The Phantom Photographer: Murder in Marin Mystery - Book 3 (Murder in Marin Mysteries) (4 page)

Barbara and Michael’s parting after lunch was awkward. He was distracted, and she was relieved. He was miffed with Fred, and she felt some guilt knowing that she had been less than honest in placing all the blame for Michael’s eviction on the man who had originally come between her and her family.

Michael went back to work with only one thought on his mind: the anger he felt toward Fred. For several years after Barbara’s departure, Michael had secretly asked God to strike his rightful vengeance against the man who had led his mother astray. Fred was a thief who had come into their home, gained the trust of his kind-hearted and hapless father, and stolen his mother away. Through his studies of anthropology, Michael was certain that had these been more primitive times, his father would have come one night and simply murdered them both.
 

Back at the shop, Milton quickly read that something was both distracting and distressing his young protégé, so after an hour’s hesitation, he finally asked, “Michael, what’s bothering you?”

As if he had stuck a pin in a balloon. Michael let loose with all that had happened to his family since the night his mother disappeared with Fred.

“My dad woke in the morning, and when he found she was not there beside him in bed, he went and opened the front door to see if her car was out front. When he did, he saw a note stuck inside the screen door. Can you believe it was only twelve words! My dad looked like he had been hit over the head with a two by four. He walked around in a daze for the next two months.”

Michael was thankful that for the thirty minutes it took him to tell his story, no customers wandered in on what had turned into a rain soaked afternoon. By the time he was done, Milton said softly, “Son, I can tell you’ve been through an awful lot. Let me make some calls and see what I can do. There’s always someone around here with a half empty house looking to rent a room.”

If Michael hadn’t been such an honest, bright, hardworking young man, Milton might not have been so determined to help. But he was, by far, the best store assistant he had ever had, and he was only too pleased to work his community contacts on Michael’s behalf.
 

One week after their lunch, two weeks before Barbara’s suggested move out date, Michael packed his things and made sure to leave when he knew Fred would be at work. He wanted to have as little contact with the man as possible.

Milton gave Michael a step up in three important ways: he identified a perfect garage apartment at a reasonable rent, he connected Michael with one of his Novato chapter Rotary pals, who sold him an aging Honda Civic for twelve easy monthly payments, and unwittingly gave Michael some advice that allowed him to strike back at the man who had stolen his mother away and crushed what Michael had told himself was an otherwise happy home.

During that rainy afternoon when Michael shared the story of his mother’s desertion, Milton put an arm around his shoulder and said, “I’ve known guys like this Fred character. Their behavior always catches up to them.”

“How so?” Michael asked with red-rimmed eyes.

“They’re philanderers, son. I’d bet my home that he’s cheating on your mom right now. Believe me, this Fred guy is someone who does whatever the hell he wants. For God’s sake, you think a decent man seduces a friend’s wife and then leads her astray like that? I might be an old fashioned guy, but trust me, this guy’s rotten. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Just you watch; people like him always come to an unhappy end.”

For the first time, Michael began to wonder: If this were indeed true, how could he use Milton’s theory to assure Fred found himself with at least some of the pain he had caused others? There had to be some way to do that.
 

CHAPTER
FOUR

Mid-morning on the first Sunday after he began life on his own, Michael parked his car a quarter of a mile from Fred and Barbara’s home. From there, he walked out onto the green pastures of the Mt. Burdell preserve and found a comfortable and secluded spot behind a rock outcropping. He opened his camera bag and removed the Nikon 35mm camera that Milton had sold him at his cost and then placed on a twelve-month payment plan. He unscrewed its regular lens and replaced it with a high power telephoto lens. He unwrapped a turkey sandwich and began to enjoy his lunch, while he waited patiently for Fred to come out onto his deck to enjoy his Sunday paper, while sitting in the sun and sipping his coffee.

The night before, Michael thought back to the year he spent living at his home and observing, among other things, Fred’s Sunday routine. He began with a late breakfast, around ten-thirty. Then, sometime between eleven and noon, he sat down with the Sunday paper out on the back porch, weather permitting, until the early afternoon. That was followed by a visit to the nearby YMCA for a workout, a swim, and a visit to the sauna.
 

If Milton was right and Fred was possibly having an affair, his rendezvous might occur in two places: at work, or at the gym. At both locations, he would not run into Barbara; she did not work at his office, and she loathed the noise and the smell of a gym. Fred had given up the job of being a traveling salesman more than three years ago. Office affairs are certainly common, but a good deal riskier than a casual hook-up with an aerobics classmate.
 

Michael used the time, while Fred read his Sunday paper, to practice with his new telephoto lens and see the degree of clarity he could get in pictures from three hundred feet from his target.
 

Whenever using a lens this powerful, the shooter has one of two options, either bring a tripod, impossible while attempting to do what he was now doing, or have a steady surface to lean your camera on. In this case, the flat rock behind which he had burrowed was perfect.

By two-thirty, Fred had put down his paper, gone inside, and was likely preparing to leave for the gym. Michael packed his things, got back to his car, and drove beyond Fred’s home and parked near the intersection of San Andreas and San Marin Drive.
 

Michael knew Fred’s truck, but Fred had never seen Michael’s recently acquired used car. Approximately twenty minutes had passed when he spied in his rear view mirror Fred’s GMC, a vehicle as ridiculously oversized as his ego. Michael started his engine, buried his face in a copy of the county’s free weekly paper,
The Pacific Sun
, and peered over the top as Fred drove by. There was no need to follow closely; Fred was a creature of habit, and it was highly likely he was on his way to his Sunday afternoon workout.
 

Michael followed at a relaxed pace, keeping an all but unnoticeable distance as Fred drove the couple of miles down to the entrance of Highway 101, and then the seven miles south to the YMCA, located off Los Gamos Drive. This particular location could not have been better for a discreet observer, the parking lot of the Y being down a steep slope about ten feet below the level of the main road that sits behind it. Michael sat in his car reading product feature information on his new Nikon telephoto lens, hoping it would prove useful before the afternoon was over. He then got out of his car and stood behind a row of bushes; behind him there was only the quiet of a deserted office building and an empty parking lot.
 

It was a typically busy Sunday afternoon at the gym, with people steadily going in and coming out. Michael, thinking it was near the time that Fred should be leaving, perched himself across the hood of his aging Honda and waited with his Nikon strapped around his neck and the lens elevated and balanced on the camera’s sturdy case.
 

To Michael’s delight, Fred emerged from the gym with his arm around a perky brunette, who looked to be ten years or more his junior. Michael squeezed off two quick shots as Fred’s friend slipped into her own car. He now had a good shot of her and the model, make, and plate number of her vehicle.
 

Michael slipped his camera onto the back seat of his car and watched as Fred pulled out of his space and waited for her to back out of hers. Michael started his car, and within moments, all three vehicles had entered 101, and in light Sunday traffic soon exited two miles south near the Marin County Civic Center.
 

There they went under the highway and up onto North San Pedro Road, where Michael, having no experience in following one, no less two vehicles, attempted to stay close but hopefully unnoticed.
 

Less than two miles later, they turned off the main road onto Vendola Drive, located in an all residential area that came to a dead end a couple of blocks down at Gallinas Creek. Michael knew where he was. In fact, he knew most areas within a fifteen-mile radius of the camera shop, because of occasional equipment delivery errands Milton sent him on.
 

Sitting at the corner of Adrian Way and Vendola, Michael kept an eye on Fred as he exited his car, which he parked in front of a home one door down from where his perky brunette pulled into a garage. Moments later Fred walked into that same garage and quickly the door rolled shut.

Obviously, he thought, I have no place to hide. Staying in the car, he could get another shot of Fred, or the two of them together, coming out of the house, but that was well short of the photo he was hoping to capture.
 

Michael gave serious thought to calling it a day. He had a great photo of their quick embrace in the parking lot. And thanks to his telephoto lens, he had a clear picture of the street number on her mailbox without having to get anywhere near the house. Monday on his lunch break he could drive back and check her mailbox, slipping in a flyer about a sale at the camera shop in case he got noticed. He was hopeful of finding her name and address on an envelope awaiting pickup.
 

But as he sat there, he thought of how empty the street looked and how wonderful it would be if he could capture Fred and his sweetheart in a cozy pose in the living room or even better in the bedroom.
 

Screw it, he decided; I’ve got a birder guide in the trunk that belongs to Milton. I can stick that in my pocket and it should give me some cover. It was a lovely late summer afternoon; maybe everyone in the few other homes that lined the street were out or too busy enjoying the day to pay attention.
 

Michael put the book and his camera into a backpack and walked up beyond the corner house, and that’s when he realized that the scrub between the creek and his target property might provide him with the perfect cover.
 

He took out his birder’s guide, struck a pose as if he was in search of a rare species of heron, and got down on his knees in the high grass with the marsh behind him and the perky brunette’s house directly in front of him.
 

Michael looked through his viewfinder and his telephoto lens told him that this was indeed his lucky day. Enjoying the view of the marsh from inside the family room, while in the throes of passion, were Fred and his limber, well-toned playmate. With a rapid moving auto shutter, he quickly documented Fred’s unfaithfulness. It was a magnificent moment…a type of high Michael had never experienced before. He felt triumphant, and he owed it all to the wonders of modern photography.

Michael knew he was blessed to have access to Milton’s cameras, lenses, film, and darkroom. In fact, Milton encouraged Michael to take as many pictures as he liked and to use the darkroom any night he wished. It was a win-win situation. Michael had all he could have wanted at his fingertips. And Milton had an evangelist for the love of photography with an enthusiasm that had left him years earlier. Better still, an emerging sales star convincing new converts that they could find themselves making an important statement from behind the lens.
 

Milton had learned years ago that expert advice and service were his only weapons against the growing number of national discount chain stores that could sell the same cameras, accessories, and film ten percent or more below his best price. Their one Achilles’ heel was that they employed salespeople who did not know an F-stop from a bus stop.