Leonard Crane stood in his kitchen with the receiver in his hand as if he were holding something heavier than plastic and wire. Outside, it had begun raining early, that thin American autumn rain that makes no noise, only blurs the window and turns the city lights tired. On the table there was still his dinner plate, half washed, a glass with two fingers of whiskey, a newspaper folded in the middle, and his glasses. The house smelled of reheated coffee, old wood, and the dust of things that stay in the same place for many years.