There Fell a Shadow by Andrew Klavan

was a short silence. “I called. I called earlier,” she said. She had a deep, warm voice. But it was a hesitant voice, too. Her words proceeded as if they were shuffling forward in the dark. They were careful, wary of pitfalls. “I—I heard about you on the radio. I was worried. Are you all right?”
    â€œI’ll do. The doctor says I’m going to die if I don’t stop smoking and drinking so much.”
    â€œYes. Yes, the doctor is right.”
    There was a pause. “I got beat up bad, Chandler,” I said.
    â€œYes.” She nearly hid the quaver on the word. “Yes, that’s what I heard.”
    â€œI’m gonna be okay, but I got beat up pretty bad.”
    She said nothing. I did not know if she was crying. I did not know if she was angry.
    I said: “I’m sorry I haven’t called you.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” she answered softly. “I’ve seen the paper. It’s a busy time.”
    I nodded without speaking. The silence drew out over the seconds. I could picture her sitting there alone in her apartment. Sitting erect in her chair, the phone held to her ear. Staring directly before her, while the cat wound around her ankles. Her expression pensive, her mouth tight. All of her motionless in the silence as it dragged on. I could picture her round, serious face, white cheeked and sad eyed, her hair dull brown. I could picture her pale lips. They were soft lips when you kissed them. Her body was lush and soft to the touch.
    â€œCome down,” I heard myself say finally. “Come down this weekend. Friday. Can you?”
    The line crackled.
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    â€œYes. Okay.”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    She waited for me to go on. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
    â€œI miss you, John,” said Chandler Burke finally.
    My lips parted. I said nothing. My lips closed.
    â€œSee you Friday,” she said.
    She hung up. I laid the receiver down in the cradle. I stared at it. It was silent. He knows who I am, Chandler , I thought. He knows I can identify him. He’s sure to come back for me. He’s sure to .
    I reached for my glass. I raised it. I watched the theater’s red and gold lights expand in a line around the outside of it, encircling the amber scotch. With my other hand, I pulled a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. I put it between my lips and lit it.
    I sat in my chair and I stared out the window.
    I loved her that much , Wilfred Campbell had said.
    I thought about Chandler Burke. I thought about Timothy Colt.
    I thought about Wilfred Campbell.

“W hy did you want to see me, Wells?”
    â€œI want to know more about Timothy Colt.”
    Donald Wexler sat in a wing chair of red leather. I sat in another, facing him. We were in the library of Wexler’s town house. There were bookshelves on two of the walls. They were filled with ribbed, leather-bound volumes. And there was a huge leather reading chair with an ottoman before it and a standing lamp behind. To my left was a window partly covered with red velvet drapes. The window looked onto the swank brownstones of East Ninetieth Street.
    It was quite a place. A place fit for a man with an elegant background and an elegant job and an elegant Pulitzer Prize. When I’d walked in the front door, I’d entered an expansive hall. The floor was tiled with squares of black and white marble. The light of a crystal chandelier glinted off them. A winding staircase led up to the second story past a wall lined with portraits.
    A maid in a black uniform had led me across the hall and through a draped doorway. We went through a living room. There were marble statues there. Greek youths and maidens rose from behind sofas and chairs. Their sleek lines were reflected in gilt-framed mirrors. We passed on into the library.
    Wexler was waiting for us. He rose to meet me, extending his hand. He was dressed smartly in a gray suit, a maroon tie. He