Random Revenge

by William Michaels

  “Anything on the phone number?”

  “No. Upton’s number is not in Lenny’s contact list, or in his call log. We got the full history from his cell phone carrier. There are no calls to or from Upton’s cell at all. And she doesn’t appear to have a landline.”

  “I didn’t see one in her apartment.” Winter tapped the screen. “How many local women haven’t we identified?”

  “There are two answers to that,” said Cindy. She switched to a spreadsheet. “This column is the photo image number. The second column indicates whether the photo shows the face. We’ve identified about half the women whose faces are visible, which leaves us with about fifteen more. The others will be difficult—there wasn’t much background to go on. I’ve got a list for you.” She scrolled down the screen, the image numbers rolling by. “These are the shots where we can’t see the face. Me and Dan have grouped them where the pictures appear to be of the same woman. So that’s the second answer to your question, we don’t know how many.”

  “Best guess?”

  “I think fifty, Dan thinks more.”

  “When I saw Upton, she was wearing these really tight jeans and a workout top, like you’d wear at the gym, not the loose kind. I thought it kind of weird, who wears a workout top with jeans?”

  Cindy gave him a look. “You need to look at some fashion magazines. It’s more common than you think, and they’re called skinny jeans.”

  “I was thinking, maybe that’s the way she dresses all the time?”

  “She’s a woman, and an actress. She probably has lots of looks. Not everyone dresses in the same outfit every day.”

  “Hey, I wore the tan pants yesterday,” said Winter.

  “Just saying. But I see your point. I’ll look for pictures of women in skinny jeans.”

  “And ask Ryder what he saw her wearing. He’s seen her twice now.” Winter wasn’t too surprised that there was no direct Gruse and Upton linkage; just because he had pictured a possible connection didn’t mean there was one. He’d keep looking though . . . “Speaking of Ryder, I know he’s not on, but since you’re here working, give him a call and ask about the clothes.”

  “Actually, he is working. Not on Gruse, on the Upton case. I’ve been monitoring the web for any mention of Upton, it was Ryder’s idea. She’s getting a lot of mentions, mostly because of The Other Woman show. And just about any time Ashley Hanna is in the news—which is all the time—there’s always a line about Jason Ayers and Upton. Anyway, this was posted yesterday.” Cindy pulled up a YouTube video.

  Winter squinted at it. “Can you make it bigger?”

  “I can, but it gets grainy, it was shot in low light with a camera phone.”

  “I’ve seen this, Upton and Ayers at the party.”

  “You haven’t seen this version. Look, it’s a different angle. You can see them talking, they look pretty close, off in the corner. Then something happens, he looks angry. See when Ayers grabs Upton’s arm? She looks like she’s in pain. He’s forcing her.”

  “Can’t hear what they are saying over all that music.”

  “We have the audio from the other video, at least some of it. She said ‘You’re hurting me.’”

  Upton had told Winter she liked it rough. He didn’t think this was what she meant. “Who took the video?”

  “The YouTube user name is Celebrity Sighter.”

  “Can you find out who that really is?” Winter was wondering if it might be Gruse.

  “Not easily. This is the only video uploaded under that name. It might be a random person at the party.”

  Or Melanie Upton, thought Winter. “Does Ryder know about this?”

  “I sent it to him a little while ago. He wants to see Ayers again right away, but I can’t confirm that Ayers is in town. My friend at the Hilton isn’t working today, and the woman who answered the phone might have thought I was a celebrity seeker.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Ha-ha.”

  Winter wanted to get back on the Gruse murder, now that nothing apparent had panned out on the linkage between the cases. “Give me that list of Gruse photos, I’ll try a few more places. I’m going to Shelly’s Seafood restaurant to meet my daughter for lunch. It’s close enough to the Hilton, I’ll try to find out where Ayers is. I might get more out of them in person.”

  Cindy transferred another batch of unidentified images to Winter’s tablet, along with a list of guesses as to where they were taken. As she handed it back to him she said, “When you are there, if you happen to see Michael Stevens, you’ll get me an autograph, right?”

  Ryder hated working unassigned weekends, he had his own schedule he liked to keep, nice and orderly. His shift was normally one full weekend a month, and two half weekends, one Saturday, one Sunday. It was one of the things that had made him choose Marburg over Springfield, his other option when he left Derry, the larger force meant more consistency, none of the scheduling at the whim of the shift commander.

  Today he was mad enough he didn’t care what day it was. Ayers had lied to him, just as Melanie Upton had. This case was full of liars with no respect for the law. Even the front desk clerk at the Hilton had led him astray about access to the Executive Floor. Time to set them straight, starting with Ayers.

  Ryder took the time to put on a suit, a light worsted gray worsted wool with a red Hermes tie. The ties were a little too rich for his salary, but he liked knowing that the distinctive pattern was recognizable to anyone who knew clothes. You never knew who you might meet, always better to look good.

  Audrey Winter scrolled through the speed dial list on her car phone, the numbers flicking in bright blue on the center multi function screen. The name she punched up went right to the answering machine. If she didn’t know it was her father, Audrey might not have recognized his voice, slurred from an old fashioned outgoing message cassette. It was the same machine that had been in the kitchen since she’d lived there, and that had been—twelve years ago. It was a miracle the answering machine still worked.

  Knowing her father, he’d probably not replace it when it finally broke, or if he did, it would only be at her insistence. Though she didn’t see him often, she took some comfort in being able to contact him to check in. She was the one who made him get a cell phone.

  It was why she’d set up these scheduled lunches, otherwise she knew that between his job and hers, they’d never see each other. An hour apart, yet they could have just as easily been on opposite coasts.

  She still hadn’t broken the news that she’d been offered the promotion in Virginia. Her father would say all the right things, he’d want her to go, but she knew he’d be sad, and she’d worry about him. He had no other family around.

  The lunches had been good for both of them. She could forget for a little while that he was a cop, in a dangerous world of criminals and drugs and assaults. The one great thing about his dislike of cell phones was that he wouldn’t be checking messages constantly during the two hours they spent together. And it rubbed off on her, practically the only time she wasn’t on the phone was when she was with him.

  Unfortunately, she’d picked up her phone earlier this morning . . .

  Audrey pulled up another number, called the station. The operator switched her to the detective squad, a woman picking up the phone right away, a voice Audrey knew. “Hey, Cindy, it’s Audrey Winter, what are you doing there today?”

  “Your father has me working.”

  “Good working or drudgery?”

  “Time and half working, which means good working.”

  “Do you happen to know where my dad is? He’s not answering his cell. I wanted to see if he can meet a little earlier.”

  “He doesn’t always remember to turn it on. He’s on his way to the Hilton. I can get dispatch to call him, but he might be in and out of the car, he had a few stops to make.”

  “Great, thanks. I’ll head over there and try to catch him. Don’t work too hard.”

  “Hey, Audrey, when you’r
e at the Hilton, keep an eye out for Michael Stevens . . .”

  Ryder half hoped the pseudo-polite desk clerk was on duty so he could teach him a little respect, but instead it was the attractive blonde who Winter had spoken to. Ryder brightened, things were looking up. He flashed his badge and introduced himself.

  “I’m here on official police business,” he said. The woman, a little older than Ryder had first thought, but holding her age well, didn’t seem that impressed, so he changed his approach, leaning on the counter. “I interviewed Jason Ayers here in relation to an important case I’m working on, and I have some follow up questions. If you could give me the card for his floor, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I believe I saw Mr. Ayers leave the hotel, but I will ring his room,” she said. She picked up the phone, punched in a number—Ryder noticed she hadn’t bothered to look up the room—and after a moment shook her head. “I’m sorry, there’s no answer. I’d offer to call the show publicists for you, but they are only here during the week, they’ve checked out already.”

  “But Mr. Ayers did not?”

  “No, his room is on a long term reservation.”

  “Is he around on weekends?” Ryder should have called ahead, he’d missed his spinning class for this.

  “I can tell you I have seen him before on a Saturday. And he wasn’t carrying a bag this morning. He might have just gone out for brunch.”

  Ryder wondered if actors carried their own bags. He couldn’t picture Michael Stevens hauling suitcases through the airport. Maybe Ayers wasn’t a big enough name yet. “Don’t you have brunch here?”

  The desk clerk’s smile was forced. “Only on Sundays.”

  Ryder took that to mean it wasn’t very good, which was too bad, he liked a good brunch. “Maybe I’ll just wait a bit. If you see him, tell him I’m in the café.”

  He stopped at the lobby newsstand, bought the Globe and an iced Starbucks from a little refrigerator, and descended the three steps into the café. A waiter started to come over, maybe to tell Ryder he had to order something to sit there, but Ryder glared at him, flashed his badge, and took a table where he could watch the front door.

  Twenty minutes later Ryder was out of coffee and out of paper to read. He stretched, decided against another coffee—too much sugar in those cold brews—and wandered back to the news kiosk to browse through the magazines. He’d give it another twenty minutes, then get the blonde at the desk to give him a call when Ayers came in, he’d softened her up enough.

  The magazine selection was lousy, not even a health mag, and he decided to call it quits. Before he had taken two steps a woman came in the front door, his favorite kind of attractive. In shape, that buttoned up, pulled together look, chic instead of stark. She was a little on the short side, but a petite short, as opposed to a dumpy short. She even knew how to dress, Ryder guessing upscale designer all the way, elegant black slacks and low heels with a soft blue top and an unstructured jacket. Her hair was so nicely done it didn’t look made up, Ryder immediately pegging her from the city. She looked to be late twenties, a perfect age for him . . . the morning might not have been totally wasted.

  He buttoned his jacket, lifting his tie slightly. She’d see the pattern, and if she knew fashion as he expected she did, she’d recognize it immediately. The woman looked around the lobby, caught his eye, lingering just a bit—she’d noticed him. He feigned disinterest. The woman crossed the lobby to look in the café, glanced at her watch, and headed to the newsstand.

  Up close, she was even prettier than Ryder had thought, she had the whole package. Probably well off, she may never have met a real cop. Ryder knew from experience that lots of upper class women had a thing for men who were different from the high society private school types who never got their hands dirty. He was a detective, he could offer the best of both.

  She obviously wasn’t meeting a guest, else she would have stopped at the front desk. Ryder picked up a magazine as she perused the front page of yesterday’s Wall Street Journal. They were the only two customers in the small newsstand. Casually, Ryder said, “You must be waiting for someone.”

  The woman gave him a half smile, something between amused and polite. “You figured that out?”

  “I’m a detective,” said Ryder. “A real one, actually.”

  The woman put down the paper and picked up a magazine. “Are you now.”

  “That’s right.” Ryder considered showing her his badge, or unbuttoning his jacket so she could see his gun, decided it would be too obvious this soon.

  She flipped through her magazine. Without even looking at him directly she said, “All dressed up for something?”

  Ryder puffed up, she’d noticed. “I mostly deal with hardened criminals, tough guys. But it’s important to fit in at every level of society, and also uphold the reputation of the law.” He let that sink in, then added, “That’s one of the reasons they asked me to come to Marburg.”

  “Really?” She finally looked right at him, intrigued.

  Ryder gave her his best matter of fact tone. “These smaller cities, the police department can get set in their ways. If no one steps in to introduce modern practices—I’m sure someone like you would understand—it’s like dinosaurs, not adapting to the changes around them.”

  The woman pursed her lip. “Dinosaurs?”

  “The old school.” Ryder thought he had her pegged: upscale, elite. “Unprofessional.”

  “I see. Thank you for enlightening me.”

  Her eyes brightened, Ryder believing he had formed a connection. Just as he was about to shift to a more personal discussion, she said “Excuse me,” and waved to someone over his shoulder, Ryder belatedly realizing that’s who she had been reacting to. He turned to see Winter, of all people, crossing the lobby, looking his usual undone self.

  The woman left Ryder standing there and gave Winter a big hug, Ryder, stunned, pissed, Winter was way too old for her . . .

  Winter didn’t seem at all surprised to see Ryder there. “I see you’ve met my daughter,” he said.

  Ryder dumbfounded, mumbled something incoherent, but Winter was focused on the woman. “What are you doing here? I thought we were doing seafood.”

  “I’m sorry, I have to go to the office, so I was hoping we could do an earlier quick lunch. I’ll come back next Saturday.”

  “Unless you have to work again. They push you too much.”

  “Dad . . .”

  Winter looked over at Ryder, who was still standing there with the magazine in his hand. “Ayers not in?”

  “No. I was waiting a while to see if he came back.”

  “We can ask Linda at the desk to phone you when he does. No sense in hanging around here.”

  The woman—Ryder still didn’t know her name—put her arm through Winter’s and guided him away. After a few steps she turned back to Ryder. “Detective? You might want to do some research on dinosaurs. They managed to live for over a hundred million years. Peacocks, by comparison, are a flash in the pan.”

  Ryder tried to smile, but he wasn’t sure if his muscles were working. He heard Winter ask, “What was that all about?” but her answer was lost in the clicking of her heels on the tile floor.

  CHAPTER 32

  Melanie fumbled through her shoe boxes, looking for that strappy pair of heeled gladiator sandals to go with her skinny jeans. She was in a warrior mood, needing to go on the offensive. A new outfit would be nice, as would more shoes. She’d burned through the appearance fee she’d earned from The Other Woman—not nearly enough, given the ratings they must have got—and even though her name had appeared in virtually every story about Ashley Hanna, Melanie was feeling too much like an afterthought. She needed to be the story, and Hanna the jilted one. So it was time to get back in the public eye. First stop, the Hilton; she had stayed away long enough, the world needed to see her around Jason. Maybe she could trick him into coming to her apartment, work out a way for Taz to catch it on video . . .

  At least her apartment
was cool. All courtesy of that detective, Winter. She thought she’d handled him well enough, but he was one to be careful of, all that friendly chatter, he wasn’t as simple as he seemed. It wasn’t an act with him; she knew actors, and Winter wasn’t acting, he was just more than he appeared. Not a man to be bullshitted, which is why she had chosen to answer his seemingly innocuous questions tangentially. She had almost slipped when Winter had asked about Lenny Gruse, Winter making it sound unrelated. Ryder had asked about Lenny too, not directly, but still . . . two cops, it couldn’t be coincidental.

  Yet if they had something on her, they’d certainly be hauling her into the station, not hinting around for a date or installing her air conditioning. Maybe it was unrelated, small city policemen with small minds, all of them figuring since she was an actress, she must know all the local photographers. Like when someone from New York found out you were from near Boston, and they said, “Oh, you must know so and so,” as if she lived in a backwater town in the dark ages.

  She’d keep a finger on the cops, just to be sure. Ryder, he’d be easy to play; Melanie was sure he was over his anger that she’d misled him, and besides, a little emotion in the mix was a good thing, she could use that.

  She found the gladiator sandals, strapped them on, checked herself in the mirror. Perfect.

  Ryder couldn’t bear the thought of running into Winter and his daughter again, so he left the Hilton by the back entrance. He still couldn’t believe the pretty woman was Winter’s daughter, they couldn’t be less alike. And what was that crack about dinosaurs and peacocks? The dinosaurs were extinct, just like her father and all his kind would be.

  Maybe she had been adopted . . .