Random Revenge (Detective Robert Winter Book 1)

by William Michaels

  “Close enough. Caught him low, he was sitting in the driver’s seat, what killed him was his femoral artery getting sliced. Normally I’d think it was personal, especially a knife, but the M.E. said he might have got the groin stab wounds during a struggle.”

  “Still could have moved around, called for help.”

  “There was no cell phone, although we know he owned one. Probably stolen. Ryder thinks the victim might have been high, got cut, passed out, whatever, just bled out.”

  “You don’t think so.”

  Winter shrugged. “Too early. Ryder just wants to get it closed, he’s looking at dealers and robbery assaults where the MO was a fake drug sale.”

  “I don’t recall any of those around here.”

  Winter grinned. “There haven’t been any. But it’ll keep Ryder busy, out of my hair.”

  “Admit it, you think he’s an asshole too.”

  “I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Unless Logan sticks him with you.”

  Winter got up. “That’ll make Logan the asshole. And maybe you too, if you don’t get back to work. Just get better, okay?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Winter had a hard time finding a place to park near the house where Lawrence Gruse had lived. More cars than Winter would have expected to see, the economy finally improving. He could double park and stick his police tag on the dash, but didn’t want to inconvenience anyone driving through.

  Winter finally found a spot a few blocks away. He walked back, through a neighborhood interchangeable with dozens of others around Marburg. Old houses all in a similar style, New England capes, distinguished from each other only by color and now and then a small porch addition or a car port. He knew the area—there weren’t too many parts of the city he wasn’t familiar with—although couldn’t recall having been on this particular street.

  It was warm but he wore a sport coat, mostly to hide his gun. He hated showing up at a victim’s house in his usual summer attire of an untucked shirt, even though this wasn’t the next of kin notification. He’d have worn a tie for that. Winter usually dressed casually—Marburg had a dress code for detectives but it was mostly ignored—but thought it disrespectful to not at least wear a jacket when visiting the mother of a victim.

  Martin Ryder was waiting for Winter in front of the house, in a suit and tie, better dressed than anyone else in the department. Ryder was leaning against an aging Crown Victoria parked half on the sidewalk. Winter grimaced, for a guy who was supposedly by the book, Ryder wasn’t especially considerate. It would be a pain for cars to maneuver around the huge Ford. Winter might have let it go, but Ryder glanced at his watch, a not so subtle comment about Winter being a few minutes late.

  “If you’d found a legal parking space instead of blocking the street I’d be waiting for you,” said Winter.

  Ryder dusted off his pants. “If I had one of the newer cars I wouldn’t have to block anything with this tank. And I didn’t want to be late.”

  “Just be ready to move it if a truck needs to get through here.”

  “They can go around.”

  Just a few minutes together and Ryder was already pissing Winter off. Brooker was right, Ryder was an asshole. Winter let it go. “You’ve been here already, right?”

  “I did the notification. House belongs to a guy named Harris. No record. Pretty well off until he lost his job, his wife, and his big house across town, he’s been living here less than a year. He just started working part time. The victim’s mother, Patricia, doesn’t work. She’s probably here; the only car they had was the Cadillac her son was found in, and we still have that.”

  “How did she take it?” asked Winter.

  “About how you’d expect. Maybe a little too focused on where this leaves her.”

  “Her son the breadwinner?”

  “If he was, we haven’t found out how.”

  “The boat?” Winter jerked his head toward a large sport fishing boat with a Yamaha outboard taking up most of the small driveway. Winter didn’t know much about boats except that they were even more expensive than they looked, and this one appeared new.

  “Belongs to Harris. He had a few of them, had to sell them off for the divorce settlement.” Ryder glanced at the house. “Tell me again why I’m back here? We searched the house and Gruse’s room, and his computer is at the station with tech.”

  Winter went up the walk. “I just want to get a feel for the guy.” He also didn’t know enough about Ryder to trust his search skills.

  “He was probably just trying to score some dope,” said Ryder.

  Winter turned around. “Let’s not say that in front of the mother.”

  “I’m not an idiot,” said Ryder. “But I did ask her about whether her son was partaking. It’s procedure.”

  Winter rang the bell, wondering where Ryder had learned his procedure. He’d certainly not ask a mother a question about drugs so directly during a notification.

  The woman who answered the door wasn’t quite what Winter expected. She just didn’t look local, her hair too made up, her tan too real, her makeup too expertly applied. She was dressed well, a silky blouse with pearls, a pleated skirt, heels, almost an executive look, but something was just a little bit off, like a woman trying to look monied and just not getting it right. Her eyes were red, maybe from crying, but her makeup wasn’t smudged.

  “Mrs. Gruse? I’m Robert Winter, with the Marburg Police. I believe you’ve met Detective Ryder.”

  “Do you have information on Lenny?” she asked. Her eyes were wide, her voiced laced with drama.

  “A few things, can we come in?” asked Winter.

  The woman led them into the living room, Winter taking in as much as he could before she turned around. Mismatched furniture, a small television on a stand, machine made wool rugs, a few photos on the walls. Not really messy, but not extra neat either. Winter got the impression of a divorced guy, getting the odds and ends furniture, recently acquiring just the hint of female touches, yet from a woman who didn’t give off the homemaker vibe.

  Patricia Gruse sat on the sofa, her eyes drifting toward a half empty wine glass next to a mostly empty wine bottle. Winter couldn’t blame her, she just lost her son. He was trying to figure out a polite way to say she should just go ahead and drink in front of them when Ryder spoke.

  “Mrs. Gruse, we just have a few more questions about your son.”

  Winter winced, jumping in, “After we give you an update on our investigation. Is it okay if we sit down?”

  “Of course. Can I offer you something to drink?” Her eyes flicked to the wine again.

  “No thanks,” said Ryder.

  Winter didn’t want anything, but he figured it might make her more comfortable to drink. “Some water would be great. I can get it myself, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure. The kitchen is that way.”

  Winter didn’t want to leave Ryder alone with her for long. “I’ll be right back. Perhaps Detective Ryder can start with where we are.” He gave Ryder a look, hoping he got the hint not to interrogate the woman right off the bat, then stepped into the kitchen. Like the living room, in that never never land between clean and messy. Some mail on the kitchen table, Winter flicked through it, all addressed to Tom Harris except for a Verizon bill for Lawrence Gruse. The Harris mail looked innocuous, junk circulars, bills. Winter grabbed a water glass from a shelf over the sink, and used the sound of running water to mask his opening of drawers and cabinets. Not much in the way of dinnerware, contributing to his initial impression of a guy re-establishing himself. A few meds in the top drawer, mostly OTC, one prescription bottle for an anti-depressant in the name of Patricia Gruse. Nothing that looked like it belonged to Lenny or any indication of drug dealing or addiction.

  He took one last look around, nothing jumping at him, and went back into the living room as Ryder was saying, “We are in the process of seeing if there were any witnesses when your son was attacked.”

  Grus
e looked up at Winter, who made a show of taking a drink as he sat down, and as he expected the woman reached for her wine, now that she didn’t feel she was drinking alone.

  “I just can’t believe this,” said Gruse. “I thought Marburg would be so much safer than LA. And I hoped Lenny could find a nice girl.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Winter. “Can you tell us what brought you out this way?”

  “My boyfriend, Tom, we’d met when he traveled to the west coast. It just got to be too much back and forth for him, he wanted me to come live here so we’d be close.”

  Winter wondered if that was after the divorce or what caused it, but didn’t say anything. If Harris looked to be involved with the Gruse murder in some way he’d find out later. “And your son, he came with you?”

  “Yes, Lenny lived with me in LA. It’s so hard for young men these days to get a steady job, with the economy, you know. He’s a photographer, he can live anywhere.”

  “He took pictures of celebrities?” asked Ryder.

  “Mostly. He was very good, although it doesn’t pay much, there is a lot of competition. He was looking for something steady, and then do the photography on the side.” She paused. “That’s why he was living here, keep his expenses down.”

  “So he must have spent a lot of time with celebrities,” said Ryder.

  “I guess so. He certainly took enough photos of them.”

  Winter knew where Ryder was going, celebrities meant drugs, maybe Gruse was dealing. It wasn’t a bad idea, but he didn’t like jumping to conclusions. “We’re going to take a look at Lenny’s photos to see if they might help us out.”

  Gruse frowned. “I thought you said it was a robbery?”

  “We need to look at everything,” said Winter gently. “Just in case.”

  “You think someone came after my Lenny?” Gruse’s hand went to her pearl necklace. “Am I in danger?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Ryder. “But the sooner we close off possibilities the better.”

  “You’ll keep me safe, won’t you?” Gruse was looking at Winter, not Ryder.

  Winter leaned forward. Contrary to popular opinion, police work was much more after the crime than preventative, but instead he said, “The best way to keep you safe would be for us to find out what happened to your son.”

  “Do whatever you have to do,” said Gruse.

  “Thank you. We’d like to look at Lenny’s room again, if that’s okay with you.”

  “It’s upstairs.”

  “Detective Ryder knows the way, there’s no need for you to come up,” said Winter. He wanted to leave her to her wine, not looking over his shoulder. “We’ll stop back when we’re finished.”

  Winter followed Ryder up to the second floor, but turned into the bathroom on the landing instead of continuing on. “Just be a sec,” he said. This bathroom was a mess, empty after shave bottles, stringy hairbrushes, a grungy towel on the shower rack, the shower door grimy. Two cans of Monster in the trash. Winter suspected it was Lenny’s bath, no makeup, no women’s items. The medicine chest was filled with aspirin and B12 supplements, no prescriptions.

  In the short hall Winter passed an open bedroom door. A king sized bed, made up, with two closed doors. Two bureaus and a long dresser with a makeup mirror, two jewelry boxes, brushes. Patricia and Tom’s room. Winter stepped in, checked the bath, the closet, the dresser. Cursory, more to get a feel.

  Ryder waited impatiently on the narrow staircase to the top floor. “We didn’t need her permission.”

  “I know. Sometimes it doesn’t hurt to be polite.”

  Ryder continued on up. “What would you have done if she’d said no?”

  “She wasn’t going to.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Mother losing her son, what do you think? She wants to understand why, she wouldn’t question anything we want to do. Later maybe, if we don’t come up with much, but not now. Besides, if she’d said no, you could have read her the law.” Not what Winter would have done, but he knew that’s the way Ryder would handle it.

  They had to duck to enter the top floor. It was not really a traditional attic, just a small dormer at the front of the house accessible by a plywood door. The room was full of boxes, a second plywood door leading to another room. Two squat dressers were crammed against one wall, the top drawers partially open. A single bed against another wall, more like a cot, two suitcases stuffed underneath. A folding table holding a few disconnected cables sat under the only window. An old shelving unit was built into the last wall, filled with camera equipment.

  “We found the computer on the table,” said Ryder. “Nothing much in the drawers, clothes mostly. No jewelry at all. He didn’t have a watch on him.”

  “Not many young people wear watches any more,” said Winter. “They all have cell phones.”

  “I do.”

  “To someone Lenny’s age you’re an old man,” said Winter.

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “I am too. I don’t sweat it.” Winter was looking at the camera equipment. “Any idea what this stuff is worth?”

  “We took an inventory, Cindy is checking prices. Stuff looks old.”

  “Or just well used. He was a photographer.” Winter barely knew which end of a camera to hold, he didn’t even like getting his picture taken. “Are these all digital?”

  “I think so. We pulled all the memory cards, the tech guy has them. We can look through everything back at the station.”

  “You find backups?” Winter remembered reading about a photographer who had lost half his livelihood because his camera was stolen and his backup was lost in a fire. Something about always needing more than one backup.

  “We assume they’re on the computer. We’ll check.”

  Winter sat on the bed and looked around, trying to get a sense of Lenny. It was a pretty depressing room; Winter lived frugally but his place seemed like the Taj Mahal compared to this. He wondered what it would be like, a mid twenties guy, living with his mother, confined to a small attic room belonging to a stranger. Maybe not a stranger, he thought. Lenny must have met Tom in Los Angeles. He’d check on that. Tom scoring dope from Lenny? It felt weak.

  “It doesn’t exactly scream drug dealer,” said Winter. It had more a feel of a hard up guy with no prospects.

  “Still could have been buying. Or just getting his feet wet, setting up shop.”

  “This look like a guy who would be carrying a wad of cash, worth being held up for?”

  Winter got up, idly looking through the drawers, not expecting to find anything, not really many places to hide stuff. Remembered the article about the photographer who lost his backup. Lenny’s photos must have been important to him, would he keep them all in one place?

  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the station, getting switched to Dan, the tech guy. “I’m out at Lawrence Gruse’s place, the photographer homicide. Question for you, how many backups do photographers keep?”

  “Usually three,” said Dan. “For important shots, four. One on the original memory card. The memory cards are prone to problems, plus they get reused, so they get copied to a portable hard drive, a computer, and on line.”

  “Did you get a chance to look at anything yet?”

  “We’re working through it. Lots of images, tens of thousands. Quite a few recognizable celebrities, Hollywood types.”

  “Any backups missing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are there any shots on the memory cards that don’t show up on the computer? Or in the online backup?” Winter was wondering if Gruse had a special stash of photos, pictures he kept hidden. Girlfriends, personal images.

  “We don’t have access to the cloud storage, we have a subpoena going for the site where he stored his work. I haven’t checked the computer yet to see if the photos match, it could take a while. You want me to do that?”

  “Yes. And if there’s no will . . .” Winter glanced at Ryder, who shook his head. “ . . .
then the photos belong to his next of kin, I think. That might be his mother if the father is not in the picture. If that’s the case we could get her permission to hack it, she might even know the password. Call me if you see anything missing.”

  “Hard to know what isn’t there.”

  “I know. I’ll be by to see them. And have Cindy take a look, she might follow the local celebrity scene, she might recognize someone.” Cindy was the department criminologist.

  Winter hung up, thinking about the backups. The bathroom? Not if Lenny was afraid of fire or theft. The car.

  “Did you search the Caddy?” asked Winter.

  Ryder said, “No drugs, although the dog got a hit on some weed. And we can’t hack the cloud, we need to wait for the subpoena. Lenny’s father could have a claim on them, if we found something without his permission or before the court ruled on the intestate it could ruin the legality of the search.”

  “We’ll let the lawyers figure that out,” said Winter. “In the meantime, I want to take another look at the car.”

  “We didn’t miss anything,” argued Ryder.

  Winter suspected Ryder might miss a tornado. “Probably not. Let’s check anyway.”

  The Caddy was more of a mess than Gruse’s room, the floor of the backseat a veritable dump on wheels. Winter ignored the junk and the obvious places for a drug stash; Ryder was on that kick and he would have gone over them carefully. Winter wasn’t buying the drug angle, not yet, although the location of the killing still bothered him. What was Gruse doing there? He’d gently asked the mother as they had left, she’d had no idea, nor did she know any of Gruse’s passwords or who his friends were. Winter saw that she had started on another bottle of wine and left her alone, ushering Ryder out when his questions kept coming back to drugs. If there was a drug angle they’d have more luck coming at it from the other way, the dealers. Winter knew who all the major—and most of the minor—dealers were in and around Marburg.

  As Winter sat behind the wheel of Gruse’s car the cracked leather seat bit right through his shirt. Winter was having a hard time getting a handle on Gruse. Guy goes from taking pictures of big celebrities in Hollywood, ends up in Marburg, living with his mother, driving her older model car—probably lived in it, if the junk in the backseat was any indication. Winter wondered if Patricia Gruse would ride around in such a mess, with her manicured nails and nice clothes. Gruse’s clothes had looked pretty normal for a twenty something, mostly jeans, a lot of black, a little outdated maybe? Winter wasn’t up on Millennial fashion, something to ask one of the younger cops.