Snapshot

by Camryn King

  “I retained the rights to the pictures in the Star, but signed a non-compete clause that states the pictures used in their article cannot be republished for a period of ninety days.”

  “That’s fine. Additionally, we’d like for any images appearing elsewhere online to be removed. Most papers today have an online edition. We hope their removal from the website is something that can be worked out.”

  “I’ll speak with them but make no promises. It’s an unusual request.”

  “We only ask because of the branding possibilities mentioned. Having the work appear solely on our materials will make them synonymous with our island, a unique beauty one can see nowhere else.”

  “I hope I can negotiate that for you.”

  “I’m sure something can be worked out. If necessary, I’ll speak with them as well. Meanwhile, I’ll have an offer drawn up immediately. To what email would you like it sent?”

  Kennedy rattled off her email address, shocked and now a bit curious about how much Anita and her company were willing to pay. “I am flattered by your offer, and at the same time feel that you must know that it goes well beyond the going rate for photography.”

  “We do understand, but as I stated earlier, we want to get started right away, and felt a high offer would speed up the process. Our marketing director believes the picture of the rainbow would work perfectly as the cover of our tourism brochure as well as on our website and in other collateral. As part of the brand, if you will. They are photographs that can be used in a myriad of ways for a very long time. Are you interested?”

  “Yes, I am, and apologize if I came off as suspicious. There was . . . let’s just say . . . never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m very interested in your offer.”

  “When do you think we could have an answer? Within two, three days perhaps?”

  “I’ll do my best and will call the Star right away.”

  “Very good. I’ll have our attorney send over the contractual agreement later today.”

  “I’ll be on the lookout for it.”

  “Very well. Kennedy, it has been a pleasure.”

  “Likewise.”

  Kennedy ended the call, somewhat dazed. Had she just received a six-figure offer for her photography, the highest ever, out of the blue? Maybe this was the universe’s reimbursement for her trauma in the Bahamas. Kennedy called Gwen and got voicemail.

  “Hey girl, I know you’re still at work but give me a call as soon as you get this message. I just got a phone call that . . . just call me ASAP, okay?”

  Kennedy was no longer hungry and too amped to write. Perfect energy for working out, though. She packed up her stuff and once in her car, headed home to work out in the building’s gym. Anita’s offer had her mind whirling. She didn’t know which was better—to think too much or to not think at all. On one hand Anita’s offer was exactly what she needed right now, the answer to a prayer that she’d not even prayed. She could focus on finding employment that would allow her the flexibility she craved as well as a steady paycheck. She could get away from her tainted condo for a couple weeks, and from her paranoia surrounding it. Clear her head, and decide whether to remain in the condo or put it up for sale. Maybe a relocation was in order. Nothing like a change of scenery to jumpstart one’s life, and with Kennedy currently unattached, now would be the perfect time to do it. On the other hand, Anita’s offer sounded almost too good to be true. The suspicion was no doubt brought on by the recent crimes against her. Before, such a negative thought may not have crossed her mind. But a man who called himself Jack Sutton had taught her that just because someone looked good and sounded nice didn’t mean they were to be trusted.

  Kennedy felt her phone vibrate. She engaged her Bluetooth. “Hey, Gwen.”

  “Hey, girl. What’s up?”

  “Did you get my message?”

  “I didn’t listen; just hit you back. Was that call from the Bahamas?”

  “Yes, but not the police.”

  “Who then?”

  “Some woman named Anita who just made me a crazy offer for those pictures I took—a hundred thousand dollars!”

  “Quit playing.”

  “That’s what I thought, but she was totally serious. She works with the country’s tourism bureau and saw my work in the Star. They’re updating their marketing material and want to use my pictures. She wants every picture I shot that weekend, along with exclusive rights to their use.”

  “So what are you calling me for, to borrow a pen?” Kennedy laughed. “Girl, I’m serious. Six figures? What is there to talk about? Why are we even on the phone?”

  “I’m calling to hopefully use your insider connections to handle a stipulation Anita outlined, a strange request. She knows the pictures can’t be used for ninety days, but wants them removed from the Star’s website right away.”

  “Why?”

  “She felt it was one they could create the brand around, one that could in time become an image connected with the Bahamas or identified with the brand.”

  “I can kind of see that, but I’m not sure I can help you. Even if the webmaster agrees to pull the pictures, what will replace them?”

  “I don’t know,” Kennedy said with a sigh. “I don’t get why she’s so adamant, either. There are many pictures I took that showcase the Bahamas, but the rainbow wasn’t one of them. It could have been taken anywhere, in one of a hundred islands. But an offer like this doesn’t happen every day, so if she wants the rainbow, I want to try and give it to her.”

  “You know I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Call up your boy, run it by him.”

  “Logan? Girl, stop. He’s a boy, but not my boy.”

  “Me thinks you protests too much, like a woman trying not to be attracted to the man. I don’t know why you’re fighting it. He’s fine.”

  “Then why don’t you two hook up?”

  “Let him give me half of the attention that he gives you and I most certainly will. Ooh, here comes my boss. I gotta go.”

  Once home, Kennedy quickly changed into workout clothes. Before stepping out the door she tapped her phone, ordered a deep dish from her favorite pizzeria and then called Logan.

  “What’s up, Ken?”

  “Nothing much. I just ordered a Giordano’s and was wondering if—”

  “Yep, what time?”

  “In about an hour,” Kennedy said amid laughter.

  “Make it an hour and a half and I’m there.”

  “Okay, see you then.”

  Kennedy headed to the gym, hyperaware of her surroundings. She bypassed the stairs that were normally part of her workout and instead took the elevator, all while looking for anything out of the ordinary, anyone watching, lurking, snooping. Every face in the gym was a familiar one. Kennedy relaxed. She spent thirty minutes with weights and bands and the rest of the hour on the elliptical machine. Back home, she showered, threw on a pair of sweats, and just under ninety minutes later, sat with Logan at her dining room table gorging on what some considered the best pizza in Chicago, or anywhere. Napkins piled up as they alternated between forks and fingers, making their way through loads of pepperoni, onions and mushrooms, covered with a mountain of gooey cheese. Logan told her about the production equipment he’d recently bought. She told him about Anita and the amazing offer. His reaction surprised her.

  “Six figures, huh? For a single picture?”

  “For everything I did that weekend.”

  “Even the selfie with Clinton?”

  Kennedy gave him a look. “That was taken with my cellphone and remains personal property.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What’s with this weird energy? For an unknown photog like me to receive this kind of money for a picture is very rare, unheard of. You should be happy for me!”

  “Hey, you know when it comes to you, I only want the best. But after what happened, I’m suspicious of everyone down there. Secure the bag, but be careful.”

  Kenn
edy made light of the warning. “I’m not going to deliver the pictures in person. They’ll be transferred digitally. So relax, okay?”

  “All right, cool. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, speaking of digital files, did you get that box yet?”

  “What box?”

  “The one to hold what you gave me.”

  “What?”

  He looked from her to the camera and back. “You know, what you gave me for safekeeping?”

  “Oh, the flash drive.”

  Logan reacted, threw his hands in the air and dramatically said, “Well, why don’t you tell whoever might be bugging your place everything that you don’t want them to know.”

  “Whoever’s bugging my place can kiss my ass. I’m selling the pictures,” she announced to the room, then looked at the camera mounted in the corner of the room. “Go on down to the Bahamas and bug the office of tourism because these pictures are getting ready to be all over the place.”

  Logan shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

  “No, but I will be if I keep living in a state of constant paranoia. I’m sick of living like that, looking over my shoulder and behind my back. I’m ready to embrace the possibility that I just ran into a wall of bad luck, that the timing of the burglary here happening so close to being robbed in the Bahamas was just coincidence. How could anybody living here know what happened to me there?”

  Logan nodded as he chewed, then said, “That’s a good point.”

  “I mean, look at me. Do I look like a threat to anybody?”

  While cleaning off the table after eating, Kennedy’s fax went off. She walked into the office and was surprised to see that Anita had already sent the agreement. Logan received a text from a friend having car trouble and went to help him. Kennedy spent the next couple of hours wading through almost eight pages of complex legalese. It was just a bunch of pictures for God’s sake. The repeated references to total and complete release of “every picture taken between the dates of thus and so and in the location of such and such in any and every form,” was overkill. The stated penalties for violating any part of the agreement came off as a threat. The tone brought Logan’s suspicions to mind, and stirred up the feelings of paranoia that she’d been well on her way to talking herself out of. But the unease came back and persisted, so much so, that she tossed the agreement aside and turned on the TV to relax. Back to back reruns of a favorite 90s show was just the kind of silliness to do the trick. By the time the third half-hour episode ended, the optimism Kennedy felt earlier had returned, along with common sense. What did she care about the agreement’s language? She had no intention of doing anything nefarious, like selling the pictures to Anita and then turning around to sell them again.

  What are you calling me for, to borrow a pen?

  Kennedy laughed at the thought of what Gwen had said, getting up to retrieve a pen. She returned to the couch and was flipping to the agreement’s signature page when her phone vibrated. It was a text from Logan.

  I’ve been robbed.

  Instinctively, Kennedy looked up at the camera Logan had installed for her safety, and then at the room around her. Images flashed before her eyes, memories from the Bahamas until now. Pictures. People. Snatches of conversation. Fast, relentless, disjointed at first, like jigsaw pieces floating in the air. They slowed and crystalized into an aha moment, a possible answer for why the lightning of robbery had struck more than once. She snatched up the agreement, her computer and purse, and fled like the devil chased her.

  8

  Kennedy had no patience to wait for an elevator. She entered the stairwell with enough fear-fueled energy to beat up King Kong and took the steps two at a time. After reaching her car and speeding out of the garage, she noticed Logan had sent a second text clarifying that he hadn’t been home when it was burglarized. She slowed down, and while no longer feeling the need to run red lights, she was still concerned about Logan’s well-being. And with what she now believed she’d figured out, she worried about hers as well. She reached the address he’d also texted in half the time the GPS had noted. There was only street parking, which was usually a hassle. But as soon as she turned the corner, she saw brake lights, threw on her blinker, and did a haphazard parallel park into the space. She took the steps to his building two at a time, and again was blessed by timing as a couple exited the secured building and held the door so she could slip inside. The elevator seemed to take forever, when in fact the door opened mere seconds after the button was punched. Logan and his roommate lived on the second floor of a four-story building. She’d never been there before, but didn’t have to look for his place. The door was open. Music spilled out into the hallway, along with Logan’s raised, agitated voice.

  “That’s bullshit, man. I know exactly who this is. So do you. But they’ve messed with the wrong one, I tell you that.”

  “I hear you, dog.”

  Kennedy guessed the deep bass she heard while approaching the door was C-Dog, Logan’s roommate. Logan had told her his legal name was Calvin but nobody in hip-hop used their real name. Logan was called Lowkey, a nod to his producer skills on the mixer board. And whoever had broken into their apartment was being called a whole slew of motherfuckers.

  Kennedy stepped into the ransacked room. “Hey, Logan.”

  Logan turned, the scowl on his face intense. “What are you doing here?”

  She looked over at the others in the room and resisted the urge to walk over and give Logan a hug. Instead, she adopted his casual stance, minus the hardness. “I’m so sorry this happened. It’s fucked up.”

  “What do you have to be sorry about?”

  Nothing I can share with your boys here. “I just had this happen to me, remember? I know how it feels.”

  “Yeah, I guess you do.”

  “When I asked for your address, I assumed you knew it was so I could come over. I probably should have asked you straight out. So handle your business. Call me if you need me, or when you can.” She turned to go.

  “Ken, wait.”

  She did, and watched as he walked over and said something to his homeboys, under his breath so she couldn’t hear. Soon after, they ambled past her offering either a head nod or mumbled greeting. Logan walked behind them and closed the door. He seemed to relax then. When he turned around, Kennedy saw the guy she was used to. He readily pulled her into his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “This is all my fault.”

  He straightened and stepped away from her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I think I finally have an idea about why all of this happened. The robbery in the Bahamas, the burglary at my condo, and now your apartment. It’s got to have something to do with the job on the island and the pictures I took.”

  “How do you figure somebody came and stole my shit because of something you did?”

  “I gave you the flash drive with all of my pictures, including the ones from the Bahamas that somebody for some reason has been trying to steal! It all started coming together when I got your text.” Kennedy paced the room, counting off on her fingers. “Their first try was the Bahamas, taking my camera, cellphone, computer, all of the items where the pics might be stored. They probably thought they’d been successful, then the article ran in the Star—”

  “With pictures from your trip,” Logan interrupted.

  “That very night somebody breaks into my house and takes the desktop. But it doesn’t end there. I get this call from a woman with a ridiculous offer to purchase the pictures she saw in the Star. But not only those pictures, every picture taken. The agreement she sent was eight frickin’ pages, that went on and on about exclusivity, and huge penalties that would occur should the pictures ever be reprinted.

  “You had a feeling about something and tried to warn me earlier, when you asked what to do with the flash drive. You looked at the camera almost as though you knew somebody else was listening. I all but shouted out what they wanted to know, that a cop
y of the pictures I had taken was here, in your house! They were looking for the flash drive, Logan. That’s why you were robbed.”

  Logan’s expression was unreadable. Then he burst out laughing, so hard that he toppled on to the black leather sofa and allowed himself a good guffaw.

  “You find this funny?” Kennedy didn’t. She joined him on the couch. “So I take it that you don’t think our burglaries are related?”

  Logan shook his head. “Last week, when we were bringing in the equipment, a couple dudes were visiting this guy we know on the first floor. He came over to help us carry the shit upstairs. The dudes that were with him were real curious about the system, asking questions and admiring the mixer and shit. I made note of it, but didn’t give it too much thought because everybody in this building pretty much knows everybody else. We have each other’s backs, you know? Plus, the building is secure. There are cameras. The landlord is cool, and he looks out for all of us living here. My neighbor across the hall said he’s never heard of a break-in, and he’s lived here for ten years. So while I can appreciate your theory, consider yourself off the hook for what happened tonight. Whoever broke in here wasn’t trying to get a flash drive. They were trying to get that equipment. Hadn’t been for my neighbor coming home when he did, they would have gotten what they came for.”

  Kennedy looked around. “They didn’t?”

  “Come with me.” Logan started down a hall. Kennedy followed him. “This is what they came after.”

  Kennedy looked at a board covered with knobs and slides and not two feet long. “But they didn’t take it. They tried to, but what they didn’t know is how we secured the mixer to a concrete block beneath the mixing desk.”

  He pulled aside a black curtain she hadn’t noticed to reveal what looked like two feet of solid stone. “We bore iron studs in that motherfucker and then secured it with metal rods. Don’t let its size fool you. This mixer right here is top of the line, set us back three stacks. That’s why we wanted to make sure it didn’t grow legs. Dude would have to be Hercules to walk out with that shit.”