The Phantom Photographer: Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 3 (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (22 page)

Meanwhile, the new millennium had proven to be a boon to Michael’s actual business. Certainly, there were successful wealthy people when he’d arrived in Mill Valley, but now the remaining traces of a bohemian hideaway had, like those in Sausalito and elsewhere in Marin, all but vanished. Musicians, craftspeople, and fine artists were chased north up the coast toward Mendocino and Humboldt counties. Mill Valley had become the home of high tech wizards, top attorneys, noted physicians and surgeons, and hedge fund managers. Many of these highly successful individuals provided a remarkable lift to Michael’s core business. Extortion demands that once ranged between four and eight hundred dollars, moved upward until they averaged fifteen-hundred-dollar monthly payments. Regardless of backgrounds and biographies, sexual proclivities remained unchanged.

Because it made him feel like he was part of something more admirable than his peculiar business, Michael endeavored to remain in close contact with the people he called his “colleagues,” Ted Dondero and Holly Cross. Rob, between four weekly editions and a family, had little free time; but Holly and Ted, one single and thirty-something, the other a retired widower, often had extra time on their hands, which the childless bachelor was always happy to help fill.
 

Once a month, Holly and Michael met at their favorite place for burgers and fries, Marin Joe’s, which was less than a mile north of Mill Valley off of an access road alongside of Highway 101. Holly, ever curious, used any occasion in which they were together to inquire about Michael’s business interests. From what he had told her previously, it was apparent that his being well settled financially had little connection to any member of his family. She had heard the sad tale of his father and brother in the years after his mother’s sudden disappearance. Certainly there was no family fortune being shared among the Marks.
 

Holly wasn’t shy about digging deeper, grandparents, uncles, aunts; but she uncovered no obvious connection that afforded Michael the life he led. As he had done on other occasions, Michael, because it amused him to do so, concocted a story about one of the Bay Area’s technology companies that he had some connection with, holding certain proprietary rights for which he received royalties. But within twenty-four hours, Holly had spent the needed time researching the crumbs of information Michael had shared during their time together, and once again came up empty.
 

Soon after one of their rendezvous, Holly would raise the topic with Rob during one of their long workdays.
 

“I really like Michael, but there is something about him that doesn’t make sense,” Holly began.

“I’m not saying this to change the subject, but why should you give a damn? He’s not exactly your type.”

“What is my type, Rob?”

“How the hell should I know? But I’m pretty certain it’s not Michael.”

“I wouldn’t say that; I’m thirtyish, single, and broke every month after I pay my rent. Perhaps it’s time I broaden my horizons. It would be nice to have a man around, even if he didn’t look like Channing Tatum. Do you know I came home the other night and there was a family of spiders running across the floor of my bedroom? Michael’s not exactly my type, but he’s smart, has money, and probably knows more about killing spiders than I do. And for me, those are all good qualities.”

Ted’s fascination with Michael, although he denied having any, was motivated by the same curiosity nearly everyone shared: How was Michael able to afford his lifestyle? It must be an inheritance, Ted reasoned. But eventually, he would abandon that thought and embrace another. He had a relaxed ease with money that Ted only observed among those who had more than enough resources to live a very comfortable life in a very expensive part of the world.
 

Ted and Michael enjoyed a lunch at the Balboa Café once a month, and Michael always insisted on paying. As a senior on a fixed pension, Ted was only too happy to oblige, in spite of his half-hearted protestations that they should, “split the bill!”
 

Despite telling others to mind their own business, like Holly, he gently prodded Michael. Ever the student of human behavior, and fully understanding their curiosity, Michael fed both Holly and Ted a steady diet of misinformation.

In all the years Michael had spent in Mill Valley, he had heard most of these questions before. Still, as Ted persistently tried to suggest, “The nature of your seemingly carefree life makes you the proverbial nail sticking up out of the porch. There are always going to be people running around with hammers,” Ted cautioned, “looking to knock your nail back into place.”

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

Michael awoke, as he most often did in recent years, not long after dawn. One of the things he loved most about his life was the early morning view of the canyon from out on his small peaceful deck.
 

When he stepped outside, he immediately noticed that like the day of the earthquake, all those many years before, the air was unusually warm and the seemingly ever-present breeze coming off Mt. Tam had stilled.
 

There was no other time of day when the canyon was so perfectly peaceful. Birds already busy, crows and hawks patrolling, while small woodland creatures scurried about. This was a brief window of time before the start of all the noises humans make. Voices raised in conversation, televisions, radios, and worse, cars, vans and trucks, often rattling off one canyon wall and then echoing back off of another.
 

This was the time that Michael enjoyed considering the great success of his business. He was currently taking in twenty-eight thousand dollars a month, off the books, divided into cash reserves and money he had laundered and then invested in legitimate ventures. Shares in hotels and condominium developments in Mexico and a variety of other opportunities, all of which offered him the promise of a comfortable retirement when he decided to hang up his camera.
   

He had gone nearly six months since catching his last mark, a financial advisor who took liberties with the trophy wife of a retired Chevron executive. They met at her husband’s eightieth birthday celebration, she thirty, and her husband’s untrustworthy advisor ten years her senior.
 

When Michael confronted the lover, casually laying before him three photos capturing their most revealing moments at the worst possible time, a thousand dollars a month to keep the pictures he had taken between the two of them seemed like a very reasonable proposition. The old man had no issue with her extravagant shopping trips, but he drew a line in the sand regarding fidelity. And for his hard driving financial advisor with the promising future, the retired multi-millionaire would have done his very best not only to see that he was tossed from the reputable firm he was now affiliated with, but that no one, at least in the Bay Area, would ever invite him into a partnership with their firm.
 

Through the years, Michael had remained faithful to his work ethic. Know your targets, understand their appetites and indiscretions, and remain faithful to the ideal of taking whatever time needed to get the job done. “Do it right, or don’t do it at all,” Caleb often reminded him.
 

In the heavily wooded area behind and above the Fitzsimmons’ home, the shooter had made a comfortable nest. His weapon of choice: a Mauser, M98, a popular hunting rifle equipped with a scope. A calm, relaxed manner, a properly sited target, and a confident squeeze of the trigger were all essential to achieving the right result.

The rifle’s retort sent a sharp crack that echoed along the curves and ridges of the canyon. For those awake shortly before seven-thirty, it naturally caught their attention. A sudden bang, followed by nothing but silence.
 

“Sounded like a gun going off,” a few people said to whomever they were near. But the quiet that followed calmed their concerns, and most dismissed it as an odd moment likely not to be repeated. In any event, a new day was starting, a Friday, the last work and school day of the week. Whether they were showering to get ready for work or trying to rouse the kids to get dressed for school and then come to the kitchen for some breakfast, they were far too busy to give much thought to what was most likely some idiot shooting at a bird, or simply a car backfiring.

As for Mrs. Fitzsimmons, when she awoke just before eight, she wondered if she had sometime earlier heard a bang. Likely a dream she decided, as she sleepily dragged herself to the kitchen and poured water into her single cup coffee maker.
 

By this time, the shooter was long gone. The gun, wiped clean, half-heartedly buried under a pile of rotting leaves within inches of where it had been fired. The shooter knew this weapon had a registration that led nowhere. Far better for the police to find it in the hours or days to come than for him to be spotted by one of the residents of Rose Avenue walking back to his car carrying a rifle, or equally problematic, a gun case.
 

Just before nine, dressed and ready to leave for a two-day stay at her friend’s home in Santa Cruz, Mrs. Fitzsimmons looked out her front window and was pleased to see Michael’s car parked out on the front deck’s carport. She came out and walked along the narrow portion of the deck that led from her parking area to her guest unit and rang Michael’s doorbell. No response. She was surprised, but not concerned. Michael was nearly always awake before her, but he rarely went out to work this early in the day. But now and then, he did spend the evening out.

She had two floor lamps and an old couch scheduled for pickup Saturday morning by Goodwill, and she wanted to leave him the key to her place so the pieces could be removed. So, she took her spare front door key, placed it in an envelope with a note attached to the front and took her passkey to enter his place and leave the envelope on his front table.
 

Over the many years Michael had rented her in-law suite, they had grown close and comfortable with each other. He would do small favors for her, and she, in turn, for him. They exchanged generous and thoughtful gifts on Christmas and birthdays. She gave him small rental increases, and he always paid in cash and on the first of the month. They both mostly kept to their separate lives, but they were there for each other when needed.