Now Hook moved toward the door. He had gotten something, and figured he would not get much more with Icarus’s friends there. “Thanks very much,” he said. “I’m sorry I barged in on you.”

“Wait. Hold on.” Icarus had scrambled to his feet. “There’s something I want to give you first.” He swept into a small adjoining room, a photographer’s darkroom, it appeared. Then immediately he came out again, holding up a large matted black-and-white photograph, which he handed to Hook now.

It was a portrait of Chris.

The boy was sitting at the legless table over coffee and a roll, smiling in the brilliant morning light.

“I took it the day before he left,” Icarus said. “It’s good, isn’t it? The quality of light. It’s got a kind of Vermeer feel to it, don’t you think?”

Hook could not speak. He thought he had gotten over this part of it, the stabbing sense of loss, the pain, yet here it was again. His eyes, abruptly filling, saw only light, starbursts of burning candles and turning mirrors. He mumbled his thanks and opened the door and somehow stumbled down the stone stairs to the driveway.

He was halfway to the street when Icarus came running up behind him.

“Hey, you all right, Mr. Hook? You okay?”

“It came as a surprise, that’s all.”

“Well, gee, I’m sorry. I—”

“It’s all right. I’m grateful,” Hook told him. “I appreciate having it. It means a lot to me.”

“I’ve still got the neg,” Icarus said. “I can make more.”

“Fine.” As Hook went toward his car, the young man walked along with him.

“I’m sorry about in there,” he said. “Rooney, I mean. It’s just his way. He’s really hung up on this generation thing.”

“So I gathered.”

“Me, I’m glad you came out here. I mean I’m glad to get to see you—the way Chris talked about you and the farm and all. I know it isn’t like Joe said in there, an ego trip.”

Hook said nothing. They had reached the street.

“And for what it’s worth—I think you’re right. Chris couldn’t have killed himself. He just didn’t have it in him.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, he was, you know—he really had got it all together.”

“Will you tell that to the police?”

Icarus smiled uneasily. “Oh, I don’t know, man. I mean, what difference would it make what I say?”

“It might help.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t. I mean, well, I don’t like to be hassled. And you know what they’re like, the police.”

“There’d be no problem. Just a statement.”

The young man looked away from Hook’s eyes. “Let me think about it first, okay? I’d just like to think about it first.”

Hook had no choice. “Sure. It’s up to you.”

At his car now, Hook stood with the door open and got in a few more questions before leaving. Did Icarus know the city very well? Yes, he had been born and raised in Santa Barbara. Did he have much to do with the rich, the well-off? As far as he was concerned, that covered almost everyone in the city, but yes, he sometimes was hired to photograph their weddings and parties and such, and now and then he was even invited as a guest—as “a conversation piece,” he added ruefully.