There Fell a Shadow (12 page)

Wexler blinked, turned from the window. “It was then, of course—when he told me how the gold strands of her hair fell onto her cheeks in the heat and all that—that's when I first realized he was in love with her.”

I waited, thinking he would go on. He continued to gaze at me in that bland, open way. The heat from my cigarette brought me around. It had burned down to my fingers. I put it out.

“Was that it? Did he see her again?”

Wexler made a vague motion with his hand. “I imagine so. I believe he did at the very end. You have to realize this was only a month or so before Mangrela fell. Much of that month I spent in the city of Jacobo to the north.”

“But what about Lester Paul? Did he have anything to do with it? With her? What the hell was that all about in the restaurant last night?”

“That I can't tell you. Whatever was between Colt and Lester Paul, there was only one other person who knew about it. That was Robert Collins, the British journalist. And I believe he was killed when the rebels entered the city.” Wexler straightened the front of his jacket. “And now, Wells, I'm sorry … you must excuse me. I'll be late.”

At the same moment he stood, a woman appeared at the library door. Wexler smiled fondly at her.

“Darling,” she said, “don't you have a board meeting this morning?”

“Yes, my dear,” Wexler said gently. And to me: “John Wells, this is my wife Anne.”

I shook hands with her. She was a woman in her early forties. A fine, sculpted creature who'd been well cared for her whole life. She had short, carefully crafted auburn hair. A thin precise face softened by bright, kindly blue eyes. I'd seen that face before. In the society columns. Vaguely, I even remembered the pictures that appeared there seven or eight years ago. Society queen weds prizewinning journalist from mainline Philadelphia.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” she said as I released her hand. “I've heard so much about you.”

I mumbled something.

“I do hate to steal Donald away from you like this, but he really does have to go scrap with the board.”

“It's all right, darling,” said Wexler. “We were just finishing up.”

She nodded at him, her red lips slightly curved. She flowed gracefully out of the room. He watched her go, the fond smile lingering on his lips. When she was gone, he looked at me sheepishly, slightly embarrassed by his affection.

“Well …” he said.

“Who killed him?” I asked. “Who do you think killed him?” I thought of that expert assassin and added: “Or had him killed?”

“Good Lord,” said Wexler, surprised. “Good Lord, I don't know. It could have been anyone. It could have been Communists who don't want him to write about Afghanistan or Capitalists who don't want him to write about Nicaragua. It could have been anyone who didn't want him to write about anything. It could have been a jealous husband, for all I know. Let me give you a piece of advice, Wells.” He laid a hand on my shoulder—carefully. His manicure probably cost more than my suit. “If it's a story you're after, get your story. Write your story. But if it's personal, if it's just because you happened to be there, let it drop. Let the police handle it. It's what they're there for. Don't become too—hooked, as it were, on Timothy Colt. He was a fascinating man, as I said. Almost like a drug in a way. And like a drug, he really wasn't very good for people.”

As we stood together in the rich morning sunlight that fell through the rich curtains into the rich library, I studied Wexler's face. Was he warning me? Warning me off? I looked to his damp brown eyes for a clue, but saw nothing.

But when I was outside and alone again, I remembered Valerie Colt.
People got hurt a lot around Tim
. That's what she'd said.
Someone always had to pick up the pieces
.

I walked along Ninetieth with my hands shoved in my overcoat pockets. I watched the pale light of the near-winter morning glare up at me from the puddles of melted snow in the gutter. Maybe Wexler was right, I thought. Maybe I was just fascinated by Timothy Colt. Maybe it was an unhealthy fascination. Maybe it was deadly.

I
took a subway back to the
Star
. I sat in my cubicle, my I feet up on the desk. I opened my mail. I stared at each piece dutifully before I tossed it into the wastebasket.

McKay came by to greet me. He leaned against the cubicle partition, his hands behind him.

“How you feel?”

“Creaky, but better. How do I look?”

“Like shit, but better. Thank God, too. That battered-up face of yours really did a number on Lansing.”

“Yeah, well, she's funny that way.”

“I asked her if she wanted a cup of coffee yesterday. I was going downstairs to the diner. She said, ‘Stop bothering people, McKay.'”

“Kid can't control her emotions.” I lit a cigarette. I went through a few more letters. Tossed the rest out all at once to save time.

“Nice piece on your fight to the death,” McKay said.

“That what they called it? I haven't seen the paper.”

“Yeah, in the subhead. The exclusive story of his fight to the death with an assassin.”

“Kind of overlooks the fact that neither of us died, doesn't it?”

“Don't be picky, Wells. It's a good spread, and I couldn't have written it better myself.”

“Yeah,” I said, taking a long drag of smoke. “Yeah, you could have.”

“Well, yeah, I could have,” said McKay, “but he'd have
killed
me.”

“Life's unfair. What can I say?”

Alex, the copyboy, passed. I told him to get me a cup of coffee or I'd break his legs.

“Sure, Pops,” he said.

“I may break his legs anyway,” I told McKay.

“He's nicer than Lansing.”

I laughed. “So what's up today? Where's Captain Relatable?”

“He's coming in late. He worked till almost six last night.”

“Now, now.”

“He called to check in.”

“To make sure the assignment editor didn't make the assignments?”

“You got it.” McKay had a wicked half grin on that baby face of his. “Lansing's got the follow-up on Colt. She's hot for it, too. I think she wants to track down Lester Paul herself. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lance.”

“He the suspect? Paul?”

“According to Lansing. She's got it pretty much figured out. Paul hired the assassin to settle his old score with Colt.”

“What old score?”

“The one they argued about in the tavern.”

“Oh yeah. That old score. What do the cops say?”

“Well, you know Gottlieb.”

“Yeah, in fact I talked to him,” I said. “He'll find Paul, they'll sit, they'll chat.”

“Right. He hasn't said much more than that, far as I know.”

“Hard to believe he's the meanest tec in the south, isn't it?”

“Is it true he once shot a matchstick out of Fats Thompkins's mouth?”

“Who knows? The way I heard it he lit the match with the bullet.”

Alex brought me coffee. I let the snotty little bastard live. I ditched the nicotine and went after the caffeine.

“So anyway,” I said, “Lansing's doing the follow on Colt. What about you?”

“Something of my own. Homeless children. With the snow and winter coming on and all.”

“Sure.” I waited. McKay said nothing. I finally had to ask him. “What about Wellsey? The old bird dog? The man who duels to the death?''

McKay lifted his eyes to the fluorescents, bounced his butt against the hands folded behind him. “Well …”

“Don't tell me: The Day After I Fought An Assassin and Found God.”

“Worse. You see the
News
this morning?”

“No. I haven't seen anything.”

“They led with Colt, same as us. But they dumped the second-day snow stories and page-three'd a copyrighted piece on the Corlies Park bribe.”

“They page-three'd my two-day-old story? Did they have anything new?”

“Details. An interview out of the U.S. attorney's office. Not Ciccelli. Basically the same stuff.”

“So they're saying we got the story first but now they're gonna run with it.”

“Right,” said McKay, still watching the fluorescents. “So—sort of casually this morning, while he was telling the assignment editor his job, General Cambridge says, ‘I'd use Wells on Colt but, of course, he'll be bird-dogging the scandal. I mean, obviously that's our big story.'”

I was taking a long sip of coffee when he spoke. I nearly scalded my sinuses. I put the Styrofoam cup down, wiping my mouth with my hand. “That son of a bitch,” I said. “Suddenly it's a big story.”

“So unless you were planning something else …”

I thought it over. “No,” I said. “I want to do something on Colt, but not yet. Maybe a profile after the funeral tomorrow … No, this is what I was going to do anyway, I guess. I just hate to make it look like he thought of it.”

“Life's unfair. What can I say?” said McKay. He pushed off the partition. “Anyway, I'm glad you look like shit but better. I gotta get to work.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks, Mac. If you see Alex, kick him in the face, then tell him if he doesn't bring me a copy of the
News
, you'll do it again. The
Times
, too.”

“Sure thing.”

Off he went.

I got on the phone. I checked in with my friend at the parks department. I left a message with borough president Robins. I wrangled with Ciccelli's secretary. She's a divorcée with orange hair who feels that answering the phone in the U.S. attorney's office is pretty much the same as running interference for a quarterback with shaky knees. I got nowhere with her.

Alex brought me the papers. I looked them over. The
News
was pretty much as McKay had said. They'd filled in a few blank spots and called it an exclusive. The story still belonged to me. I started hunting through the
Times
. As I did, I got the sensation I was being watched. I glanced up. I was being watched.

“Yo ho, there, Lansing,” I said.

“Don't go around yo ho–ing me,” she said grimly. “How do you feel?”

“Super. Great,” I said.

“You look a little better.”

“I'm telling you. I haven't felt this wonderful in years. I should be nearly killed more often.”

“I'll say.”

“How's the Colt case?”

“Have you had breakfast?” she asked me.

“Uh … yes.”

“Liar.”

“Okay—no.”

“Idiot.”

“What's the right answer here?”

She thumped a paper bag down on my desk. “Here's a bagel,” she said. “Eat it.”

I dug into the bag. The bagel was a toasted garlic with cream cheese. My favorite. There was orange juice, too.

“Gee,” I said.

“Just shut up and eat it.”

“Mmmpf,” I said around a mouthful of bagel. “Sho howsh the Colt cashe?”

Lansing shook her head at me, sighed. She crossed her arms under her breasts. She leaned her shoulder against the partition. “Fine, fine,” she said. “Gottlieb's after Paul. He gave out some stuff this morning. Says it looks like Paul's some kind of international smuggler type. Nothing fancy. Stones, metals. Fencing for pickpockets. Some guns, too. Some drugs. Whatever's happening.”

“How does Gottlieb get this?”

“He's been busted—Paul, I mean. In Morocco and again in France. He's even wanted for questioning in a pornography case out of Boston.”

“Charming guy.”

“Kind of elusive, as I understand it,” Lansing said. “Escape artist-type. In Morocco, they actually had him in prison. One of those little stone boxes where people draw pictures of windows on the walls for twenty years and then die. Eat the bagel, Wells.”

I ate the bagel. “Urph?” I said.

“So one day they walk in, he's gone. No tunnel. No hole in the wall. Just gone. Three guards lost their jobs over it. He beat the gendarmes, too. In France. That's where they keep the gendarmes. And the cops in Boston still can't figure out how he got away. Even Interpol's had him cornered a number of times. He's pretty impressive.”

“He's never met Gottlieb.”

“That seems to be Gottlieb's attitude. Speaking of which, he says you're supposed to come in and look at some mug shots. He says the guy who beat you up is probably some kind of international hired-gun type. Hard to ID, but it's worth a shot.”

“We beat each other up.”

Lansing let that pass. “Gottlieb says Holloway and Wexler are being helpful not at all so anything you can do would be appreciated.”

“Yeah, I talked to Wexler this morning. He wouldn't give me anything either.”

“You talked to Wexler? What for?”

I shrugged as casually as I could. “Background,” I said. “I might do a piece on Colt after the funeral.”