They broke first; they had the nascent toughness but not the patience.
The smaller one, wearing knee length nylon basketball shorts and a tee shirt with the name of a band Winter had never heard of, said, “Hey five-oh, aren’t you going to ask us why we’re not in school?”
Winter wasn’t surprised, it was always the little guy who did the talking. “No, I was going to ask you why you’re wearing a shirt with someone else’s face on it.”
“Shit, man, everyone does that.”
“I have a whole drawer full of tee shirts, I don’t have a single one with some stranger’s face.”
“He’s no stranger, he’s famous.”
Maybe he was. Winter wouldn’t know, he liked music, but it was another thing he couldn’t keep up with.
The other kid—also in a tee shirt, this one plain—tall and so thin he could almost hide behind the street sign post he leaned against, spoke in Spanish to the shorter boy, then in an incongruous Boston tinged accent, said to Winter: “Can you catch anyone in that thing?”
“Depends on what they’re driving,” said Winter. A small pickup truck pulled up behind him. Winter leaned out the window and waved it by. “Something like that,” he said, indicating the rusty Nissan, “sure. Something with more muscle, maybe.”
“What you got in there?”
“A V-6 with a bolt on turbo.”
“No shit.”
“No shit,” said Winter. “You like cars?”
The tall kid shrugged, toeing his board, pretending to be disinterested, but Winter could see him eying the car. Sure enough, after a moment the kid asked, “You put it in yourself?”
“Nah. I like to drive them, not take them apart. I know a guy.” Another car pulled up behind them, a throaty roar of a dual exhaust, Winter glancing in the mirror at a tricked out Camaro. He waved that one by as well, a young white guy at the wheel, Winter catching a glance of a leather jacket and lots of bling.
“How about that one?” asked the shorter kid, more a challenge than an interest in cars.
“Easy,” said Winter.
The younger kid scoffed, but the taller one said, “How do you know? He could have the V-8 with two turbos.”
“I can tell.”
“How?”
“Anyone with that much muscle wouldn’t need to be showing all that flash.”
The car kid’s eyes changed, as if he was reconsidering Winter. “You’re pretty smart for an old man.”
Winter jerked his head toward where he was heading. “You know the custom shop over on Mill Street?”
“Not our block,” said the shorter kid.
“I know it,” said the other boy. “They got all those wheels in the window, that big poster of a Brembo brake.”
“That’s it,” said Winter. “Guy who owns it did my turbo. His name is Joseph. If you want, go see him, tell him Winter sent you. If you don’t call him Joe, he’ll show you a bolt on.”
“He a white guy?”
“Does it matter? Cars don’t care who’s driving.”
“You mean I just show up?”
“And you give him my name.”
“He owe you or something?”
“Just a friend. Don’t need to owe friends.”
The short kid looked unconvinced, but Winter could see the taller boy considering. Winter shifted his voice, like he didn’t care one way or another. “If you’re interested enough, he might even find you something to do, you might learn a few things.”
The light changed to green, Winter took his foot off the brake. The kid would go or he wouldn’t. Who knew? Someday he might be bolting on turbos instead of hanging around on a corner, especially with a friend who would get him in trouble. Winter sensed the shorter kid was already a lost cause.
The tall kid said, “Aren’t you going to ask us why we’re not in school?”
Winter grinned. “Probably for the same reason I skipped too. I’m not that old.” He gave them a nod and drifted through the intersection.
Winter’s third stop was at an old L shaped strip mall with a bank that had changed names five times, a pharmacy, and an old Mammoth Mart that had been converted into a series of small offices. He remembered the place as a kid, the first big discount department store, a cavernous building where you could get plastic lawn furniture, toys, cheap tools and even cheaper clothes, his mother outfitting him and his sister both. The kids trying on clothes in the aisles, no dressing rooms, then rushing off to the toy aisles, not to buy, but to play.
Winter had picked this address because it had been listed only as The Plaza, which is what the shopping center was called. Back before the days of computers, he’d once helped the bank manager with a cash shortage problem, which had turned out to be not a theft but a clerk with dyslexia who kept giving out either too much or too little money, the customers who got too much not complaining. Today they’d figure it out before the end of the shift.
Winter parked in front of the office suites, that was the best bet. The original large windows were still there, revealing a conference room and some offices, mostly empty.
The lobby was small yet had the high roof of the original store, open beams, air conditioning ductwork, which from the noise it made was also the original installation. A young woman in an unnatural shade of red hair sat behind a modern looking glass desk, bare except for a multi-button phone, looking more bored than the street kids. Winter thought she would have brightened at his approach if for nothing else than to break the monotony. Instead, she was focused on her gum chewing, her eyes sleepy.
Winter nodded a hello, indicated the large phone setup. “How’s this place work? Everyone have the same number?”
The girl didn’t seem to care that Winter hadn’t even introduced himself, like people came in all the time asking the same question. She finished popping a bubble and said, “There are three lines. Someone calls, I answer Marburg Business Park, they give me a business name, I connect them through.”
“The calls can’t go through direct?”
“Nope.”
“Huh.” That didn’t help Winter much. “So you wouldn’t know who called what number.”
“We get lots of calls. That’s what we do.”
“I didn’t see many people through the window,” said Winter. “Not many suites taken?”
“You looking to rent?”
“Not really. Why so many calls if no one is here?”
“A lot of them are empty all the time. Mostly small companies that need a street address for credibility. It sounds more professional, I pick up the phone instead of a recording.”
Winter hoped she did better phone than conversation. “Which business uses the number ending in 4321?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Winter showed her his badge. The girl seemed more impressed with her gum. “I’m trying to find out if a certain person called a business here.”
“You should ask them.”
“It’s complicated,” said Winter.
“Two companies share that number now. An architect and The New Look Agency.”
Winter didn’t think Gruse would be hiring an architect. “Who are they?”
“A modeling and talent agency. They’re the only ones here that get lots of visitors.”
“Someone back there now?”
The girl nodded. “Jerry.”
“Can you call him for me, see if he’s available?”
“Do I have to?”
“Don’t like the guy?”
“He’s a sleazebag.”
Winter wondered if Jerry knew how his receptionist was marketing him. “Okay if I just wander on back?”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She lazily waved over her shoulder. “Back that way, at the end of the hall.”
Winter went down a dimly lit corridor, passing mostly closed doors on either side, some without even a name. The suite at the end was an exception, a classy looking gold sign bearing the agency name, a glass door which chimed
as Winter entered. Inside, a nicely decorated waiting area, coffee tables filled with fashion magazines, the walls covered with huge posters of models, close ups of faces, sultry looks mixed with vacuous stares. Winter thought the receptionist could give them a run for their money, at least in the bored look department.
A guy about his age bounded out of the back room, dressed in a bright blue silk shirt, too tight black pants, half boots, and a comb over that made Winter cringe. Even if the receptionist was wrong about Jerry being a sleazebag, he was doing a good job of at least looking the part, especially when his capped smile froze in place when he saw Winter.
“Can I help you?”
“My name is Winter, I’m with the Marburg Police.”
Jerry held up his hands like Winter was holding a gun. “I assure you, officer, all the women here are old enough, or they have parental permission.”
“What exactly do you do here?” asked Winter.
“We’re talent representatives for models and actresses.”
Winter indicated the photos on the wall. “Your clients?”
“Not exactly, they’re established models, just setting the tone. Give the girls—women—something to shoot for.”
“I see,” said Winter, thinking that if it was his business he’d have his real success stories on the wall. He wasn’t here to deal with slimy guys selling dreams, but maybe he’d pass on a word to vice, just in case. “I’m trying to get a line on a photographer who might have called you.”
“Lots of photographers call. What’s his name?”
“Lawrence Gruse. Probably went by Lenny.”
Jerry shook his head. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. Is he with a studio?”
“I don’t think so. It would have been a few months ago.”
“Was he calling me? Or for one of the girls?” Jerry seemed to realize what that implied, quickly adding, “A lot of the women don’t give out their personal number, they use our number on their websites and in their portfolios. It’s more professional. Anyone who wants to hire them for a shoot, or even for a casting call, is supposed to go through me anyway.”
“You get paid for that?”
“Fifteen percent of any jobs they get, it’s industry standard. And a small amount each month for the phone service.”
“So Gruse could have been calling to hire a model?”
“If he’s a photographer, sure. That’s how it works.”
“If I needed it, could you give me a list of your clients?”
“Sure, it’s no secret. You could just look on our website, they’re all listed. These women aren’t hiding, they’re trying to become famous.”
On the way downtown, Winter tried to start building a picture of Gruse. He didn’t have much, but wasn’t bothered. It always took a while, and he was careful not to fall into the trap of drawing conclusions too early, people were more complicated than they seemed. That didn’t mean that the answer couldn’t be simple, like Ryder’s idea of Gruse being the victim of a thief posing as a drug dealer, but before Winter went down that path he wanted to get a better feel for Gruse.
The places Gruse had called could mean little, the crumbs of a phone history that combined to form nothing definitive. Gruse could be a part time drug dealer or just a guy scoring recreational dope. Or neither, his death having nothing to do with drugs.
Winter parked on Main Street, in between his next two stops. He’d passed The Marquee club, knowing it was closed, late morning, but walked back anyway, the owner was often there during the day doing liquor inventory. Winter cut through the side alley, ignoring the door with the rear entrance sign, and instead climbed the loading dock and pounded on the metal garage door. No one answered. After a minute or two he did it again with the same result. Winter would check back tonight when the club was open.
Back on Main, past his car, a few blocks down to The Café restaurant. He hadn’t eaten here in a while. The food was okay, Winter more of a diner guy. The owner, Jake, had slowly shifted The Café upscale, the menu filled with salads Winter couldn’t pronounce. But once inside the solid aroma of good old fashioned meat being grilled reminded him it was close to lunchtime.
A pouty young brunette hostess who looked like she was practicing the look needed to get on Jerry’s agency wall gave him a well practiced smile. “Table for one?”
“Actually, I’m looking for Jake. Friend of his.”
“He was just at the bar a minute ago. If you wait there he’ll be back.”
Winter thanked her and made his way through the tables, the place doing better than he remembered, those fancy salads must be selling. Jake was just coming out of the kitchen when Winter reached the bar.
“As I live and breathe,” said Jake, shaking Winter’s hand. “I thought you were dead.”
“That welcome get you a lot of customers?”
“I wouldn’t say that to the paying ones. You, you get to eat free, anytime.”
“How’s the boy?” asked Winter. Jake, who had worked for a contract agency that provided security to shopping malls, had once been in the unfortunate position of being called by a store manager to pick up two shoplifters she had caught. Nothing odd about that, except the shoplifters had turned out to be Jake’s sixteen year old son and his friend. Jake had no choice but to call the police, and Winter had got the call. Winter had quickly figured out it was a one time thing, or could be if it got rerouted. Winter had talked to the store owner, who turned out to be a friend of Brooker’s, and had worked out a deal everyone was happy with. Jake had never forgot what he viewed as a favor and Winter viewed as nothing more than the right way to handle it, and ever since Winter had never paid for a burger.
“He’s good, good, he graduated community college, he’s going to transfer to UMass. Hey, you hungry?”
“I could eat. Unless it’s all green.”
Jake waved his hand. “That’s for the tourists. I’ll get you a steak, medium, right?” Without waiting for an answer Jake stuck his head back in the kitchen. “Two New York strips, medium.” He came back out and pulled out a stool for Winter, waving the bartender over. “You working? Or can I get you a beer?”
“A beer sounds good, but I’d better not. They’re cracking down on freebies too. I’ll pay for the steak.”
“So if you were at my house, and I tossed a few steaks on the grill and offered you one, you couldn’t eat it?”
“Sure I could.”
“Consider this my home. I practically live here. Shit, the world is falling apart and they’re worried about a cop getting a free meal.”
“Tell me about it,” said Winter. “Next they’ll be making me wear a tie.” He nodded to the bartender. “Just water.”
Jake pointed to his empty tumbler and the bartender filled it from a pitcher under the bar. Jake tipped his glass. “Fortunately I can drink on the job.”
“Must be nice,” said Winter, looking around the restaurant. “You’re doing okay.”
“Pretty good. The food is the easy part, it’s getting good help that’s the problem. This one can’t work weekends, that one can’t work nights, another one doesn’t like to work with so and so, it gives me a headache. On top of that, most don’t last more than a few months.”
“Serves you right, being a hard driving tycoon.”
“If by hard driving you mean I ask them to take orders, be polite to the customers, and deliver food. Most of them consider carrying a tray hard work. You just stopping by to check in, or did you really come to eat?”
“Looking for some information on a guy who called here a bunch of times. His name is Lenny Gruse. Know him?”
Jake rubbed his stomach. “No. Maybe a friend of one of the staff. They aren’t supposed to, but they get calls here. Can’t figure out why, they’re on their cell phones every minute, even when they’re supposed to be working.”
Something clicked in Winter’s mind, Lenny calling a modeling agency, a restaurant. What had the agency guy Jerry said? The girls don’t give out their
personal numbers. Maybe Lenny was calling around, looking to find someone? “You got any models working here? Actresses?” he asked.
Jake laughed. “Why do you think no one lasts long? They’re all models and actresses. Or want to be. That summer theater is great for business but sucks for keeping staff. They get stars in their eyes, quit after getting their first role.”
“The guy I’m looking for was a photographer. Maybe he was trying to reach one of them.”
“Could be. Sometimes a guy comes in, sees a cute waitress, calls to try and hook up.”
“Who takes the calls?”
“Main line rings at the hostess station. Hang on.” Jake caught the eye of a passing waitress. “Tell Kate to come back here please.” Jake watched the waitress walk away, noticed that Winter had noticed, and shrugged. “I look at my own menus, what can I say?”
“Maybe something about only eating at home?”
“We have a few who will tempt any man with a pulse. I think some of the customers come more for them than the food.”
“A restaurant owner who has attractive staff,” said Winter. “What a novel concept.”
Kate arrived just as their steaks did. “My friend here, Detective Winter, is looking for some information on a guy,” said Jake.
“His name is Lawrence Gruse, Lenny,” said Winter. “Called here a few times.”
“We get lots of calls for reservations,” said Kate. “I can check the system, see if he ate here.”
Winter was thinking about Gruse’s tiny apartment, his lived in car, his small bank account. “Maybe not a customer. He could have had a friend here.”
“A friend without their own phone?” Kate sounded like that was an impossibility.
“One of the dishwashers maybe,” said Jake. “We’ve got a few, you know—”
“I don’t need to know,” said Winter, heading off Jake admitting he had illegals working off the books. To Kate he said, “Maybe a guy looking to connect with one of the waitresses he didn’t have a number for?”
“We get almost as many of those calls as we do reservations. Not likely they’d give me their name. It’s not like anyone would call them back, some loser trying to hook up by phone.”
Random Revenge Page 29