17

“I APOLOGIZE,” Coltrane said the next morning.

Jennifer motioned him toward a chair in front of her desk, then closed the door to her office.

“Things have been a little hectic,” he continued. “I had to meet with Nolan. Then I went to see McCoy in the hospital.”

Jennifer’s stern blue eyes assessed him. “How is he?”

“In pain, but feisty as ever. If he keeps improving, his doctor’s going to release him in a couple of days.”

“Good,” she said flatly.

“And it looks as if the district attorney isn’t going to make trouble for me.”

“Excellent,” Jennifer said without inflection. “And sometime during the rest of the day, couldn’t you have found a chance to let me know about all these good things that were happening?”

“Well…”

“Maybe I’m not looking at this properly. Maybe I was foolish to think that it wasn’t just you but the two of us who ran from Ilkovic, that I had a right to hear what you just told me. As it happens, I already know about McCoy – because I went to see him. And I know about the district attorney – because I phoned Nolan.”

Coltrane raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I could have done this better. In New Haven, I got so involved in my memories about my grandparents that I felt too low to talk to anybody. When I got back… I’ve been trying to sort some things out and… Here are the photographs.” He set the portfolio on the desk.

“Thank you.”

“I feel as if somebody else took them.”

“But the fact is, you did, and they’re wonderful. A lot of terrible things have happened, Mitch, but that doesn’t mean you have to turn your back on the good things.”

Coltrane sighed. “Look, I know I was wrong not to keep in touch. I don’t want any tension between us. What do you say we go to dinner tonight? We’ll have that talk we said we were going to have. And maybe I’ll show you a surprise.”

18

AS COLTRANE HEADED UP A SHADOWY, tree-lined, curving street in Sherman Oaks, Jennifer looked at him, baffled. “Where are we going?”

“To the movies.”

“Up here?”

“It’s an out-of-the-way theater.”

“Well, you did say this was going to be a surprise. I might as well lie back and enjoy the ride.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Dinner had been at a place called the Natural Food Café – low-fat foods, no pesticides, no preservatives – a welcome change from Coltrane’s recent fast-food dietary assaults on his body. The grilled salmon, wild rice, and steamed vegetables had tasted wholesome and soothing.

His conversation with Jennifer had also been soothing, a lot of issues having been settled: his confusion about himself, her confusion about him.

“When I saw you that night – covered with mud and ashes and what looked like blood – when I saw what you had done to Ilkovic, I couldn’t… I felt as if I didn’t know you anymore.”

“I didn’t know myself.”

“And then I couldn’t get over that you’d misled me, that you hadn’t told me what you were planning to do.”

“I’m not sure I realized what I was planning until I was actually doing it. There’s a lot to be confused about.” He touched her hand. “The best thing I can suggest is that we share our confusion and try to move on together.”

Jennifer studied him for the longest time. “Yes.”

He stopped in front of the Tudor house on the street above the glinting valley. As Jennifer got out of the car, tightening her shawl against a chill evening breeze, she shook her head. “What are we doing here?”

Vincent Toler, wearing a blue cashmere pullover, emerged from the house, his cane clicking on the concrete walkway.

Jennifer looked increasingly bewildered.

“Good evening, Mitch.” The elderly man sounded cheerful.

“Good evening, Vincent.”

“And this is Jennifer?” Vincent offered his wizened hand. “Welcome.”

Jennifer shook his hand, not sure what was going on. “Thank you. Vincent…”

“Toler. I understand you’re a movie fan.”

Jennifer turned toward Coltrane, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “You mean we really are going to see a movie? You’re coming with us, Vincent?”

“No, the two of you are coming with me.”

Jennifer immediately looked baffled again as Vincent guided them toward the house.

“I collect old movies,” Vincent explained. “Last night, Mitchell watched The Trailblazer with me.”

“I’m beginning to understand. Over dinner, I heard about…” Jennifer looked at Coltrane. “So this is where you saw it. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to be predictable and boring.”

“You’re definitely not that.”

They entered Vincent’s living room, which he explained had been converted into a screening area for a once-famous director who had owned the house in the fifties.

“What was his name?” Jennifer asked. When Vincent told her, she shook her head. “I don’t think I ever heard of him.”

“His specialty was comedies. His sense of humor fell out of fashion. Sic transit gloria.” Vincent’s tone was filled with melancholy. “At least George B. Seitz died before he fell out of fashion.”

“Mitch told me how much he enjoyed The Trailblazer. He made me wish I’d seen it with him. Now that I know the movie we’re going to watch, I can’t wait.”

“Oh,” Vincent said. His Vandyke beard emphasized the drop of his chin. “I hope I’m not going to disappoint you.”

“Disappoint me?”’

“You won’t be seeing The Trailblazer.”

Coltrane frowned. “We won’t? But I thought-”

“I know many collectors of vintage films. I made some phone calls this morning and managed to track down the other movie you’re interested in.”

“You’re kidding.” Coltrane sat forward. “You’re telling me you actually found a copy of-”

“Jamaica Wind.”

19

THE PROJECTOR WHIRRED, the screen glinted with a black-and-white drawing of palm trees, and South Seas music started playing. Beneath the title, the director’s name appeared.

“Never heard of this man, either,” Jennifer said.

“For good reason, I’m told.” In the darkness, Vincent came back from the projection booth. “The collector friend who loaned me these reels says that this director didn’t have a quarter of the skills that Seitz had.”

“Apparently not,” Jennifer said. “Hawaiian music in Jamaica? God help us.”

Coltrane gripped his chair when Rebecca Chance’s name appeared.

Cameraman.

Screenwriters.

Produced by…

“Winston Case?” Jennifer sounded surprised. “Wasn’t he the first owner of…”

“Packard’s house.” Coltrane kept his gaze fixed on the screen. “Rebecca bought it from him. And Packard bought it from her.”

“And took thousands of pictures of her,” Jennifer said. “What on earth was going on?”

“I’m hoping this movie will help us find out.”

When Coltrane had developed his prints updating Packard’s series about L.A. houses, he had gone over each of them with a magnifying glass, searching for the slightest imperfection in the darkroom process: a bubble in the emulsion, a water spot. His concentration had been intense. But it didn’t equal the intensity with which he now stared at the images before him. Vincent was right: The direction of Jamaica Wind was clumsy compared with Seitz’s work on The Trailblazer. Coltrane didn’t care. The movie’s faults didn’t matter. Rebecca Chance was in this movie. That was what mattered.

The plot was about English pirates fighting to unseat a corrupt British governor-general. The lean, dashing, mustached hero alternated sword fighting with kissing the heroine, the daughter of the governor-general’s aide.

“This is terrible,” Jennifer said.

Coltrane concentrated harder on the screen.

“Look at that beach,” Jennifer said. “It obviously isn’t in Jamaica. It looks more like Santa Monica. I think I see the curve of Malibu in the background.”