Random Revenge

by William Michaels

  Winter tapped his thigh, considering. There were only so many places in a car where you could hide a large quantity of drugs or even a gun. A small memory card, that was another matter, it could be anywhere. Probably needed to be kept dry, although it could be in a baggie . . .

  Ryder was eyeing him from the doorway of the impound garage, probably hoping that Winter wouldn’t find anything. Winter had an urge to yell for Ryder to get an evidence bag, just to pull his chain, pretending he’d discovered a brick of smack that Ryder had missed, it would be worth seeing the look on his face . . .

  Dan had said the memory cards got swapped out. Gruse would want to be able to get his hands on them easily, they wouldn’t be under the spare tire or in a wheel well. What could you get your hands on quickly in a car?

  Winter opened the door and knelt on the floor, feeling under the dash, nothing but wires. Ryder came over as Winter was checking in the glove compartment.

  “We looked there.”

  Winter ignored him, flipping through the owner’s manual. He hadn’t seen a fuse box. The owner’s manual said there was one under the hood and another under the back seat. Weird place, but Winter checked it anyway, struggling with the seat cushion. The fuse box held just fuses.

  He sat back in the driver’s seat. Maybe he’d been wrong about the car, Gruse might have another place to stash stuff, but where? Winter lay his head back, thinking. Not a safe deposit box, too complicated. There was a garage door opener clipped to the visor. Winter pictured the house, the driveway, the boat. Harris didn’t have a garage . . .

  Winter unclipped the opener and pried off the battery case. No batteries, but three thin memory cards.

  He resisted the impulse to wave them under Ryder’s nose.

  CHAPTER 23

  Winter, Ryder and Dan Cole, the tech guy, crowded over the computer monitor in Cole’s small office. Cole was young, still trying and mostly failing to grow a soul patch. He’d helped Winter on a few prior cases and Winter was impressed with his skills and especially with the fact that Cole wasn’t condescending to Winter over his limited familiarity with technology.

  “Before we get to the photos I want to show you this,” said Cole, pointing to an array of icons on the screen. “Gruse had an organizational system. These are all folders, identified by the name of a person. Inside each folder he put the photos of that subject.”

  “Some of the folders don’t have personal names,” said Ryder.

  “Right. That’s good news and bad news. He also has folders for where he took the shots, or some other distinguishing characteristic about the grouping. For example, this one, Clubbing, has photos of celebrities out on the town. This one is for Premieres, this one Up and Coming Actors, and so on. Most seem to have been taken in and around Los Angeles, and are dated when he lived there, so that makes sense.”

  “Is that the good news or the bad news?” asked Winter.

  “Good if you know where you want to find a photo based on a topic or location. Bad if you want to answer your question about what pics might not be backed up. If Gruse had a photo of an up and coming actor, but the photo was taken at a premiere, he’d duplicate the photo so it would show up in both folders.”

  “Waste of space,” said Ryder.

  “Space is cheap,” said Cole. “The alternative is setting up a database, which he also has, but it isn’t up to date. The problem is that he often changed the file name when he duplicated the photo, so we can’t just use easy ways of comparing what photos might be missing. Once I get a better handle on his naming convention, I can write a small program, but I might miss a few.”

  “That’s fine, give us what you can,” said Winter. He pointed to one of the folders. “Incognito?”

  “Just celebs who are out and about, but wearing dark glasses, caps, trying not to be noticed.”

  “How about this one,” said Ryder. “Hot stuff.”

  Cole grinned. “Wondering when you’d ask about that.” He clicked on the folder, the screen filling with thumbnails. “I think he meant hot in a publishable sense, and not porn, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything,” said Ryder.

  “Sure, whatever. Anyway, it’s mostly actresses, dressed up, sexy looking, that sort of thing.” Cole clicked through some of the images. Winter didn’t watch much television and hadn’t been to a movie in years, but even he recognized some of the actors and actresses, mostly the older ones. Most of Gruse’s collection, however, was younger subjects.

  “How many pictures?” asked Winter.

  “Tens of thousands. He’s been doing this for a while.”

  “Waste of time,” said Ryder. “We don’t even know what we’re looking for. It’s not like he’s going to have a photo showing the person who stabbed him.”

  “Not in the act, but who’s to say he doesn’t?” said Winter. “Gruse let someone in his car, good chance he knew who it was.” He turned to Cole. “Can you see if he has any photos categorized under Greenhill?”

  “I already checked, no. He does have a Marburg collection, all from the last few months.”

  “Let’s see those.”

  Cole switched to another set of thumbnails. “What are we looking for?”

  “We don’t know yet,” said Winter. “Something that stands out.”

  “Or a photo titled My Killer,” scoffed Ryder.

  Winter ignored him, Ryder still pissed because Winter had found the memory cards. Looking through the photos was a long shot, but still had to be done. And they could come back to the photos if a name popped up anywhere in the investigation. Names . . . “Can you sort them by the ones that have names?”

  “Sure.” Cole’s clicked the mouse around, too fast for Winter to follow. “Looks to be over a thousand folders with names. Some of the folders only have a few photos, others have lots. Look here, Inge Harris, she’s on two television series, there are hundreds of shots of her.”

  “How about the Marburg photos? Any of those have names?”

  “No . . . it doesn’t look like he classified those. At least not on these memory cards. Wait, let me check the computer.” Cole switched to a different screen. “We made a duplicate of Gruse’s laptop drive, we’ll use that for the searches. Doesn’t look like any named photos there either.”

  Cole flipped through the pages of images, most shot on the street, Winter recognizing the backgrounds: Main Street, some of the stores, the Marquee club. The great majority of the shots were women, candids, some at odd angles, as if Gruse had taken them without aiming.

  “Guy was a stalker,” said Ryder. “Maybe that’s who killed him, someone he creeped out.”

  Winter didn’t dismiss that, it was as good a theory as any, although he’d never heard of someone who’d been stalked committing a murder. The husband or boyfriend of a woman being stalked, maybe. He filed it away as a possibility to be looked into.

  Cole switched back to thumbnails. “Anything in particular you want to see?”

  “Is there a folder marked personal?”

  “None. Any personal shots could be mixed in with the rest though.”

  “Still, a photographer with no personal shots? His friends? His mother?”

  “Maybe those are on his phone,” said Cole. “Selfies.”

  Winter said, “Who takes pictures of themselves?”

  “Everyone,” said Cole.

  Winter really didn’t get it. A different generation. He didn’t feel old, but things had changed. “Are the Marburg photos categorized at all?”

  “Not that I can see. All in one folder. Wait.” Cole did some more clicking. “Huh. The number of photos in the Marburg folder on the computer and on one of the memory cards is the same, so it looks like a backup. But on this other memory card the Marburg collection is smaller.” Cole pointed to the screen. “Some different dates, too.”

  “Show us those,” said Winter.

  These thumbnails had a different feel to them, some out of focus, others showing
only profiles or subjects from the back. Still mostly women.

  “Not as good,” said Cole. “Rejects maybe.”

  “Then why keep them?” mused Winter.

  “Good question,” said Cole. “And not only keep them, but have them all together on one card.” He flipped through the pages.

  “A lot of asses,” said Ryder. “Guy had a think for butts. I told you, stalker.”

  “But these people aren’t recognizable,” said Winter. “Someone thought Gruse had a photo of their butt and stabbed him because of it?”

  “They might not have known he only had a rear shot,” offered Cole. “Could be recognizable in other photos.”

  “Great,” said Ryder. “We can spend days trying to match butts to faces.”

  Cole said, “We could do it by comparing the clothing.”

  “Let’s try to narrow it down another way first,” suggested Winter. “But that’s not a bad idea at all.”

  “Hey, go back,” said Ryder.

  Cole recalled the page, and Ryder reached for the mouse. “Let me, you guys are too slow.” He paged through a series of the images.

  “Now who’s the stalker,” said Winter. The pictures were mostly women’s rear ends.

  “Thought I saw someone in the background in more than one shot,” said Ryder. “But it just looks like the photos were taken close together.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” said Cole. “Gruse caught a picture of a crime being committed in the background. Like in Blow Up.”

  Winter and Ryder looked at him quizzically. “Don’t you guys watch old movies? Famous picture.”

  Ryder rolled his eyes, and Winter shrugged. Another long shot, but Winter had seen stranger connections that explained linkages in seemingly random crimes. “Put it on the list,” he said.

  They all turned at a knock on the door. “You men looking at porn?”

  “Hey, Cindy,” said Dan. “No, just more of the photos I showed you before.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Cindy, coming over to look. A subtle floral scent wafted through the room, Cindy’s perfume. She was a petite woman, close to Dan’s age—Winter was terrible with ages, especially younger women, they all just seemed young—and wore her hair funky. Today it was a silvery blond; her hair color changed more than the weather. Her earrings dangled as she peered at the screen. “These are from Marburg,” she said.

  “You can tell that from looking at women’s rear ends?” asked Ryder.

  “I’m focusing on the backgrounds. Look, that’s taken outside of the Starbucks on Main Street, and this one is near The Café.” She handed Winter a stack of papers. “Gruse had an account at Marburg First Bank. We don’t have access yet, but my friend there told me it had less than a hundred dollars in it.”

  “She shouldn’t divulge that information,” said Ryder.

  “It’s actually a he, and he didn’t give me the exact amount, he just confirmed the account, and I asked him if it was a lot, and he said no, and then we went back and forth and I figured it out.”

  “How would you feel if that was your account privacy being violated?” argued Ryder.

  “If I was dead? I’d be past caring,” said Cindy. She turned to Winter. “Anyway, here’s the list of Gruse’s phone contacts, we just got it from Verizon. The actual texts and historical call log will hopefully show up in a few days. This is just the most recent back up of his contact list. I’ve also listed the few dozen or so numbers he called from his recent call log.”

  “Great,” said Winter. “Can you cross reference the phone numbers in the contact list to addresses?”

  “Already started. Look at the last page, those are the local numbers. A lot are cells, it will take a few days to get addresses for them. On the landlines, all we have now are the physical addresses. I didn’t get a chance to put in all the names, but I thought you’d want this right away.”

  “Good work,” said Winter. Some of the addresses he recognized, a few stores and restaurants, an office building. He picked up a pen off of Cole’s desk and started ticking off addresses, then handed the list to Ryder. “I’ll take the ones I marked, why don’t you cover the others.”

  Ryder hesitated, then took the pages. “If I have the sheets, how will you remember which ones you have?”

  “Only half a dozen names, I’ll remember.”

  “I’ll be jumping all over the place,” said Ryder. “Let’s split it up by geography, save some driving.”

  “Better if I talk to the people I know,” said Winter. “When we get more we’ll do it that way, and give some to the uniforms. If there’s a small chance we could be talking to the killer, we should go easy. Just say that we’re talking to everyone who knew the deceased, routine.”

  Ryder appeared about to object, but Winter was halfway out the door. “Thanks, everyone. Let me know if anything pops.”

  Ryder waited until Winter and Cindy had gone, then said to Cole, “Can I get a copy of those Marburg shots? Maybe I’ll notice something when I’m out checking out these names.”

  “Sure.” Cole opened a drawer, unpacked a new thumbdrive, slipped it in his computer, and as the files were transferring said, “You think the killer’s picture might be on here?”

  Ryder wasn’t sure about the killer, but there was a photo of someone who looked familiar. The back of someone, anyway. He hadn’t mentioned it to Winter, what was he going to say, he had recognized a woman’s butt?

  “Wishful thinking, if you ask me,” said Ryder. He still thought it was a small time drug deal gone bad. Gruse was probably scoring some weed, got taken for a dupe, and was stabbed for his trouble. The robber might not have even meant to kill him, just flashed a knife, and it got out of hand. He grudgingly had to agree with Winter, though, why would a drug dealer bother? Unless it wasn’t a dealer, but just a thief pretending to be, that would explain the out of the way location . . .

  He’d check out Gruse’s contact names, but when that was finished he’d make another stop. After all, he still had the other case, the break-in possible assault. Melanie Upton. He needed to take another look at her rear end.

  To see if it matched the photo he’d just seen on Gruse’s memory card.

  CHAPTER 24

  Melanie flicked through the photos that Standish’s photographer had emailed, her new publicity shots. Not bad, better than what she had before. Standish’s photographer—a spike haired, heavily inked guy who looked more like a gangbanger than an artist—knew his craft, keeping her loose during the shoot, making subtle suggestions, nothing pushy. The results weren’t exactly how Melanie had pictured her early career brand, but in the shots she oozed a street vibe that would play well with her other side of the tracks Jason love story.

  Six o’clock, she was getting hungry, nothing in her apartment as usual. She was getting tired of delivered pizza and Chinese, but she hated eating out by herself, plus it didn’t fit the image she was trying to portray. Successful actresses didn’t dine alone. Gigi was on the road again, and since Melanie had quit the restaurant job she had to not only think about where to eat but pay for her food, forgetting how expensive it cost to stay alive.

  She considered Taz, decided not to overdo that, he might get ideas of something permanent, and she was about done with him, there was nothing more he could do for her. Maybe she’d go to the Hilton, charge a nice lobster to Jason’s room, wouldn’t that be a kick.

  A knock at the door. Melanie ignored it, probably a drunk or lost delivery guy. She must have left the downstairs door propped open. The knock came again, insistent.

  “Who is it?” she yelled out, not bothering to get up from the sofa.

  “Miss Upton, it’s Detective Martin Ryder of the Marburg Police.”

  Shit . . . they knew about Lenny already. Melanie glanced toward the window, then closed her eyes, what was she going to do, jump from the second story?

  She was surprised at her own reaction, no panic, instead sliding to the floor like a rag doll, seeking comfort in her favorite positio
n, propped against the front of the sofa. It was no use, a wave of depression pressing her to the floor, she just couldn’t get a break.

  Fucking Lenny Gruse, torturing her from the grave.

  Melanie still had her phone in her hand, she slowly swiped through her publicity photos again, so close, she’d been so close . . .

  “Miss Upton?”

  Melanie lay her head back, suddenly very tired. She’d been on a high for weeks, an adrenaline rush spurred by the sight of a mountain top suddenly in reach. Even having to deal with Lenny nothing more than a blip, it was all behind her, she could focus again on the prize.

  Now this.

  No way to pretend she wasn’t at home now. If it hadn’t been the cops she could just tell them to go away. If she didn’t answer they’d be suspicious or kick the door in.

  Not that it mattered, they had to know. She should have planned it out, not acted out of rage, but hearing Lenny admit he’d been in bed with Gigi had been too much. She’d punished him where he deserved it. It wasn’t her fault he’d bled to death.

  Fucking Lenny Gruse.

  Melanie took a last long look at her favorite of the new photos, a straight on shot of her looking directly into the camera, makeup so artfully applied it was invisible, an urban street glare that dared anyone to hold her eye, and yet so intense it was impossible to turn away from.

  A look that said, Don’t cross me.

  Fuck Lenny Gruse, fuck the police. She’d do what she did best, she’d figure something out. Or go down fighting.

  She pushed herself to her feet. “Just a minute, I’m coming.”

  At the door she paused, picturing an audience on the other side. It wasn’t a door, but a curtain. She was on stage. All she had to do was get in role.