“You should have told me about this before. It helps me understand a lot of things.”

“That’s why I’m telling you now. I lost you once, Mitch. I don’t want to lose you again.”

10

PACKARD’S ADDRESS WAS IN NEWPORT BEACH. Coltrane’s Thomas Guide led him to a Spanish-style mansion partially concealed by a high stucco wall. Both the wall and the house were pale pink, severely sun-faded, although the clouds from Friday night’s storm lingered, cloaking everything in gray. Driving through an open iron gate, Coltrane saw pools of water around cracks in the driveway’s blacktop. Shrubs needed trimming. Avocados rotted on the ground.

The overweight, colorfully dressed man who had wheeled Packard away at the reception answered the doorbell. He looked as if he’d had a hard night. His red sport coat matched the flush of his heavy cheeks. His gray-and-white mustache seemed to push down his mouth. He was holding a half-finished glass of what Coltrane assumed was a Bloody Mary. “I’m not convinced this is a good idea,” the man murmured.

Coltrane couldn’t tell if he meant drinking his lunch or inviting Coltrane in.

“The reception was very hard on him,” the man said.

“I wouldn’t have guessed. He seemed to be in fine form.”

“Because he was spirited? That’s when you know he feels most vulnerable.” The man shifted his Bloody Mary to his left hand and offered his right. The hand was cold from the ice in the glass he’d been holding. “Duncan Reynolds.”

“Mitch Coltrane.”

“I know. A word to the wise. Watch him carefully. I haven’t the faintest notion what he’s up to this time.”

When Coltrane frowned, Duncan frowned in return. “Something the matter?”

“I guess I’m not used to someone’s friend warning me about the other friend. At least not the first time we have a conversation.”

“Friend?” Duncan tucked in his chin, creating wrinkles in his puffy neck. “You think Randolph and I are friends? Good God, no. I’m his assistant. Chief cook and bottle washer. His private nurse.”

From somewhere in the house, a bell rang.

“I wouldn’t keep him waiting,” Duncan said.

Throughout this exchange, the front door had remained open. Now, when Duncan shut it and Coltrane followed him along a muffled corridor, he realized how dark the interior was. Dense draperies covered the windows in several indistinct rooms he passed. By comparison, the last room had muted recessed lights that seemed almost bright. The furniture was surprisingly sparse – a few padded chairs, a coffee table, and a sofa, all showing signs of wear. There was nothing on the walls. The draperies had been parted, but not the lace curtains behind them. Past a wall of windows, filtered gray daylight showed a strip of lawn littered with leaves. Beyond was a yacht moored at a dock, both looking in need of maintenance. Even the water seemed dingy.

Coltrane heard a subtle hissing sound. At first, he thought it came from a pump on a fish tank, but when he finished taking in the room and focused on Packard, who sat in his wheelchair next to a fireplace, Coltrane saw plastic prongs in the old man’s nostrils, connected to a tube that led to a small oxygen tank at the back of the wheelchair. Packard seemed to be drowning in a pair of green silk pajamas and a matching robe. His narrow face looked more shrunken than the previous evening, his eyes filmy, his white hair sparse, his skin mottled with brown. When he coughed, the sand that had seemed wedged in his throat at the reception no longer bothered him. His present problem was a lot of phlegm.

Coltrane looked discreetly away while the old man used a handkerchief. “Perhaps if I came back another time…”

“Nonsense,” Packard whispered hoarsely. “I asked you to lunch.”

Barely able to hear him, Coltrane stepped closer.

“I rarely invite anyone to the house.”

Now Coltrane was close enough that, if he wanted to, he could touch him. There was something oddly intimate about Packard’s forced whisper.

“And I certainly don’t go back on offers I make.” The old man cleared his throat with difficulty. “But I’m afraid my appetite isn’t what it should be.” The oxygen continued its subtle hiss. “No doubt something I ate at the reception last night. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t share the meal with you.”

“Since you’re not feeling well, why don’t we do this another time?”

“I won’t hear of it. Duncan, bring our young man something to eat. Is there anything you particularly enjoy?”

“A sandwich is fine. Whatever.”

“I was thinking of something a little more elaborate than a sandwich.” Packard cocked his wizened head. “If the Dom Pérignon is properly chilled, Duncan, would you bring it out now?”

Duncan saluted with his Bloody Mary and left.

11

THE ROOM BECAME SILENT, except for the hiss of oxygen. The contrast between this conversation and the one the previous evening was more striking. Coltrane decided that Packard not only had worn makeup at the reception but had been energized by some kind of drug. The drug must have put him on edge. That would explain why his present tone was so agreeably the opposite of the one he had used at the reception.

“I see you brought the collection for me to sign. Which one is it?”

“Reflections of the City of Angels.”

Packard sounded oddly sad. “That has always been my favorite. How on earth did you find a copy? It’s very rare. And very expensive.”

“I spent a lot of time haunting rare-book stores.”

“You certainly must have.” Packard took the oversized book and the fountain pen Coltrane offered him. When he opened the cover, he drew his spindly hand affectionately along a page. “I got older. This paper, the finest I could find, remains the same as when the book was printed in 1931. A lifetime ago.” With a nostalgic shake of his head, he uncapped the pen and managed the strength for a solid flourish of a signature.

“There.” He looked mischievous as he returned the pen and the book. “Now it’s even more rare and more expensive. While you’re holding that pen, I wonder if you’d return the favor and sign something for me.”

Coltrane didn’t understand. Baffled, he watched Packard reach into a pouch on the side of the chair and bring out a copy of Through a Lens Darkly, Coltrane’s only collection of photographs, images from war zones.

“You do know my work,” he said in amazement.

“A Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer has a way of attracting my attention,” Packard said. “You’re very good.”

“Thank you.” Coltrane’s voice thickened. “Coming from you, that means a great deal.” He managed to control his hand when he signed the book. “But I wish I’d devoted my career to something besides war and pain. I’ve been having a lot of second thoughts.”

“The day you’re satisfied with your work is the day you’ll stop being an excellent photographer,” Packard said.

The old man suddenly coughed.

The cough increased alarmingly.

“Is there anything I can…”

“No.” Packard strained to speak through the handkerchief pressed to his mouth.

Coltrane felt helpless, wanting to pat him on the back but afraid the old man was so frail that he might injure him.

At last, Packard straightened. “It’s this weather. The chill in the air. I shouldn’t have gone out last night.”

“Then why did you?” The abrupt voice was Duncan’s. He entered with an ice bucket, a champagne glass, a white towel, and the Dom Pérignon.

“To remind myself of how blind people are,” Packard said. “The only person who recognized the inferiority of my recent photographs is our young man here.”

“Or maybe everyone else was being polite.” Duncan popped the champagne open and poured the glass for Coltrane.

“That still makes Mr. Coltrane the only credible person at the reception.”