I didn’t think he was especially good-looking—longish gray hair tousled and generally in need of a haircut, sharp hawk-like features, and the kind of tanned, weather-beaten face that, as the saying went, “looked like a couple of miles of bad road.” But he was brilliant, charismatic, and charming with an undeniable rugged sex appeal. Prescott had hired him when he was still running the Trib. Now Grant was dealing with the fallout of the feud between Scotty and Alex.

“According to Grant,” Quinn said, “once the family gives away their money thanks to the do-gooder promise Prescott and Rose made, there won’t be much left in the piggy bank. They’re probably not going to be able to hang on to Hawthorne and most of their other properties. The Trib is hemorrhaging money and so are enough of their other newspapers that they’ve been robbing Peter to pay Paul.”

He stopped walking. “What’s with these paintings? Cannibalism, dismembered babies, and … Jesus, what are those two people doing with that goat? Is that what I think it is?”

“Come on.” I tugged on his arm. “It is, but we need to get to the wine cellar. It’s just around the corner.”

I dragged him with me and he followed, though he was still eyeing the art. “Some people have the weirdest taste,” he said. “And fetishes. This stuff looks like porn.”

“I’m sure they’re all original paintings worth a fortune. We just don’t have the artistic sensibility to appreciate them.”

“Okay by me.”

“Just because your taste runs to Elvis-on-velvet…”

He grinned and slung an arm around my shoulder, pulling me to him and kissing my hair. “Anything wrong with that?”

“Damn.”

“What?”

“The door to the wine cellar is shut. Maybe I should knock to see if Prescott is still in there.”

He wasn’t.

Quinn shrugged. “Didn’t you say you saw him type in the code to unlock the door?”

“I did.”

“Well, then?”

I frowned.

“What?” he said. “You’re not breaking and entering, you know, if you just want to get your phone.”

“It feels wrong. He wears hearing aids, you know. Maybe he didn’t hear us knocking.”

He sighed. “How about this? What if I call you and we can hear your phone ringing? If he’s there, he’ll hear that and I bet he’ll answer. If he doesn’t pick up, at least we’ll know the phone’s still in there and he’s probably gone. Would you feel better?”

“I suppose so.”

He dialed my number and we put our ears against the thick door like a pair of amateur spies. Quinn leaned over and stole a quick kiss. I kissed him back. From inside the room I heard the faint sound of the ringtone I used for him.

He nodded. “It’s there. Go ahead, Light-Fingered Lucie. Open the vault. Supposedly the wine in there is worth millions.”