“No,” she said. “When he moved out of his Simi house, he got rid of everything. Didn’t even own a car. When we went out, I had to pick him up.”

“Back when I knew him,” said Milo, “he was a photography buff. He ever get back into that?”

“Yes, he did, as a matter of fact. He enjoyed taking walks in the hills and capturing nature, bought himself a cheap little camera. When I saw how much he liked it, I bought him a Nikon for his sixty-eighth birthday. His pictures were pretty. Want to see them?”

She took us to the house’s single bedroom, a tidy, pine-paneled space filled by a queen bed covered with a batik spread and flanked by two mismatched nightstands. Framed photos blanketed the walls. Hills, valleys, trees, arroyos dry and flowing, sunrises, sunsets, the kiss of winter snow. Crisp colors, good composition. But nothing higher than vegetable on the evolutionary scale, not even a bird in the sky.

“Nice,” said Milo. “Did Pierce have his own darkroom?”

“We converted a half bath. Wasn’t he talented?”

“He was, ma’am. When I knew Pierce, he liked to read about science.”

“Did he? Well, I never saw that. Mostly he’d turned meditative. Could just sit in the living room and stare out at the view for hours. Except for the times when he got the cop look or had those dreams, he was at peace. Ninety-nine percent of the time he was at peace.”

“During the one percent,” I said, “did he ever say what was bothering him?”

“No, sir.”

“During the last month or so before his accident, how was his mood?”

“Fine,” she said. Her face clouded. “Oh no, don’t go thinking that. It was an accident. Pierce wasn’t a strong rider, and he was sixty-eight years old. I shouldn’t have let him ride that long by himself, even on Akhbar.”

“That long?” said Milo.

“He was gone half a day. Usually, he only rode for an hour or so. He had his Nikon with him, said he wanted to catch some afternoon sun.”

“Taking pictures.”

“He never got to. The roll inside his camera was blank. He must’ve fallen right at the beginning and lain there for a while. I should’ve gone looking sooner. The doctor assured me that kind of head wound would have taken him right away. At least he didn’t suffer.”

“Hit his head on a rock,” said Milo.

She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” Milo stepped closer to the photos on the wall. “These really are good, ma’am. Did Pierce keep any albums of his slides or proofs?”

Marge stepped around the bed to the left-hand nightstand. Atop the table were a woman’s watch and an empty glass. Sliding open a drawer, she removed two albums and placed them on the bed.