“Daniel” – Coltrane put a wealth of meaning into the next word – “thanks.”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s very definitely something. You’re always there when it counts.”

“What did you expect me to do – tell you to go away, that I’d just gotten home from the hospital and I needed to sleep?”

“You’re a friend.”

“I hope you didn’t mind my bringing in Jennifer. I couldn’t think of anybody else I could count on to help.”

“Mind? Not at all. Things are working out great.”

“Admit it – you missed having her around. The three of us had a lot of good times. If Jennifer tried too hard, it’s because she cared.”

“Or I didn’t try hard enough.” Coltrane changed the subject. “Tell me about these boxes.”

“A man from a limousine service was camped outside your door. I noticed him when I was going out for some much-needed exercise.” Daniel patted the slight protrusion at the belly of his blue jogging suit. “The boxes must have gold in them or something – they certainly weigh enough. The delivery guy was reluctant to let me sign for them. He only agreed when he saw I had a key to your town house.”

“A delivery on Sunday?”

“The driver said the man who sent them was very insistent.”

“There isn’t a label. Did the driver say who-”

“Randolph Packard.”

“Packard?”

“Why should that name mean something to me?”

Coltrane quickly explained as he opened one of the large boxes. Inside, an envelope lay on top of a generous amount of bubble wrap. He broke the seal, finding a handwritten card.

I trust you know what to do with this.

Baffled, Coltrane pulled away the bubble wrap, his bewilderment changing to amazement when he discovered a tripod and a foot-square black box whose front and back were connected by bellows.

“What is it?” Daniel asked.

“A camera.”

“I’ve never seen any camera that looks like a miniature accordion.”

“It’s called a view camera.” Realizing the significance of what he was holding, Coltrane felt awestruck. “These days, only studio photographers use them, but in the old days, in Packard’s prime, it was the standard for every serious photographer. Packard would have taken one with him everywhere.”

“How come it looks so weird?”

“I guess you don’t know anything about f-stops and shutter speeds,” Coltrane said.

“Thank God. Just give me my ‘point and shoot’ Kodak and I’m a happy camper.”

“Right.” Coltrane chuckled. “You can’t imagine what it was like to take pictures when a camera didn’t come equipped with a built-in light meter and automatic focus and all the rest of the bells and whistles.”

“Progress.”

“Maybe, but don’t you sometimes get frustrated with the pictures those automatic cameras take? They often look overexposed. There’s no texture to the image. The colors are harsh.”

“They’re good enough for snapshots.”

“But if you want a first-rate photograph, you have to go a different route. You need to use a meter to judge the light as accurately as you can. Then you need to adjust the lens opening and the shutter speed so the correct amount of light strikes the negative. This view camera has precise controls that allow you to do that. Its focusing is just as precise. You expand or contract these bellows, like an accordion, pulling the lens closer or farther away from the view plate at the back, until the image is perfectly crisp. A camera this large takes an eight-by-ten negative. You can print the image as an eight-by-ten transfer, with none of the graininess you get when you enlarge an image from a dinky thirty-five-millimeter negative. You get an image so sharp and clear, you won’t be able to tolerate snapshots from an automatic camera.”

“Looks awkward.”

“Worse than you think. Hold this while I pull the tripod from the box.” Coltrane expanded the tripod’s legs and locked them, then secured the camera to the tripod. He draped a black cloth over the back. “Now stoop under there and look at the viewing screen.”

Daniel did so, then quickly reappeared from the cloth, rubbing his eyes in discomfort. “Everything’s upside down.”

“And reversed,” Coltrane said. “The photographer has to imagine the way the image would look normally. Not only that – the camera’s heavy. It uses negatives protected by a lightproof holder, two negatives to a holder, so if you want to take a hundred exposures, you need fifty holders, and they’re heavy. And then, of course, you need various filters and lenses, which you have to carry with you, and which, I assume, are in the other box. Taking a view camera on a photo assignment can be like going on a safari.”

“You’re sure it’s worth it?”

“Right now, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Coltrane stared reverentially at the camera. “Look at the scratches on it. Old.” He studied the manufacturer’s name imprinted on the metal rim at the back. “Korona. I’m not sure that company’s still in business.”

Numbed, Coltrane sank onto the sofa, struck by the implications. This must be the same camera that Packard used to photograph his famous series of L.A. houses, he thought. In a way he had never imagined, this assignment to recreate that series was going to be an education. He had known that he would be literally following Packard’s footsteps: doing his best to find where Packard had placed his camera, trying to reproduce the same camera angles. But Coltrane had assumed that he would use contemporary cameras. Now he understood that modern equipment would skew the experiment, drawing more attention to how photography had changed than to how the city had changed since the twenties. The further implication was that by wanting Coltrane to use the same camera he had, Packard was telling him to do everything possible to try to identify with Packard, to pretend to be Packard. Only then would Coltrane understand the decisions Packard had made when photographing those houses.

The phone rang.

Maybe it’s the old man, Coltrane thought. “Hello?”

“You’ll never guess what a messenger just delivered,” Jennifer said excitedly. “The prints and the signed permission forms. This is very definitely a done deal.”

“And you’ll never guess what a messenger just delivered to me. The view camera Packard used.”

“What?”

“Get over here. You’ve got to see this camera.”

18

“HELLO.” Duncan’s voice sounded thick, as if he’d been drinking.

“It’s Mitch Coltrane.”

No response. Coltrane pressed the phone harder to his ear, wondering if there was something wrong with the connection. “Duncan?”

“This is about the camera?”

“I can’t get over how generous he’s being. Is this a good time to talk to him? I’d like to thank him and swear he’ll get everything back in perfect condition.”

“No, I’m afraid this isn’t a good time.”

“Then I’ll call back. When do you think he might be feeling-”

“Randolph died two hours ago.”

A chill started at Coltrane’s feet and went all the way to his scalp. “No. How… Yesterday…”

“He put up a good front. His breathing got worse around three this morning. Even with the oxygen at its highest setting, he still had to fight for air.”

“Jesus.”

“I phoned for his doctor, but Randolph left strict instructions that he didn’t want to go to a hospital. All we could do was make him comfortable. By early afternoon, he was finally at peace.”

“The camera.” Coltrane had difficulty getting his voice to work. “When did…”

“We discussed it last evening. That’s also when he signed the photo-permission forms, which I assume your editor has by now, along with the prints. The project can go forward as planned. For some reason, Randolph thought it important that someone retrace his steps.”