The Phantom Photographer: Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 3 (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (19 page)

“You said you had a total of eighteen prints; you’ve given me three. I want to see the rest of them.”

“Making more prints is not a great idea. Every print out there is one more chance that your secrets are not safe. In truth, I would prefer taking back those three prints. The only real purpose of giving you those was to prove the quality of the images that I have. All the negatives I keep are stashed in a safe deposit box. Only one other person has the key to that box, and that’s my best friend. Anything happens to indicate my death was deliberate, and that box is opened and prints of those negatives are sent to a list of Bay Area news outlets.”

As on other occasions, this story of Michael’s was a ruse. There was no one he would trust with such a responsibility, not to mention the story he would have to concoct for this phantom linchpin to keep secret all of his acts of blackmail.
 

But for Fancher and others with difficult secrets to keep, the idea of dealing with an actual case of extortion created enough of a criminal aspect to the entire transaction that their ultimate desire, invariably unstated, was to keep their heads down and simply do as they were told.

“Alright,” Fancher said after further thought, “I want those other 15 prints when I’ve completed all my payments. As for these three, I’m keeping them in a secure place.”

“Fair enough,” Michael said, hoping this concluded their transaction.
 

Something about Fancher made Michael more uncomfortable in his presence than any of his other targets. Obviously, none were pleased by his desire to extort money from them, but some, best exampled by John Walker, treated it more like a business transaction. Perhaps it was the sadomasochistic angle, or the dangerous involvement he had with his sister-in-law that made Fancher such an uncomfortable capture. And perhaps he would have been wiser to ask for one lump sum. Take twenty-five thousand and call it a day. But it was easier to bury a thousand a month in your company’s records or your own checking account. A twenty-five thousand dollar check is far more difficult to explain away. Never mind, he thought, the deal was done. It was time to simply take the money and run.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

Michael backed away from the business of finding new targets for the next several months. To his relief, he had no need to pay a second call on Fancher. His payments, like those of Fred, Marv, Ward Williams, and Walker, came in on time at the start of each month. Fancher’s money and silence sent a clear unspoken message: Here is your money; I never want to see you again.
 

Michael was fine with that. His was an unpleasant business, and he knew that. The only acknowledgement he should expect from any of his “clients,” was his monthly fee for staying silent, which meant keeping his wickedly obtained photographs to himself.
 

Still, there was an unacknowledged pain that he felt over throwing Juliette aside. He knew she was a victim of her own depravity and he was merely the instrument of her punishment. Yet, he fantasized that she might have loved him, and he, in turn, might have committed the selfless act of burning the negatives which evidenced Juliette’s wicked behavior.
 

But that was all make believe, of course. In the real world, Fancher’s thousand-dollar monthly payment alone paid Michael’s rent, utilities, phone, and cable bill. Mrs. Fitzsimmons had no problem with Michael’s suggestion that he pay his rent in cash. She was only too happy to ignore the income when preparing her taxes.
 

Michael’s new job with Walt was even better than his position with Milton. Walt generously gave Michael two pay raises in his first six months at the store and, like Milton, he made his darkroom available whatever time, day or night, Michael needed. In addition to Michael’s helpful service to the shop’s customers, Walt greatly appreciated his civic-minded behavior. He volunteered to cover the start of the Dipsea Race and document in photos the town’s annual arts festival. Before long, he was asked if he could cover photography services for local chamber events and the Rotary’s holiday party.

Ears and eyes always at the ready, Michael picked up plenty of random gossip, which he entered every night into his notepad before going to bed. There was the odd story about Diane Ruby, who had been caught by her husband when he returned home from a business trip one day earlier than expected, sharing a bed with his secretary, a woman with whom he was also having an affair.

There was Dale Weber, a local orthodontist, a longtime married gentleman, who had made one too many passes at his dental hygienist, and now was the subject of a sexual harassment suit.
 

Michael came to think of all this gossip as creating a steady buzz of background noise. Scandal, he reasoned, would always be there, no matter what city he chose to call home. He kept his notes, considered a variety of possible targets, and counted his money, which kept adding up.
 

Michael toyed with the idea of asking Walt if he could buy a share of his camera shop, but then held back because of his concern that Walt may no longer see him as a hard working young man deserving of steadily increasing compensation, but rather as an individual of means, or worse with Walt’s socialist leanings, well settled because of unspoken family money. If he was to become involved in partial ownership of a retail camera operation, he decided, it would need to be with someone other than Walt.
 

Through Walt, Michael met a woman who had a passion for nature photography. Coincidentally, like Juliette, she was an elementary school teacher. But Joanne Hill taught science to fifth and sixth graders. Joanne was not blessed with the sexual allure of Juliette; she didn’t have her dramatic cheek bones, clear green eyes, radiant hair, or a patrician’s profile. In a pair of blue jeans, at play on a Saturday at the nearby Marin City swap meet, she looked more like the healthy Petaluma farm girl that she truly was. She wasn’t particularly attractive or unattractive. She might have simply been described as plain, or perhaps wholesome. But she was blessed with a pleasant smile and a kind manner, which diminished her less than perfect physical attributes.
 

Clearly, Joanne was bright and a much-needed partner for a twenty-eight year old man, who had become in his own view, entirely too accustomed to sex as a solo act.
 

Michael enjoyed the touch of her body next to his, but was always aware that his mother’s betrayal of her husband and her sons made it nearly impossible for him to feel completely trusting in any relationship. Still, he worked hard to set aside his fears. At some point, he imagined himself being part of a couple, and perhaps Joanne could be that other half.
 

Often they met after Joanne had finished her work day at Old Mill School. On one surprisingly warm mid-October afternoon, they thought their best bet to catch a breath of cool air in a place where no one owned an air conditioner, was to spend the balance of their day inside a grove of towering redwoods in Old Mill Park.
 

For a time, they lay together atop one of the massive old picnic tables that sat in a three-sided square all at right angles to each other. The tabletops were broad enough to accommodate Michael’s ever-widening frame. Joanne, less than half of her boyfriend’s body size, nestled in the crook of his arm.
 

It was quiet there and Michael was at peace lying beneath these towering giants. The two watched what they called “fairies dancing” as bits of dust falling from the tops of the redwoods caught the late afternoon sun. It was similar to the same wonderful effect he saw hiking Mill Valley on the day he fell in love with this special place.

“Should we go up to your place and turn on the game?” Joanne asked.
 

Michael looked at his watch and said, “It’s just a couple of minutes past five. We’ve got a little more time, I think the game starts around five-thirty. They must be doing pregame coverage right now. And I don’t think you’re going to really enjoy game three anyway, considering how my A’s have whipped up on your Giants,” he teased.

“We’ll see about that, smarty pants,” Joanne said, as they both sat up and she lightly punched his arm.

Together, they watched two boys, probably six or seven years old, climb to the top of what was a ridiculously high slide rising above an old cracked concrete pad. The lead child came sliding down quickly with the dry heat of the day making the slide extra fast.

The second child was just about to follow when, while sitting at the top of the slide, the entire structure appeared to jump and then shook violently.
 

“Mommy!” the boy screamed, as he gripped the bar at the top while his joy suddenly turned into panic.

Joanne watched as the empty swings nearby began to dance wildly. Someone yelled, “Earthquake!” The terrified mother at the bottom of the slide reached out her arms and shouted, “Slide down.” And then just as quickly shouted, “No! Hold on!”

It didn’t seem to matter at this point what his mother said. The boy was so completely gripped by fear that he held on to the bar at the slide’s top and decided that no matter what happened he would not let go.
 

In an earthquake, everything seems to happen at once. And every second seems to last an eternity. The normal stress reaction of all creatures toward fight or flight is frustrated because neither course of action presents a safer solution. Staying in place can be the wrong thing to do. A decision to run might be the last bad choice you will ever make. As the slide bucked, seemingly intent on throwing the little boy off, his fierce determination held steadfast. That precarious, ridiculous slide was now his only lifeboat.
 

The noise was indescribable, as if the entire world was shaking at the exact same moment. The forces of nature were apparently in conspiracy to hurl every creature off the surface of the planet. Michael, acting on instinct alone, leapt off the massive picnic table and ran to the bottom of the slide’s steps. Holding tightly, feeling his heart pounding, he gripped both sides of the rails and went quickly to the top. With his feet six steps from the slide’s top, he slipped his arm around the waist of the little boy and held on to the top rail, praying for a safe outcome. He looked out at the cars parked along Throckmorton just forty feet away and they too shook with all the other once inanimate objects.

I’m holding on, he told himself. At worst, I might get a broken leg or arm, but this little guy is not going to get a broken neck.
 

The shaking stopped as abruptly as it began, and with it, the deafening and frightful noise ended as well.
 

The little boy’s mother, by now in tears, watched as Michael asked the little boy, “What would you like to do? Let me carry you down the steps with me or slide down?”
 

“Slide!” the boy said with a nervous giggle.

He did, landing in his mother’s arms, who lifted him up and squeezed him to the point that he said, “Mama, let go; I can’t breathe.”

She rushed over to Mark as he came down the slide’s steps and said, “Thank you so much.”

“I was happy to be there for him. This little guy of yours is one tough hombre.”

Joanne rushed over, reached up and kissed Michael on the cheek, and whispered, “I’m very proud of you.”.