The Case of the Missing Negative

 “Rick O’Shea”, I said to myself, “you are in trouble”. The phone message had been cryptic, “Go to 1485 Seraphim Court at 5:00 pm”. Nothing more. Now the P.I. business has been slow for a while. I had been rubbing two loonies together for a week, trying to get them to mate. I wasn’t about to pass up anything that might have a dollar in it. But I was worried.

I pulled up outside the building. A mansion by anyone’s standards. A small bras plate on the door said “Professional Photography. Strict confidence maintained”. I had to wonder what kind of pictures he took. Likely kinky couples, twosomes, threesomes, even handsomes. I opened the door and went in.

The two people in the room paid no attention to me when I entered. And only one of them was dead. The corpse was sprawled beside a funny looking camera that held one large negative at a time. It was open and the negative was missing. That likely accounted for the three shots I heard and the heavy-set man in a brown leather coat running down the backstairs through the well-manicured yard and flower beds to a car on far street.

The other, a slim red-headed female, late 20’s, sat rigidly in an armchair, staring straight ahead, stoned out of her mind. She wore a pair of large dangling diamond earrings. That was all. I admired the view. Nice, but not my type. I prefer a more robust Rubenesque body.

There is no shortage of nubile young women willing to shed their clothes at the sight of a camera. Apparently, the red head was not one of them, as a small syringe lay on the floor where the photographer had dropped it.

I figured like this. The girl comes for a professional photoshoot. The dead man slaps a needle into her and sets up the girl. Someone pegs the pervert and steals the negative. Question is, who and why? Probably to use it to blackmail someone, likely the girl’s family who are no doubt Very Important People.

I didn’t touch anything in the room and wiped my prints off the door latch. I phoned Bill, the beat cop. “Bill, I got a problem. A phone message earlier directed me to this address and now I’m in a mansion in a high-priced neighbourhood with a dead man and a drugged naked woman”.

“My advice is get out quick and hope no one saw you. Let the police ‘discover’ it in their own time. Don’t worry, we’ll get the girl to a hospital”.

I didn’t need to be asked twice. I went out the way I came in, wiped the door latches down inside and out, and ran to my car. I drove back to the office and poured a drink. Who sent me the phone message and why? Who was the girl? Who was the dead photographer? Who threatened me? Who wrote the book of love? I poured another drink. Nothing to do but wait.

Two days later there was a knock on my door. I put my .45 where I could reach it quickly and pushed the button to unlock the door. A distinguished looking grey-haired man in an expensive suit entered. He carried a photograph and showed me the back of it. I already knew what the front looked like. She was his daughter.

“Bring $10,000 in $20 dollar bills in a canvas tote bag to the park off Smith Street by 1 pm tomorrow. Tie it to the third tree to the left of the water fountain. No funny stuff. We’ll be watching. Do this and we destroy the negative. Otherwise, it goes to the press and your political future goes down the toilet.”. (Obviously he was not a Republican, or it would have enhanced it).

“Blackmail, huh? How did you get my name?”

“Police officer contacted me on the quiet. Said I should see you if I didn’t want to go public.”

“If you pay off the blackmailers, what guarantee that they will honour the agreement and not hit you again? Or that they won’t send it to the press anyhow?”

“None. What do you suggest?”

“My hunch is that there is only one person. He and the photographer were in partnership, but he double crossed the partner with three bullets so he wouldn’t have to share. Regardless of the threat, I need to stake out the drop and spot the person who picks it up.”

I parked three blocks away and watched through field glasses. At 2:45 a big burly man picked up the bag and disappeared. No indication he destroyed the negative.

I was a block away when a black Nisson N-Trail cut me off and forced me over to the curb. (The N-Trail is like the X-Trail but has more guts). The big scruffy guy got out and came to my passenger window, pointing a .45 automatic where it could ruin my social life. I wished I had a Trunk Monkey. At least he didn’t shoot me outright. I unlocked the door, like I had a choice.

“OK, Shamus, we are going for a ride. You know too much and a little guy like me can’t afford that. Life is tough enough.”

The world’s smallest violin played ragtime in my head. “Where are we going?”

“Find a dirt road out of here and don’t play any games.”

About two miles out of town I saw a gravel road and turned off the highway. I was driving pretty slow. Being late for my own funeral wouldn’t bother me and it gave me time to think of something. Thinking was never my strong suit.

A semi crossed the road directly in front of us. I hit the brakes hard, opened the door, jumped and rolled. The back tires on the trailer just missed me. The car went in under, between the tires. Sliced the top of as neat as a can opener. Sliced the top off my kidnapper too.

By the time the cops got there, I had fished the negative out of the guy’s pocket, without getting too much blood on me. Case closed.

Next day the distinguished looking grey-haired man dropped into my office and gave me a check for $5000. He declined my offer of a drink. He must have known I was down to rotgut Scotch. I poured myself a tall glass, knocked it back, gasping for breath. I sat back on my chair and relaxed.