carefully folded between the double sinks. The sinks themselves were spotless and smelled faintly of Clorox. The first level was like a loft; kitchen, dining area, bath, and laundry room cantilevered over the broad living room below.
Then she followed him down the stairway to the main level, which was one long airy space with a fireplace at one end. A door led to what Angel assumed was a bedroom on the other. A central patio door opened onto the wide deck. She could see a wedge of river between the trees. It was all very spare and orderly; minimal furniture, maximum hardwood floors, bare walls and windows. A computer desk was set along the wall by the fireplace with an equipment rack next to it. Long black canvas bags were stacked on the rack. A rolled-up scrim hung from the wall like a picture screen. Some spidery folded-up metal things leaned against the rack, like music stands. Probably for lights. But she didn’t see any lights.
“You liked the darkroom, huh? Well, things have changed,” A. J. said.
“What do you mean?” Angel was immediately wary. She reminded herself not to touch anything.
“I mean the darkroom. Like, where is it?” A. J. asked.
Angel shrugged. “But this isn’t your studio, is it?”
“Pretty much.” He swung his camera up on the strap over his shoulder. It was dense black and intricate with knobs, buttons, apertures, a heavy lens. She could tell it was very heavy, just the way he braced to raise it up. “Everything is internal now.”
“Internal?”
A. J. pointed to the computer along the wall. “Like, in there. In the tube.”
“No darkroom? No more chemicals and doing things with your hands, the shadow stuff. .?”
“Dodging.” A. J. bobbed his head. “Yeah, I miss it; the little touch of witchcraft. But then this came along.” He held up the camera. “Nikon D1 digital. Check this out.” He pointed to a small gray window on the camera’s thicker right side. “I press this monitor button, and the most recent shot comes on in this viewing window.”
He smiled when he said that and moved closer so his hip and arm brushed her, casual but intimate. Angel didn’t care; she’d completed her physical trick and didn’t even feel it. He might have been touching a wall. And she’d made up her mind on this. She’d allow him in a lot closer to get a look into his computer files.
But then she stiffened. The picture that popped up in the monitor window was of herself, captured in miniature. That was her, all right, sitting on her towel at the beach. Perfectly framed and perfectly clear. The sonofabitch must have a long-angle lens. He must have taken her picture just before he walked over and started talking her up.
This was not good.
But she controlled herself and said, “A. J., I don’t mind you taking my picture, but I’d like to know in advance; I don’t care for this sneaky candid stuff.”
A. J. placed the palm of his hand on his chest. “I apologize. Habit. What I do. But the thing is” — he smiled- “you can delete it; see the button here, next to Monitor. .”
“How cute; it’s got a little bitty trash can on it,” Angel said, feeling more relieved and seeing her opening.
“All you have to do is press the delete. Go ahead.”
Angel was reluctant to touch the camera. She did not believe that wiping surfaces reliably eliminated all traces of fingerprints. But this was not a time to introduce speed bumps. She put her index finger forward and carefully pressed the button with the tip of her fingernail.
“See,” A. J. said.
A dialog box appeared in the middle of the picture in the monitor. ERASING IMAGES. Underneath it said YES, then a little hand pointing to a delete icon identical to the delete button she had pressed. She pressed the delete button again with her fingernail, and the picture disappeared.
She smiled and pursed her lips. “But how do I know that’s the only picture?”
A. J. acted hurt. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t
Angel pronounced
“I can do that, like, just here? Now?” Angel appeared to be genuinely curious. The fact was she knew her away around Macintosh computers and Photoshop software. She smiled.
A. J. smiled back.
He didn’t know she’d smiled because she felt she was getting warm.
A. J. removed the film card from his camera. “Four hundred bucks, one hundred twenty snaps.” It was the size of a short, flat book of matches. He put the card into a slot in a mouselike pad. His screen saver-a goofy dog sailing after a bone-vanished, and his desktop appeared. Then a Nikon D1 icon came on. His fingers flew over the keyboard, and strips of pictures appeared.
“There you go,” he said, “just scroll through them and see for yourself.”
Warmer.
“Show me,” she said. She put her beach bag down under the computer table within easy reach. Then she sat in the chair in front of the Macintosh and kept her hands primly in her lap.
“Just use the mouse to scroll. If you want to magnify, double-click on the checked box in the corner of the frame.” His lips were close to her ear, and she could smell his breath on her cheek. His breath smelled like Tic Tacs. She recalled that the priest’s breath had smelled exactly the same through the grille in the confessional.
“Can I ask you something personal?” A. J. said.
Angel prepared herself.
But he said, “You didn’t go swimming, did you?”
“No. Why do you ask?” She was still sitting up straight, hands folded in her lap, reluctant to touch the keyboard.
“Because you’re wearing a very expensive wig, and you didn’t want to get it wet.”
Angel turned and looked A. J. directly in the eye. “Tell me, do you think the first time you meet somebody is an appropriate occasion to discuss the Big
Her words were a puff of fire. He immediately stepped back.
“Don’t worry,” Angel said with a brave smile, “it’s under control. And A. J.? it’s not contagious.”
A. J. blushed with embarrassment. Before he could stammer a response, Angel spoke up.
“Now can I tell you something personal?”
“Sure.”
“You
“Good point. Why don’t I take a shower. You can browse around the computer. Just don’t pull the card out of the reader, okay?”
Angel nodded. “Gotcha.”
He turned and bounced up the stairs and went into the bathroom. The moment the door closed behind him, Angel reached into her bag and yanked on her latex gloves. By the time she heard water running in the pipes, she had closed out of the pictures A. J. had taken today and was racing through his card files.
No categories to help her. Just dates going back a month. Then maybe he refiled them, probably after burning them to a DVD.
She pulled up dates and scanned a few frames. It was routine newspaper filler-head shots, people at events, local-color shots. Minutes passed. Her fingers blurred over the keys; opening files, random scanning, closing them. She almost didn’t want to find anything.
But then, of course, she did.
She scrolled down the strip of frames. This was some kind of fashion shoot because the subject was posed against a light blue background. She got up, went to the hanging scrim mounted on the wall by the equipment rack. Pulled it down and found a matching light blue. So probably these were taken here.
She returned to the desk and studied a picture of a blond teenage boy in a pair of jeans naked from the waist up. He was thin but svelte, with smooth little ab muscles. Some of the shots looked as if he was modeling the jeans, but in others he was clearly modeling himself.
