Random Revenge

by William Michaels

  RANDOM REVENGE

  DETECTIVE ROBERT WINTER SERIES #1

  William Michaels

  Varzara House

  Orlean, VA

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and incidents are used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Varzara House

  Copyright © 2018 William Pursche and Michael Gabriele.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the authors, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews. For information contact info@varzara.com.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018934314

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  K6c7

  * * *

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Special thanks to the law enforcement officers and members of the military who have graciously provided their insights and expertise, especially Captain Luke Durden of the Fairfax County (VA) Police Department and retired Detective Steven Gabriele of the Coventry (RI) Police Department. Also many thanks to Dallas Hudgens, Guy Williamson, Kim Pursche, and Deborah Atella.

  Police procedures and policies differ across jurisdictions, and any errors and omissions are the sole responsibility of the author.

  * * *

  RANDOM REVENGE

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25 CHAPTER 26 CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28 CHAPTER 29 CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31 CHAPTER 32 CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34 CHAPTER 35 CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37 CHAPTER 38 CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40 CHAPTER 41 CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  Mailing List Signup

  CHAPTER 1

  Lenny G was the hippest guy around, and he should know. Sure, he wasn’t quite as with it as the dudes back in LA—those guys defined hip. But here in Marburg, he wasn’t even in a gang, yet he was more down than the local gang leaders. Not that he had met any; they might not even have gangs in this backwater city. An hour away from a million plus metropolis, and it was like being in the sticks. Shit, an hour outside of LA and you were still in LA.

  Lenny sauntered down Main Street. Main Street. Any city so pathetic it had to name a street Main was obviously desperate for respect. Lenny was here—on Main Street—because it was, unfortunately, one of the few places where he might score a shot. Not like LA, where there had been a hundred, a thousand, places where he could make a few bucks with his camera. LA teemed with actors, singers and junkies, often all wrapped up in the same body. Even a halfway decent pic could get him a cool couple of hundred from a celeb website, even more from a print rag.

  Celebrity photographers like Lenny Gruse—he hated the term paparazzi—came in two flavors. One kind did their best to make the subject look good, whether it was a red carpet shot or when catching some hot actress out shopping in her flats and little makeup. Actresses who were a little too long out of the limelight, craving a little freshen up exposure, would tip off one of these puff photographers to where they would be, picking up the kids from day care, having lunch with a new beau. Remoras sucking exposure from a shark. Lenny G—that was his official handle—could always spot these fake candids; the actress would be looking at the camera, casually doing a non-pose pose, not running out the door with a quick brush hair, but polished after having it styled hair. Definitely eye makeup. All bullshit, screaming out to Lenny, the fans clueless. Real celebs who wanted to stay incognito wore ponytails under Dodgers caps, yoga pants, and sunglasses. If the celeb actually wanted to be noticed in their disguise, they wore ridiculously large sunglasses.

  The other celebrity photographer, like Lenny G, snared the surprise shot. The hot new actress caught kissing her married co-star. The supposedly righteous talk show host snared leaving a not so secret rehab facility. The kind of shots that went viral. The kind of shots that could put not only the celebrity on the news, but could make the career of the photographer.

  Lenny stopped in front of a Korean hair and nail salon to check his reflection, the garish pink neon sign announcing Manicures making his eyes look like a horror movie demon. Lenny kind of liked it. Hanging in the window were photos of models sporting a menu of hair styles. Lots of spikes and mullets. Marburg couldn’t even keep up with hair styles, spikes and mullets were so last year. He’d probably have to go all the way into Boston to get his hair done.

  His reflection wavered, shifting, forcing him to refocus. A short Asian lady was staring out at him, her already narrow eyes squinting so hard it was a wonder she could see. Maybe a Korean pissed off look. Or maybe she was studying Lenny’s much more up to date hair style. The crone gave him a little shooing motion with her hand, and Lenny ignored her for a bit, just to make it clear she couldn’t order him around, and then gave her the finger and took his time walking off.

  Manicures. What a bullshit name, what kind of man got his nails done? Metrosexuals, wimpy actors. He couldn’t imagine letting someone touch his nails. The Korean lady—would she have understood it when he gave her the finger? He’d heard that in other countries it might be the first finger . . .

  Lenny continued his stroll, his eyes constantly searching for anything of value to shoot, his hand in his pocket, poised on his quick shot camera. The larger bodied camera with the long lens he held tucked along his side, mostly out of sight. If he needed something fast he would make do with the pocket unit, but if he could sneak up unawares he could draw the telephoto and get off a few shots. It was always a real time decision, like being in a war maybe, which weapon to use. Picking the wrong one could mean a poor image or being spotted, the subject employing the dreaded hand over the face defense, ugly but effective.

  Two women were heading toward him now, wearing too tight tops and flip flops, cheesy. No woman in LA would be caught dressed like that on Rodeo Drive. Not that Main Street was Rodeo Drive, but it was the closest Marburg had to something like it. Two hundred thousand people lived here, yet there wasn’t even an upscale store where he might spot a celebrity doing some shopping. A Maxfield would be too much to hope for, but even a Lanvin would work. Marburg didn’t even rate its own Niemen Marcus.

  Lenny ignored the women, not meriting even the no cost digital memory. Another woman caught his eye, coming out of a restaurant called The Café. Younger, with a little swagger, she knew how to walk, maybe a model or an actress. Lenny fingered his camera unconsciously, but a rear end shot was useless unless the ass could be connected to a name, someone famous.

  The possibilities of running into someone famous in Marburg were pretty low right now. Lenny was looking forward to June, when the East Coast Theater festival would get its annual migration of actors looking to pad their resumes with a little stage, the ticket to break out of a typecast, like too many zombie movies. Lenny had missed the spring film festival; he’d been making the cross country drive with the U-haul, listening to his mother gushing about opportunities out here. She talked about jobs for Lenny. Her big opportunity was with a guy named Tom; she had finally convinced him to let her move in, saving all that cross country travel for his nookie. Now she’d work on him until he was husband number three. Tom hadn’t realized that Lenny was part of the deal until his mother had already taken over most of the closets.

  The restaurant th
e hot chick had left could have potential. Lenny hadn’t been in there yet, and had been meaning to check it out. The up and coming actresses, who hadn’t yet made the leap to the West Coast, would be working for the theater festival and all the businesses that lived off it: the equipment rental shops, the staging companies, even the restaurants. Actresses were like sparkling peppermint gum to restaurants, pop in a new piece, get a nice hit in the form of new eye candy for the diners, and spit them out when they asked for a few days off for a screen test.

  A very few of these actresses, the lucky ones, the few with just the right amount of that special something, would make it big.

  And Lenny G could help make that happen.

  Lenny lingered in the doorway of The Café, getting its vibe. Faux leather lined the walls, not a good sign. To the left, a long bar, all wood, not bad, but above it, a sign announcing karaoke night, that in itself two strikes against the place.

  Midday, the place was not crowded. Three men at the bar, ogling the young female bartender in a black button down shirt uniform that showed nothing. Booths along the walls, lit with industrial looking pendants, a failed attempt at retro chic. A few servers moved about, all in the same drab uniform. All women, all young, mostly blonde, a menu within a menu, something for the male customers to salivate over.

  A sign invited him to seat himself. Lenny took a minute to scope out the talent, figuring out who had what station. Two possibilities: the tall, very young looking Scandinavian blonde, and the not quite petite one with the tight body. Lenny watched as she talked to a male customer, her fingers touching her hair as he spoke, giving the customer just the hint of a smile. Lenny G nodded appreciatively, she was good, flirting without being suggestive, enough to up the tip without having to even suggest anything inappropriate, the kind of woman who made a guy feel good about himself without anything actually being said. Subtle and powerful.

  She had potential and would be one to watch; he’d do some research on her. Her station was the fullest, which also meant she had some regulars, guys who knew her tables. Lenny expected she’d be busy even when there was a hostess; she’d be kicking something back to always get the most and best customers.

  Too busy even on this slow day for Lenny to work her. The other girl, the model wannabe, would be easier. Lenny headed for one of her tables.

  He sat in a booth, facing out into the restaurant. Thought about it, then placed his expensive looking camera on the table. The tall blonde glided over, practicing her runway walk.

  One glance at her up close and Lenny realized she wouldn’t be his ticket, nor would she make it big. Not that she wasn’t good looking, she was actually very pretty. Perfectly pretty. Symmetrically pretty. That sounded good, but perfectly pretty hadn’t been in vogue for twenty years or more. There were thousands of symmetrically pretty women. Even her boobs were probably exactly the same size. None of these women stood out in any way, they were like widgets, nothing to catch the eye of a photographer, a model agency, an agent, a customer. Marburg would be the end of the line for her.

  But all was not lost. Just because she wouldn’t put bucks in his pocket didn’t mean she wouldn’t be of use. She was probably a bit older than she looked, she had to be twenty one since they served booze. Old enough to be legal, not old enough to be especially wary, probably grew up on some hick farm . . .

  “I’m Leah,” she said, as cheery as a time share agent. “I’ll be serving you today.”

  You might be at that, thought Lenny. Leah. Shit, I hope she’s not Amish or something. “Leah. Nice name. I’m Lenny G.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Leah, actually sounding sincere. “Lenny Gee? Like Gee whiz?”

  Maybe she was younger than he thought. “No, just the letter G. It’s my professional name.” Lenny casually gestured toward his camera. “I’m a well known photographer. You may have heard of me.”

  “I don’t think so, sorry.”

  “That’s okay. You’re very pretty, and tall, and you have great eyes. I saw you walk, I thought you were a model, and I’ve shot models, a lot of them know me.”

  Leah’s cheeks reddened, blushing, her eyes opening wide, interested. “I am a model. Becoming one, anyway. I’ve already done some sessions. I’ve been in some circulars.”

  Lenny shuddered. Circulars. Local department store glossy ads in the Sunday paper, the kiss of death for a model, doing tee shirt and underwear shots. He had nailed it. Still. . . she was cute. Underneath that stupid uniform she probably had nice legs. “That’s good, that’s good. Get you some local exposure. But these days, it’s hard to break out, to get noticed where it counts, out in LA. That’s where I’m from, by the way.”

  “Really? You shot models in LA?”

  “Mostly actresses there, actually.” Lenny leaned toward her. “I’ve made a few of them famous. Sometimes just the right photo is all it takes.”

  Leah glanced over her shoulder. “I need to go check on my other customers, but I’d love to hear more about it. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Sure.” Lenny was about to order a Coke, but that didn’t sound very West Coast. He did a quick calculation in his head, remembering exactly how much, or how little, he had in his wallet. “Chivvas, on the rocks.”

  “Okay. Um, can I see some ID?”

  Lenny hated being asked for ID, he was way past twenty one, although he realized he looked a little young for his age, a genetic problem of light skin and the inability to grow good facial hair. “Gotta card everyone who looks under forty, huh?” he said, as he pulled out his wallet.

  “Wow, you still have your California license. Hollywood. That’s exciting.”

  She’s obviously never been there, since most of Hollywood was a dump, all that his mother could afford, even with Lenny being forced to chip in. Leah was still examining his license, her mouth moving silently. Can she even read?

  “You’re older than you look,” said Leah, handing back the license.

  Now Lenny was sure she’d never make it, picturing her trying to butter up a producer or an agent with a line like that, not even realizing the implied insult. She better be able to do something else with those lips besides sound out words . . .

  Leah catwalked off to get his drink, Lenny reassessing his chances with her, wondering if he should change his approach. Fuck it, go with what’s worked, how he could make her famous.

  And it was the truth, at least one time.

  Back in LA, he’d had a tip about an after-hours place about to get raided for drugs. Not designer drugs, but heavy shit. Normally, no one in LA would care about a drug bust; half the city was dealing, the other half using. But who would be in the bar—that could catch interest.

  Lenny wasn’t the only one who got the tip, he got it from a guy who got it from a guy who worked the door in an escort agency where one of the girls was doing the afternoon delight with an aide in the prosecutor’s office. By the time the news filtered to Lenny, even at two a.m. the front of the bar looked like the waiting line for the new Apple phone. Photographers with cameras, long lenses, tripods. Anybody famous would smell the cameras from inside and find another way out, cops or no cops.

  Every shooter out front would get the same shot, making it basically worthless money wise. Lenny had been to the club before, trying to sneak some indoor shots, only to be shown the back door. So this time he angled that way, down an alley ripe with dumpsters. Amazingly, only two other shooters had the same idea. The three of them had bullshitted and smoked some weed while waiting.

  The thump of music behind the door stopped at a little after three. Lenny and the others locked their camera focus on the door. No one barged out; the cops must have uncharacteristically corralled the crowd. The other shooters started to walk away, so Lenny was the only one whose camera was still pointed at the door as it popped open. Lenny automatically started shooting with both hands, stills and video. A woman emerged, looking back over her shoulder. When she turned Lenny caught her full with the flash just as sh
e was pouring enough designer coke down her bra to supply a barrio for a month. She was so wasted she didn’t even register what was happening, giving Lenny enough time to get a few more shots, her sultry eyes wired, a full line of white powder on her upper lip. Even without her trademark nose ring she would have been recognizable anywhere, Francis Martine, an on-the-cusp actress who had been jilted on a reality matchmaker show by a rich bachelor.

  Lenny sold the shot to the first celebrity rag he contacted, and they ran it under the headline “Got Coke?” which Lenny had actually suggested. The flash had given the picture a mug shot look, adding to its allure.

  The exposure Martine was about to get from this photo would put her over the cusp, and a career as an adult industry actress, known everywhere else but LA as a porn star, would be born. And Lenny Gruse would become Lenny G.

  Lenny peered over the top of his menu, checking out Leah and the other possibilities. The other waitress, the one with the look, was far more interesting, but he could tell just by the way she interacted with her customers that she’d be a harder nut to crack. Too confident, too experienced. Manipulative. He upped his estimate of her average tip to thirty percent.

  She wore her hair in a half updo, designed to look styled and casual at the same time. Her pants were definitely tighter than Leah’s, not because she was overweight, far from it. It looked like she had the waist taken in to accentuate her butt, which was pretty amazing, and Lenny had seen a lot of LA booty. She also had just one top button of her shirt undone, probably the restaurant’s dress code, but for some reason more skin showed. Lenny smiled, realizing what she had done. She had removed one button, moving it down, and then added a new button hole. It was an old trick, making it look like you only had one button undone, but giving a little peek show, no one noticed the extra button hole. So she was talent, or looking to be.