Random Revenge

by William Michaels

  “Creepy guy.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Winter.

  “He was hitting on us.”

  “I bet you get that all the time,” said the juicer.

  “But we didn’t want it from him,” said the blonde, pouting.

  “He was giving us some bullshit line about taking our pictures, making us famous,” added the other girl.

  “Maybe he could,” said the juicer.

  “Please,” said both girls, simultaneously.

  Winter prodded them a little more, but they couldn’t tell him much. They thought Gruse had been a creep with a prop camera, nothing more. They’d never seen him again.

  Winter took their names anyway.

  At the station, Winter and Ryder hunched over Cindy’s desk as she ran her pencil down a list of names. “None of the women you talked to today who you got names from are in Gruse’s contact list. I even checked his incoming and outgoing calls—his phone stored almost three months’ worth, he actually didn’t get or make a lot of calls—and used a reverse directory to see who each number belonged to. No hits. If he knew these women, he wasn’t in contact with them by phone.”

  “Great, a drug dealing stalker,” said Ryder.

  “Did you notice anything else about the women you talked to?” asked Winter. He didn’t want to color Ryder’s perception with his own idea about what the women might have in common.

  “It’s amazing how many women want to be famous,” said Ryder.

  “What do you mean?”

  “See these?” Ryder pointed to three names on the list. “Two want to be models, the other one an actress. All three of them used the word famous about ten times.”

  “Half the staff over at The Café want to be in acting as well,” said Winter. “I don’t understand the appeal.”

  “Young girls see these glamorous, rich women on television shows, in the movies, hanging out with hot guys, going to ritzy galas, what part don’t you understand?” asked Cindy.

  Winter groaned. “Not you, too.”

  “Just saying.”

  “So Gruse could just have been using the photographer story to meet women, promise them publicity . . .” said Winter.

  “Or maybe he was a real photographer with connections,” said Cindy. “I’ve googled his name, his photos have appeared in online celebrity blogs, entertainment websites, even some print publications.”

  “Or both,” said Winter. “That would explain the stalker shots.” His picture of Gruse was filling in, a guy who had just relocated to a much smaller city than flashy Los Angeles, who didn’t get or make many calls. Perhaps lonely, a little depressed. Not much money. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think he’d use his photography as a way to meet women.

  Cindy tapped her screen. “We still have more photos to sort through, especially the ones where it’s not so obvious where they were taken.”

  “Prioritize any full on shots, where the woman looks like she wanted to be photographed,” said Winter. “Just feed everything to us as you get them. We can be back on the street first thing in the morning. Tonight I’m going to hit a few of the clubs too.”

  “I still think it’s a waste of time,” said Ryder. “Do any of these woman look like they’d kill a guy for taking their picture?”

  Winter had once arrested a pigtailed, pudgy sixteen year old girl who hadn’t outgrown her baby fat but had beaten her brother to death with a fireplace poker because he told her she looked like a Cabbage Patch kid. Winter didn’t think murderers had a look. On the other hand . . . “The women who wanted to be famous, can you show me their photos?”

  Ryder took the mouse from Cindy and clicked on the photos. “A blonde, a brunette, and, what color is that, anyway? Purple?”

  “I’d call it dusty grape,” said Cindy. “I think it looks kind of cool.”

  “They don’t look at all alike,” said Ryder.

  Not the hair color, or their skin tones, or their general features, thought Winter. One of the women wasn’t looking directly at the camera. But the other two gave off a—feeling, a vibe—a glint in their eye, a communication through their features that appeared deliberate. Almost as if they knew they were being photographed, or expected to be photographed at any time. Now that Winter knew what to look for, this indefinable look jumped out at him in some of the shots. Not all, but enough that he noticed. Was it this look that made them attractive, or was it that they were attractive and some just happened to have the look? “Let’s keep track of how many of these woman Gruse photographed who wanted to be famous, models, actresses, singers.”

  “That might be most of them,” said Cindy.

  “Let’s do it anyway.” Winter still wasn’t ready to voice his idea that Gruse was searching for a certain look. Especially since Winter couldn’t exactly define what he meant. He’d also seen too many investigations go down the wrong path because someone along the way had jumped the gun, like the search for a white van the DC sniper was supposedly driving.

  Winter slipped the tablet out of his oversized cargo pocket, he wanted to ask Cindy to help him reorder the images.

  “Since when do you have a tablet?” asked Ryder.

  Winter gave him a surprised look, his own attempt at acting. “You’re not still showing photos on that tiny phone screen, are you? This is much better.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Ryder couldn’t make sense of Marburg’s archaic investigative software database. He had arrived at the station before his shift to work the drug angle, wanting to avoid wasting any more time showing Gruse’s photo around. For the past hour he had been hunched over his desk computer, searching in vain for a way to sort drug arrests by location. The software he had used in Derry would have spit the answer out in a few seconds.

  Everything was old here, even though Marburg was a much larger city. When Ryder had transferred to Marburg he’d assumed that a larger city meant bigger budgets, but instead he’d discovered older computers, older software, even older detectives. Ryder often felt like he had entered a time machine; one day he might wake up and find out that the motor pool had been replaced by horses and buggies. He knew the policing procedures would be outdated—that’s mostly why they brought him in—but he hadn’t expected the shortcomings to extend to basic software tools.

  He gave up on the department database. Maybe he would ask Cindy, she seemed on top of everything—but he was still miffed she had sent him on the wild goose chase back to the dry cleaner, where as he feared, he had a very long and fruitless conversation with the elderly lady. That had to be Winter’s idea, the old school cop practical joke. Ryder hated practical jokes.

  He switched to CJIS, the Massachusetts Criminal Justice Information System. Ryder felt more comfortable with this system, although it was limited to arrests only and didn’t track open investigations like a local department database would. Gruse had no record, but maybe one of the employees at the motel where Gruse had been stabbed did. Ryder punched in the names, and lo and behold, Hank Evers, the night clerk who Ryder had interviewed, had an arrest for possession of a controlled substance, oxycodone. Ryder would pay Evers another visit, find out if Gruse was trying to score or look for a source.

  Ryder moved the cursor back to the search field. One by one he typed in the names of the women Gruse had photographed who had been newly identified. Sure enough, one of them, Terri Cerese, had been arrested for possession of marijuana. The fact that she was in the system at all meant that it had to be more than one ounce, and was likely a second arrest; first offenses would be sealed and off the books after a successful probation. Cerese could be a dealer.

  So Gruse had been killed in the parking lot of a seedy motel where a user worked, and Gruse had at least one photo of a woman who might be a dealer. That seemed a more fruitful line of investigation than the meandering Winter was doing. Ryder would interview Cerese; he didn’t trust Winter to pursue the drug angle. Winter’s methodology was as out of date as Marburg’s software.

  Ryder click
ed off, feeling like he had accomplished something, and left the bullpen. A couple of other detectives were there, no one even saying good morning. Ryder just wasn’t part of the club yet.

  Cindy stopped him as he passed her cubicle. He did a double take; her hair was purple today. “Detective Ryder, I may have something for you.”

  Ryder suspected another wild goose chase that would keep him from pursuing the drug angle. “What is it?”

  “Did you know the victim in your assault case was just on tv?”

  “So? She’s an actress.”

  “She was a guest on The Other Woman.”

  “And?”

  “And on the show she said, well, she implied, but she might as well have said it, that Jason Ayers—you know who he is, right?—assaulted her. That’s your case, isn’t it?”

  Ryder could feel his mouth opening and closing like a fish gulping for air. “She what?”

  “She told the interviewer that she was hot and heavy with Jason Ayers, and that even though Jason supposedly is with Ashley Hanna, the Ashley Hanna, he can’t keep his hands off of her. Off Melanie, I mean. She said he came into her place one night—”

  “She fucking lied to me!” Ryder couldn’t believe it. Melanie had told him she didn’t remember much about the assault, he had it in his frigging notes, and now she was on television telling the world who did it? He was going to look like an idiot.

  “Who lied to you?” asked Captain Logan.

  Ryder had been so focused on Melanie he hadn’t even seen Logan approach. Winter was right behind him. “It must be a mistake,” Ryder said, ignoring Logan. “You must have heard it wrong.”

  Cindy shrugged. “Okay, don’t believe me. I’ll get a copy of the show for you.”

  “What show?” asked Logan.

  Ryder couldn’t see how to avoid telling him. “Melanie Upton—the possible assault victim at Lakeview? She told us she didn’t remember much about the attack, or even if she had been attacked. Cindy claims she saw Upton on a television show identifying who assaulted her.”

  “I’m not claiming anything,” said Cindy. “It’s what I saw.”

  “What show?” repeated Logan.

  “The Other Woman.” Cindy must have noticed the blank stares, because she said, “Don’t you all watch television? It’s a show about celebrity relationships. They interview a woman who is involved with a man who is supposedly in a committed relationship.”

  “That gets someone on television?” asked Logan.

  “It is if the people in the relationship are famous,” explained Cindy. “And Ashley Hanna is famous.”

  “Who’s she?” asked Winter.

  Ryder had pushed Cindy aside, he was trying to find a YouTube of the show. “She’s a singer,” he said distractedly. “She’s dating Jason Ayers, he’s the next Mark Walburg, he’s starring in a new series.” When no one responded, Ryder looked up, Logan and Winter were staring at him. “What? Everyone knows that.”

  Winter was grinning, which pissed Ryder off. So he kept up on the news, why was that funny? “The show is being filmed here in Marburg. You’ve at least heard that, haven’t you?”

  “She named Ayers as her attacker?” asked Logan, incredulous.

  “Well, yes and no,” said Cindy. “It was more of an implication. Melanie says Jason might look like he’s with Ashley but it’s Melanie he can’t keep his hands off of. He even had to force his way into her place.”

  “Why would she not tell us if she knew it was Ayers?” asked Logan.

  “That’s what I mean to find out,” said Ryder.

  “She might be covering for him,” said Winter. “If he’s as famous as you think he is. You being up on the celebrity gossip and all.”

  “I can’t help it if I know what’s going on in the world,” muttered Ryder.

  “Let’s see, a few wars, a plane crash last week, a terrorist attack—not to mention the Sox might win the pennant again. Oh, yeah, I forgot, some guy named Jason Ayers is dating a woman named Hannah.”

  “Ashley Hanna,” said Cindy and Ryder simultaneously.

  “Cut it out,” said Logan. “But the question is a good one. Why would this woman Upton cover up who her attacker was?”

  “Maybe she got paid off,” suggested Winter. “Or Ayers has something over her.”

  Ryder couldn’t find a clip of the show online. “I’m going back to see her right now to find out. If she names Ayers, we can get a warrant for his DNA.”

  “No, you aren’t,” said Logan.

  Ryder had already headed for the door. “What?”

  “This woman already lied to you. She might be playing you, playing all of us. Let’s watch this show first, get our line of questioning straight. Then someone else will do the interview.”

  This is bullshit, thought Ryder. “It’s my case.”

  “I haven’t said it wasn’t. But you’re pissed, hell, I would be too. Maybe it’s a misunderstanding, but if she lied to you, you don’t want to go in there with an attitude.”

  “I know what she told me,” said Ryder, adamant. He didn’t even need his notes. He’d talked to Melanie twice, shit, she had even wanted to have dinner with him, an invitation he’d refused, although he’d been really tempted, she was that hot. Not once had she implied anything about Jason Ayers.

  “And I know what I heard,” insisted Cindy.

  “When was it on?” Ryder asked Cindy. If Melanie had done the show after she spoke to him, maybe she’d remembered something about the assault later. But why hadn’t she called? She said she would call . . .

  “I’m not sure. I Tivo-d it. I’ll get the date. A week or two ago, maybe?”

  Logan said, “Let’s get a copy of that show.”

  Ryder tried again. “I want to re-interview her.”

  “Later,” said Logan. “Let’s get another take, compare notes.” Logan looked at Winter. “You talk to her.”

  Ryder bit off a groan. Not Winter. First the Gruse case, and now this. Ryder would never get to make a name for himself if Logan kept letting Winter hone in on all his good cases. “I can handle it,” he gritted.

  “It’s just an interview,” said Logan. “Bring Winter up to speed. Since you guys are already working the Gruse case together, what’s one more? Who knows, maybe you two were destined to be a team.”

  Fat chance, thought Ryder. I’ll go back to dead end Derry first.

  CHAPTER 28

  Winter lingered in Cindy’s cubicle after Logan and Ryder had left, Ryder no doubt off to catch up on his celebrity gossip. Winter wasn’t looking forward to working another case with him. The guy was stubborn, and now Winter was getting a sense he was a closet hothead too, a bad combination. Brooker had warned him that maybe Logan was trying to team Winter up with Ryder. Winter hadn’t wanted to believe it. He’d have to cut the head off that snake soon.

  In the meantime, he’d have to suck it up and do the Upton interview, if for no other reason to get it out of the way and remove one more Ryder interaction.

  Winter was aware of the Upton case but not the details. Ryder had given him a brief background. Winter thought of one thing he could do right away that Ryder probably wouldn’t consider. To Cindy he said, “Your friend at the bank, the one you asked about Gruse? Can you see if this Upton woman had an account there?”

  “Sure. You thinking she got paid off by Jason Ayers to keep quiet about the assault?”

  “Or didn’t. Maybe Ayers promised her something, she didn’t get it, she goes on television to put some pressure on him. Or he pays her, she wants more.” Winter sat on the edge of Cindy’s desk. “Do me a favor. Close your eyes, think about the show you saw. Don’t try to remember the words, just give me your feeling. Did she say Ayers did it?”

  Cindy did as he asked, moving her neck side to side. After a minute she said, “No. She didn’t connect the dots, you know? But on the other hand, she certainly made me think he did it. Or did something.”

  “Did she sound like she was making it up?”
>
  “She is an actress, so who knows?”

  “An actress?” Models, singers, actresses . . . some kind of connection? It would give Winter another way to approach Upton, see if she knew Gruse. “Can you call your friend at the bank?”

  Winter half listened to Cindy as she made the call, trying to think of a possible connection between the Gruse homicide and the Lakeview assault. He nudged Cindy over and tried to find the file on the Upton assault, giving up after a few seconds when it was obvious that Cindy had struck out.

  “She doesn’t have an account there.”

  “It was a long shot anyway.”

  “Who says I don’t have more banking friends?” Cindy was already dialing.

  “Wait, before you do that, do you have a photo of the Upton woman?”

  “I can google her. Here, quite a few.”

  Cindy enlarged one and went back to her call. Winter took one glance at the photo and thought, Hmm…there it is, the look, Upton seemed to know he was looking at her. No, that wasn’t it, she knew that anyone would want to look at her. Like a magnet. Winter had seen that look in person a few times, he’d always thought it was meant for him. That was ego, he now realized. This woman, and the others he had known, could call it up at will.

  Winter wasn’t as special as he had thought. He felt a little sad, his memories of those women in his life shifting from a pleasant vibrancy to a shade of gray.

  Cindy held her hand over the mouthpiece. “This favor might cost me,” she said.

  Winter got the hint. “Third row seats behind the dugout to the next Sox Yankee series,” he said. “Or a night at the Presidential Suite at the Copley.” He been offered both of these by people he’d helped out in one way or another.

  “He’s not into baseball,” said Cindy. Into the phone she said, “Hey John? How’s my favorite Patriots fan?”

  Winter groaned. This was going to cost him box seats to the Patriots opener. He had wanted those for himself.

  Winter grabbed a coffee in the break room and found Ryder at his cubicle in the bullpen. “Upton recently got a big deposit in her checking account,” Winter said. “Where do you think that came from?”