because the calves had hose and the feet had medium-heeled pumps.

“Ms. Carling,” he remembered to say. “Surprise.”

“I think that was my line.” She came a few steps closer, and the coat gaped open, showing him a dark brown suit, a cream-colored blouse. “Working late, aren’t you?”

“No, I just thought I’d come in and redecorate, maybe spill a little water in the hall and play ice hockey.”

“Glad you’re keeping your sense of humor.” He didn’t like the hint of pity in her voice, or the sad smile. “You must have enemies on the Hill.”

“You don’t?”

“Mine are more subtle. So, are you going inside, or are we waiting for the faceoff?”

He remembered the keys in his hand and used them. The door swung open on an office as dreary as the rest of the hall, gray walls, a battered Vietnam-era desk, a chair that leaned back enough that it might have been second-hand from a dentist. The corkboard on the wall was more holes than cork, but Grady had managed to pin up a photo—just one. It looked lonely and defiant.

Carling, of course, went over to look at it. She raised her eyebrows.

“Your daughter?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sally.” He waited for the inevitable comments, the sympathy, but Carling just nodded.

“I assume there’s a wife?”

Grady sat down in the chair, which squeaked like bed-springs, and fought the gravitational urge to tip over.

“Was,” he said shortly. “What’s on your mind, Ms. Carling?”

She continued to stare at Sally’s photo, her eyes bright and sharp.