He moved over and waited for me to climb in. I let him take my cane as I slid in and closed the car door.

The driver turned left on K and left again at 17th, heading past the White House to Constitution Avenue. The quickest route to the Hill.

“Thanks for the lift,” I said. “I don’t want to make you late for your appointment.”

“We’re going to the same place. Don’t worry. What brings you to town?” He was wearing a navy wool overcoat with a Burberry scarf knotted around his neck. A smart-looking gray suit, pale blue shirt, and paisley tie were visible under the coat. A leather satchel lay on the seat between us. I could smell his cologne, something sophisticated, traces of lavender, musk, and cedar.

“Lunch with Kit Noland and then a meeting.”

“On the Hill,” he said.

I nodded and didn’t elaborate.

“It’s a big place,” he said, sounding amused. “Where can my driver drop you?”

Of course he had to know. “The Library of Congress would be fine,” I said. “I don’t want to take you out of your way.”

“There are three buildings,” he said. “Which one?”

“Jefferson.”

Grant leaned toward the front seat. “Orlando, we’re going to drop Ms. Montgomery at the Jefferson Building. Then you can take me to the Capitol.”

Orlando stopped as a traffic light turned red and said, “Very good, Mr. Lowry.”

“Thank you,” I said again.

Grant waved a hand. “Well, it gives us a chance to talk, doesn’t it?”

I could feel him transform from chivalrous gentleman to flinty interrogator. He was going to grill me about Prescott.

“Talk about what?”

“Come on, Lucie.”

“You want to know about my meeting with Prescott,” I said. “That’s why you offered me the ride.”

“My dear,” he said and it sounded as if he were chiding me, “you were the last person to see him alive.”

“Second to last.”

He didn’t even blink. “Why did he bring you downstairs to his wine cellar to ask you about buying wine? He could have done that in his study, or any place else in the house.”

“Maybe because he wanted privacy.” I shrugged. “It didn’t matter because I didn’t have the wine he was interested in. So that was the end of the discussion.”

Grant crossed one leg over the other and picked at an imaginary piece of lint on the knife-sharp crease in his trouser leg. “Clay said it was bottles of a rare Madeira.”

“That’s right.”

“Did Prescott say why he was interested in it?”

“He wanted it for a party.”

Grant smiled. “That sounds like him.”

It was my turn to push back. “I read your stories in the Trib about the murder investigation. You’re very thorough. Do you have any idea who did it?”