I flipped the photo. Written on the back were the date, October 1963, and a blurry notation. H de 1 H. Maybe.

I looked a question at the bearded gentleman blocking my way. He made no move to explain.

“Mr.-?”

“Kessler.”

“Why are you showing this to me?”

“I believe it’s the reason Avram Ferris is dead.”

“So you’ve said.”

Kessler crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. Rubbed palms on his pants.

I waited.

“He said he was in danger.” Kessler jabbed four fingers at the print. “Said if anything happened it would be because of this.”

“Mr. Ferris gave this to you?”

“Yes.” Kessler glanced over his shoulder.

“Why?”

Kessler’s answer was a shrug.

My eyes dropped back to the print. The skeleton was fully extended, its right arm and hip partially obscured by a rock or ledge. An object lay in the dirt beside the left knee. A familiar object.

“Where does this come from?” I looked up. Kessler was again checking to his rear.

“ Israel.”

“Mr. Ferris was afraid his life was in danger?”

“Terrified. Said if the photo came to light there’d be havoc.”

“What sort of havoc?”

“I don’t know.” Kessler raised two palms. “Look, I have no idea what the picture is. I don’t know what it means. I agreed to keep it. That’s it. That’s my role.”

“What was your connection to Mr. Ferris?”

“We were business associates.”

I held out the photo. Kessler dropped his hands to his sides.

“Tell Detective Ryan what you’ve told me,” I said.

Kessler stepped back. “You know what I know.”

At that moment my cell sounded. I slipped it from my belt.

Pelletier.

“Got another call about Bellemare.”

Kessler sidestepped me and moved toward the family room.

I waggled the print. Kessler shook his head no and hurried down the hall.