Photo Finish

by Terry Ambrose

  Daniels said, “I don’t believe you.”

  Meyer shrugged. “You can believe what you want, but there wasn’t any violin in his stuff, and I cleaned everything out. Gave all his clothes and small appliances away, then threw out the little crap nobody would want. Believe me, if I’d have come across a box like that, I’d have checked it out before chucking it.”

  I said, “So that’s what you wanted—a violin?”

  Daniels ground his teeth together. “Damn right.” He said to Meyer, “Did anybody else get into Bob’s apartment?”

  Meyer lied, “Nope. Not to my knowledge.”

  Daniels said, “Fine. Just fine. What a waste of my frigging time. I’ve got to go.” He stood and started toward the door.

  “Thanks for the information, Mr. Daniels,” I said.

  He turned to face me and said, “We’re not done, yet.” He spun on his heel and slammed the door behind him. I hadn’t seen walls shake like that since my last LA earthquake.

  “Wow,” said Harris. “You hit another nerve. McKenna, you’re on a roll. Hey, I’m late and have to run, see you later?”

  I offered to walk her to her car, but she just laughed and told me that she was a big girl and could handle herself. Then, she left and headed for the parking lot.

  I convinced Meyer that we should go to Ching’s for Chinese. I told him about the Mr. McKay’s chicken. He seemed more curious than interested in the food. But, the bottom line was that I needed to get away and the walk to Ching’s would probably do us some good. Ching’s was only about a fifteen-minute walk and we kept up a lively pace on the way to dinner, but heading back Meyer started to fade.

  When we finally reached my apartment, Meyer said he just wanted to watch TV. In my efforts to be a good host, I started flipping through channels. Normally, I’d have grabbed a glass of wine and visited the lanai, but I was the innkeeper, so my preferences came second. When we got to the local news station, I stopped. “Hey, that’s the same guy I saw the other day.”

  Meyer, eyes now only half open, said, “I seen him, too.”

  The guy on the TV was Jack something-or-other. While he droned on about news that wasn’t really news, I zoned out. That is, until he said, “And now, let’s go to Ruben Ochoa on the North side, where two hikers reported finding a partially decomposed body in the Kalanui Stream earlier today.”

  “Thanks, Jack. We’re here with Connie and Carl, two visitors from the mainland who had been told by friends back home to take the hike to Sacred Falls. That hike is forbidden, of course, because Sacred Falls Park was closed after a landslide on Mother’s Day in 1999 that killed eight people and injured many others. What was it like to find a body, Carl?”

  Carl grabbed for the microphone and said, “Wow, it was like— Oh, man, it was gruesome.”

  Connie chimed in, “All mangled and, like, torn up. Eeoow! That’s when we called Five-0.”

  “Five—” The puzzled look on Ruben’s face was priceless and broadcast to the viewers that he was completely lost. He pressed his free hand to his ear, probably to better hear the instructions he’d been given, then wrenched the microphone out of Carl’s hand and said, “Thanks folks.” He faked a chuckle as he walked away. “Well, obviously, some people think that Five-0 really exists. But, sorry, it doesn’t.” He chuckled again. There were many adjectives that Ruben probably wanted to apply to his interviewees, few he could use if he wanted to keep his job.

  He took up a position a few feet from Carl and Connie, then made a valiant attempt to recover and get some real news out of this. He read from a piece of paper in his hand. “The Office of the Sheriff has issued a statement indicating that they will be working to identify the body; however, the body was, as Connie described it, pretty mangled.” Ruben suppressed a smile as he continued. “We do know that this was a male and he was wearing overalls or a jumpsuit. The Sheriff also said that the body has suffered significant levels of decomposition.” He squinted at the paper; maybe the ink was starting to run? He stuffed the paper into his pocket and continued. “Due to the advent of natural processes, it may take some time to perform the identification. I think what they’re saying is that this body is in bad shape, and it’s going to take some luck for them to be able to ID the victim. Jack.”

  “Thanks, Ruben. Your eyewitnesses seemed a bit overwhelmed by this whole event.”

  “Yes, Jack. They’re just a couple from Northern California, Marin County, and don’t find many dead bodies, I’m sure.” He smiled.

  “Which version of the show do you think they’re referring to, Ruben?”

  “These guys probably watched a lot of TV in the 60s. I’d say they’re thinking of the original.”

  I chuckled at the thought of what they did in Marin County when they were watching “Hawaii Five-0” in those days. Even today, if that area ever went up in flames, the state would be high for a month.

  Jack said, “Ruben, isn’t the Sheriff asking for anyone with information about who this might be to come forward?”

  “Yes they are, Jack. Viewers with any information about a missing male should call the Office of the Sheriff; we’ll follow this story and provide a more detailed description as it becomes available.”

  The anchor shifted in his seat, a new camera grabbed the frontal view, and that story was toast, its two minutes done.

  Meyer’s voice was tinged with anger, “That must be Roger’s body.”

  “At least now he can get buried.” Before we could carry this any further, the phone rang. I spotted the handset, picked it up, and said, “McKenna.”

  “You see the news about the body?” It was Alexander.

  “Could be Roger. It’s about the right place.”

  “Maybe so, maybe not. I’ll have Emma call the Sheriff again.”

  “Good. So you want to know what happened this afternoon?”

  “Tell me, brah.”

  I gave him the short version, which seemed to impress him. After a moment’s silence, he said, “So you shook some coconuts down today. Hope none hit you on the head in the next day or so. How’s that Meyer guy? He seems okay, but maybe—”

  “We’re doing fine.”

  He paused for a few seconds, then said, “Part of me keeps hoping that Roger will still turn up. Alive.”

  “Emma needs to follow through on this, no delays.” I thought about Daniels' visit. Maybe that had been a stupid move. Now, he knew where I lived. He’d seen Harris. Possibilities, all bad, started running through my thoughts. I continued, “Whoever dumped that body doesn’t want Roger identified.”

  Alexander said, “She might be the only one who can ID that body. And if something happened to her—”

  We were both silent, neither wanting to think about another victim.

  Chapter 26

  Early the next morning as the sun rose, the ocean did a typical transformation from a dull gray-blue to varying, almost iridescent, colors. Turquoise blended with navy in the deeper areas and melted into sandy beige in the shallows. White trailers of surf peacefully strolled onshore in a relentless, never-ending march. Once Meyer was up, we took turns in the bathroom, had breakfast on the lanai, watched nature’s beauty unfold, did a quick check on Harris, then decided to head for Meyer’s apartment. We pulled into his parking spot in the carport, where I noticed storage areas along the back wall. “Did Bob have one of these?”

  “He didn’t have enough stuff. Guy wasn’t a saver—not of stuff, anyway. These cost another fifty bucks a month and he didn’t want to spend the money for something he didn’t need. He was real frugal, just stuck to the basics. Even with cable TV.” He chuckled and seemed as though he were lost in fond memories for a moment. “Never seen somebody so disciplined with his money.”

  As we walked through the nearly empty carport area, I said, “Not many people left around here.”

  “They all work. Leave early, get home late.”

  We made our way along the concrete walkway to Meyer’s apartment, surrounded by the scent o
f plumeria and jasmine. Meyer opened the door, we both entered, then stopped dead in our tracks.

  Meyer yelled, “What the hell?”

  The apartment looked like the wake of a hurricane. Whoever had been here had turned over everything that was movable. Meyer had had a small desk against one wall, which now lay on its side, contents scattered over the floor. I said, “Someone wanted to find something real bad.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch! Goddamn son-of-a-bitch. I’ll bet it was that Daniels. I didn’t like his looks, and he didn’t like that we didn’t have what he wanted.”

  “Maybe Willows sent over some goons?”

  “Daniels is the one said this wasn’t over.”

  We surveyed the apartment’s chaos. It could take hours to put this back together, even with the two of us working on it. Fortunately, there wasn’t much broken glass, though whoever had done this had pulled glasses and dishes off the kitchen shelves. They’d scattered silverware and cooking utensils across the tile floor. They’d even gone through the refrigerator and freezer and pulled out all the food. Fortunately, the food hadn’t yet started to rot and they’d tossed most of that into the sink instead of on the floor.

  I felt one of the frozen items. “It’s thawed. The refrigerated stuff is room temp. This had to happen sometime last night. They probably put this in the sink to keep from tramping on top of it. No footprints that way.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch probably didn’t want to screw up his shoes.” Meyer strode to the phone on the wall and dialed. “Someone broke into my place. It’s been trashed.” He listened, then gave his address. He hung up, then said, “She said someone will be here in a few minutes.”

  We stepped outside while we waited for the cops. Sure enough, less than five minutes later, two uniformed officers approached. “Mr. Herschel?”

  Meyer glanced at one of the two men. “You again. Sorry to bother you Officer Conners, but someone’s trashed my place.”

  Officer Conners stayed with us to take Meyer’s statement while the other surveyed the apartment. Conners asked, “Did you just find this?”

  “A few minutes ago. I don’t even know if anything is missing. But, I know who did it. It was a guy named Dadrian Daniels. He’s trying to get a violin back that he says belonged to one of my tenants. After the break-in the other day, I decided to stay with McKenna. We met this guy and he threatened me, said he wasn’t done with us. What are you gonna do about this?”

  “We can have a conversation with Mr. Daniels,” said Conners. “Are you saying that you don’t think this is related to the other night’s break-in?”

  Meyer groaned. “I suppose it’s possible.” He added, “But this Daniels is the one that made the threat.”

  “We’ll check it out.”

  The second officer came out of the apartment. “No footprints, nothing. This wasn’t vandalism. Someone did a meticulous search.”

  Everything was moving along fine until Meyer said the dreaded “M” word. “This is all related to the murder of Bob Shapiro.”

  The cop’s instincts kicked into high gear; you could see it on his face. He was suddenly on the alert for a crime, a scam or a lunatic. “Wasn’t he the hit-and-run victim who lived in that apartment upstairs?”

  “I’m telling you he was murdered. And I think this Daniels character was involved. Maybe—what was his name, McKenna? Oh yeah, Frank Willows. He was involved, too.”

  Conners made a quick note in his little pad. “Frank Willows, the contractor? Mr. Herschel, he’s a very well-respected businessman. You didn’t—accuse him of something, did you?”

  Shit, there wasn’t much I could do except stand around and mentally practice my Pig Latin, ix-nay on the et-thray, eyer-May. He was about to accuse a guy who probably played golf with the Mayor of murder. Next, he’d be telling them about Alexander and his illegal trip to Sacred Falls.

  And he did, almost. “And then there’s this body that just turned up. Those two hikers found it. That’s the maintenance man for Bob Shapiro. I tell you, there’s something big going on here and that Daniels is smack-dab in the middle of it!”

  “Okay, okay. Calm down, Mr. Herschel.” Conners had apparently settled on the lunatic option and was now trying to placate Meyer.

  “Officer Conners,” I said, “a friend of mine recently submitted a tip report that might help to connect Bob Shapiro’s accident with the apartment break-ins and the dead body found up at Kalanui Stream.”

  To his credit, Conners did another mental shift. “We’ll feed this into the system.”

  A few minutes later, the cops were gone and we were back in the apartment. I said, “This wasn’t someone looking for a violin.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Why would you turn over a kitchen table to find a violin? Why dump the contents of a kitchen drawer? The freezer’s way too small. Someone was looking for something smaller, much smaller.”

  “Or trying to intimidate me.”

  “Then why not spray paint the walls? Why not destroy things? No, they wanted something small.”

  “Like what? Some sort of fancy spy microchip?”

  Duh, that was it. “Daniels told us that Bob burned the video to a flash drive.”

  Meyer turned to where the little case with the Medal of Honor had been and began rummaging through the debris.

  “Shit! He took it! The son-of-a-bitch took my medal.”

  Who would take another man’s medal? Someone who’d been kicked out of the service?

  He collapsed on the floor. “Fourteen men got killed so I could be here.”

  “Which war?”

  “Korea.” Tears rolled down his cheeks, the lines on his face deepened, etched with the memories of good souls lost.

  A surge of sympathy shot through my veins. I didn’t know what to say. So, I changed the subject. “They took your computer.”

  Meyer stood. “I’m sure it was him. He was a shifty son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Yah, there were some things he wasn’t telling us. Like, what’s really in that violin. And he did say that we’d meet again. Did you use an online storage backup?”

  “What’s that?”

  Ouch. I’d take that as a no. For Meyer’s sake, I was thankful that they hadn’t destroyed things. But, the missing computer would probably nearly cripple his business. And what would the missing medal do to him? I glanced around the room. The couch, though undamaged, lay on its side. The perpetrators probably figured that Meyer wasn’t capable of lifting or reupholstering his couch, so there was no point in wasting time ripping it apart.

  Meyer handed me his key ring. “Do me a favor, huh? Go out to storage cabinet number three and get me a couple of the big garbage bags. I need a minute here.”

  “Which key is it?”

  “Says Master on the side. There’s only one.”

  I took my time as I strolled to the garage. On the way, I fingered Meyer’s jailer’s ring, resolving to get one of these for myself. It made it really easy to keep all the keys in one convenient place. I stood in front of storage cabinet three sorting through keys. I inserted the Master padlock key into the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. My first thought was that corrosion, a common condition in the islands, had frozen up the lock. I examined it closely. It appeared to have been recently lubricated with no sign of pitting or the powder that gets left behind when the corrosion process begins. I tried it again, nothing happened.

  I pulled the key out and checked it. Sure enough, it said Master on the side. And so did the one next to it. I tried the second key, slipped it in and twisted. The lock popped open. Meyer must have been mistaken about there being just one Master lock. I grabbed the bags from the cabinet and headed for the apartment. As I entered, I yelled, “Hey, you old coot, don’t you know how many keys you’ve got on your ring?”

  “Of course I do, twenty-two. One for each apartment, one for the pool area gate, one for the main breaker box, which, incidentally ain’t a Master lock because the manager went cheap and bought an off-brand, on
e for the car, and one for the storage cabinet. Twenty-two. Now give me that before you lose it.”

  I was relieved that Meyer seemed to have composed himself. But before I handed over the ring, I counted the keys.

  “McKenna, give me the—”

  I ignored Meyer while I counted. “There’s twenty-three.”

  “What? Not possible.” He grabbed the ring and checked each key. When he got to the two Master padlock keys, he inspected both. “This ain’t never happened before.”

  He rushed out the front door in the direction of the carports; I followed in hot pursuit. In the carport, Meyer stood before the storage cabinet in carport number four. He stared at the key in his hand, then at me.

  I asked, “Problem?”

  “That cabinet’s supposed to be empty. I never rented it out.”

  He’d known every key on the ring. How could he not know exactly which storage areas had been rented? “That’s another Master lock.”

  “Goddamn.” Meyer worked the key between his fingers as he spoke. “A couple of days before Bob died, I was doing some pruning in the courtyard. He came up and asked me if he could borrow one of my big garbage bags. I said I’d get it for him, but he didn’t want to inconvenience me. Said he’d grab one and bring the keys right back. I gave him the ring and he returned a few minutes later with the bag.”

  “So you think he added a key?”

  Meyer stuck the key into the lock. “We’re gonna find out.” He twisted and, sure enough, the lock popped open.

  Inside the cabinet was a box just under three feet long, a couple of feet wide and maybe a foot tall.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Meyer.

  I nodded. “I think we’ve found what got Shapiro killed.”

  Chapter 27

  Meyer pulled the cardboard container from the storage cabinet and handed it to me. He then closed the door, put the padlock back in place, and secured the lock. Back in his apartment, we righted the kitchen table, set our find on top and opened it. Inside, surrounded by crumpled up white packing paper, lay a violin. The highly polished finish shined like a mirror. On either side of the strings, long narrow slits cut into the wood resembled a lowercase “f.” Meyer barely looked at it as he raised it up and positioned the violin under his chin. He said, “I played quite a bit when I was younger.” He plunked a string and disappointment painted his face.