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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
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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