Two guys sat on metal folding chairs across the street and awaited them.
“Take your badge out,” he said, only loudly enough for Marisa to hear him.
They crossed, eyeing the two men the entire time. The guys couldn’t have been older than thirty. One was black, and one was white. The black guy wore a white wife-beater—undershirts with just two thin shoulder straps and without shelves. His jeans appeared baggy, but it was difficult to tell because he was seated. He twirled straggly facial hair away from his chin and lounged in his seat. As Steel got closer, he caught a glimpse of a tattoo covering the man’s entire upper forearm. The image appeared to be a smoking gun and was circled by words he couldn’t make out. The two guys reclined farther in their seats as if they believed they were kings of the neighborhood and could do whatever they wanted. They knew Steel, and Steel knew them. They knew why he was there, and he knew they knew why he was there.
He stopped his stride right in front of them, Marisa to his left. Steel sized up the white guy next to the other. Couldn’t have been taller than 5’8, he estimated. He also wore a wife-beater, only difference was, tattoos covered both his arms; his skin was barely visible between blue and black ink. The man wore a beard the color of a brand new car tire. The buzz cut on top of his head was just as dark. A thick, long, silver chain hung around his neck, and a silver bracelet dangled from his right wrist, a Rolex from the other. Steel could tell he’d hung outside often; his tanned, almost orange skin made it seem as though he’d spent a month at the Jersey Shore.
“Detective,” the white one said to Steel.
“Guys…it’s been a while,” Steel said.
“Who’s ya girl?”
Steel played the game, tried to handle this with civility. “My girl?” he asked with a smile, turned to Marisa and then back to them. “This is my partner.” He motioned to Marisa, and she flashed her badge.
“I wish she was my partner,” the man said, followed by a chuckle. He leaned back farther and turned to his buddy, who made a statement of his own: “I’d be on that.”
Steel’s body tensed, and his shoulders rolled back. A ball of fire boiled deep in his gut. So much for playing it cool. He wanted to choke both of these punks and throw them through the window of their hangout but refrained, inhaled some air.
“Keep dreamin’,” Marisa said as she pouted, then slid a hand, brushed her blazer to the side, and showed them her gun. “How about I blow both your pricks off? We’re not here to play.”
Steel’s mouth dropped. Feisty, I like it. I knew she had some fight in her. Maybe I should back off a little with my jokes—I kinda like my prick where it’s at.
Both men shook their heads, annoyed.
Steel took a step forward. “Guys, you know why I’m here. Where’s Knee?”
The white dude replied, “I’ll tell you if she gives me her number.”
Steel couldn’t believe this and had had just about enough. The ball of fire burst. He lunged for the man’s neck but paused inches from it, punched his right fist into his left palm. Heat pulsated throughout his body, and he yelled, “All right now…cut the bullshit! You think I’m here to play with you two. I’ll take you in right now. And don’t think I don’t see that dime bag of weed in your right pocket.”
The guy palmed the bulgy bag, which had bubbled under his jean pocket. Both of their smiles faded.
“I’m not playing around with you two. Where’s Knee?”
The white dude held up a hand. “Relax, Detective. I was just playin’. And I don’t know, man…I don’t keep tabs on him like that.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
The dude snapped his mouth shut and blew air out, flapping his lips up and down, the noise like a motor boat. “Ah, ‘bout three days ago.”
“Where at?”
“Here. Inside.”
Steel turned to the black guy. “How about you?”
The guy looked away.
Steel focused, trying to remember their names. “Charles, you’re gonna do it this way.” He snapped his fingers in the air. “I’m over here. Where’s Knee?”
“I don’t know,” Charles said, and his eyes were hard and frustrated, taken aback that Steel had called him by name.
Steel nodded. “You two know Thomas Hitchy?”
“Yeah,” Charles said.
“Who killed him?”
“Don’t know.”
“Charles…what’d I tell your boy about that dime bag? How’d you know he was dead then? Been talking to your boy, Knee? You involved?” Steel said, glaring.
“I heard people talkin’.”
“What people? Who?” Steel shot back.
“People heard it on the news. Everybody knows everybody and shit. You know how that goes.”
“Knee and Hitchy didn’t get along, did they?”
“You know they didn’t like each other. That’s why you’re askin’ me.”
“What was the beef?” Steel said.
“I don’t know, man. They just didn’t like each other.”
“Did Hitchy sell in Knee’s territory?” He pointed at the white dude’s pocket with the dime bag of weed. “I could break your balls and ruin your summer afternoon of doing nothing if I want to. You know that, right?”
The two shot an annoyed look at one another.
Charles spoke, “They had a beef. That’s all I’ll say.”
The white dude shook his head in agreement.
“That’s it, huh?”
Charles nodded hard, turned his head away. He was done talking. Steel knew he wasn’t getting anything else out of him.
Steel roamed a few feet to his left, ducked his head, and stared through a plastic screen door. The hangout was conveniently empty. Only a low laugh track from the television could be heard, and only the light flashing off it could be seen. Steel figured the punks had slipped out the back door when they’d caught sight of him and Marisa.
“Looks like your boys didn’t stick around. Was Knee in there?”
“Nah, man. I told you,” the white dude said.
Steel flared his nostrils. “Tell him I want to talk to him, and sooner than later.”
He tapped Marisa, and the two walked away without waiting for a response.
15
Steel lay flat on his sofa, still in his black slacks and white dress shirt, even though he’d left the office at about 5:15 after he and Marisa had reviewed Knee’s file and created an electronic file for the Hitchy case. The file included the results from forensics and the medical examiner’s office, phone records, and information from the people questioned that day. He’d put together a rough draft of a timeline of events, which has started at 8 p.m. on the night of the murder, and a motive for Knee, which he chalked up as getting rid of the competition. Hitchy’s phone records were of no use. The only number on record was Venice’s. He figured Hitchy must’ve had another cell he had used solely for business stashed away somewhere because no one had called him but Venice—a bit strange but not unique for the line of work Hitchy was in, along with the fact that neither Hitchy nor Venice were on any form of social media, nothing.
The guy covered his tracks, Steel thought.
He reached into his pocket and grabbed his Blackberry—the standard phone for all detectives of the Philadelphia Police Department—unlocked it, and a burst of blue light popped up on the screen.
“Eleven o’clock,” he muttered as he kicked out his legs and sat up straight. “And I can’t sleep, again!”
A rerun of Seinfeld played on his television—the old model probably had been built when the show had first started, and the screen let off the only light in his living room, flickering and fading in and out. Jerry and George stood in Jerry’s apartment and argued over something as the audience laughed, but his mind was far away from comedy. He didn’t feel well. He stretched his legs as far as they could go and arched his aching back, reached out and touched his toes.
The cumulative effect of falling asleep on the couch most nights had taken its toll on his body. The pain ranged from sore muscles and knots to pins and needles and radiated between his lower back and shoulders. And his head didn’t feel any better, foggy, his brain as heavy as a water balloon; it hurt when he moved it an inch. He could barely open his eyes, but he wasn’t tired. If he dozed off for a split second, he’d wake with a pounding heart, in hot sweats. Damn anxiety, he thought. Maybe sinuses or allergies. Who knows? But, nevertheless, his mind was awake, shifting his eyes back and forth in deep contemplation. Of course, the thoughts only focused on the Hitchy case. He’d appear as neurotic as an actor filming a movie during an investigation, totally obsessed, in character until he solved a case or was taken off it; if comparable to an actor, he’d be the Robert DeNiro of detectives.
He couldn’t sit there any longer in pain so he jumped up, jogged over to and up his staircase. His room was pitch-black, but he didn’t have a lot of clothes, so he knew where everything was in his small closet. He wrestled his legs into an old pair of khaki shorts and tugged each arm through a Phillies t-shirt with a 2008 World Series logo across the center. What a marvelous year for baseball in Philadelphia, he thought. Magical. After searching, he snatched his car keys off his wooden bureau, hitting his Police Academy Graduation Certificate on the wall behind it, causing a thought of his father smiling in the crowd on that warm, sunny day. And it made him feel good momentarily as he remembered thinking he’d done something every young man dreams of: making his father proud.
His sneakers slammed the staircase, smacking hard against the wood under a thin layer of carpeting. He considered turning off Seinfeld but decided not to and listened to Kramer’s voice fade as his front door slammed behind him and rattled a metal mailbox next to the doorbell.
A half-moon glowed through a blackish navy blue sky, and a gray strip of clouds swirled in between where the black met the navy blue. Stars peeked through light fog, and Steel knew that was extremely rare in Philadelphia with all the ambient light. He unlocked his car from outside and hopped in. This wasn’t out of the ordinary for Steel, especially at the beginning of an investigation. On nights he couldn’t sleep, he visited the crime scene once more to study, and since he wanted to do this himself, and without his partner, nighttime was ideal. And it wasn’t uncommon for him to cruise the quiet streets after dark. The summer-city-night was his favorite part of the day—the calm, cool breeze, few cars on the road, and time to reflect and think. The world stood still at night; the chaos of the city subsided. He felt alone, alive, humble, insignificant but also connected to something up there—the stars, the sky, something.
As he glided across I-95, he replayed his interview with Venice in his mind. He thought of her sweet, calm nature. If the eyes are the window to one’s soul, her soul was soft and tender, he thought. Steel wondered how she had ended up with a guy like Hitchy. Was it the money? The lifestyle? The hopes of changing his ways? He didn’t know.
He glanced from side to side on the highway as a few cars zipped past and crossed in front of him. He eyed a billboard just off the road for Temple University. Maybe I’ll go back to school and get away from this shit. He brushed that thought off, knowing damn well that detective work was more than a calling.
Marisa’s eyes surfaced, soft and tender, but were quickly replaced by an image of the woman who’d broken his heart many years ago. Flashing headlights and few honks of a horn stopped his wandering mind.
“Go around me, asshole,” he shouted. He wasn’t in the mood. His back still throbbed against his seat. He whistled and lowered his eyes at the speedometer and realized he was doing sixty-five—the exact speed limit. Drivers on 95 had no patience for that.
He focused back on the road and drove, tires rumbling along the highway, no radio, just the engine and air conditioning humming. The ex’s face forced its way into his mind again—her piercing eyes so vivid, smile like a goddess, and laughter, even if only replaying and echoing in his brain, still flipped his stomach. Every time he’d heard it, that laughter had seemed to reach through his body and relax and soothe his soul. She didn’t have a flaw about her. He liked everything about that woman—her adventurous spirit, her independence, her intellect, and her type-A personality. Those wounds from the breakup were all but healed, but a few scars remained. He often thought what his life would have been like if they would have stayed the course, but those days were long gone, and life carried on—sometimes painfully.
Green and white road signs for CENTER CITY PHILADELPHIA hung over him, and he veered left toward the exit. Lampposts above him dropped circles onto his windows. His destination was about fifteen to twenty blocks from the exit, he estimated, so he drove.
Within minutes, he pulled up to the murder scene and rolled down his windows as a natural warm breeze from the earth mixed with artificial cold air from his air conditioning and circulated cool temperatures throughout his car. Tires rumbled on the road above, and wind gusts from the vehicles’ speed swirled under the highway on either side of his car. He killed his headlights, and only a small amount of brightness radiated off towers from the highway, which bathed the road and peeked around the edges of each guardrail.
He cut off the ignition, opened the car door, and dangled his left foot out. Bending over, he snapped open the glove box in front of the passenger seat and twisted out his gun and a flashlight.
His sneakers touched the solid ground and rubbed against pebbles and brown dirt—the contact like wax paper scratching a surface—and the scraping echoed as the wind carried the sound.
From what he could see, after flashing his light, he saw a typical under-the-highway scene. Broken beer bottles were scattered across the ground—green, brown, and clear shards of glass all jumbled together. Bags of trash were sprawled out everywhere from illegal dumping, and a few were ripped open, chewed by stray cats that had found them. Waste that had leaked from the bags reeked of spoiled food and cat urine, and the piss smelled fresh and raw as if the cats had known he was on his way, to be spiteful.
He gripped the base of the flashlight and lifted it to his right ear. His thoughts swirled; different scenarios formulated. He shined small circles on the ground, and they dashed and faded in and out. He traced the entrance of the area and followed it to the location where Hitchy’s body had been found. Did he drive in here and pop himself? But how could he have if we didn’t find the gun at the scene? That’s your mind messing with you! Who was he meeting? Why here? Was it someone he knew? Random? Couldn’t have been? Or could it? He shook his head, and the thoughts continued. What if this shit escalates? We don’t need a drug war. The homicide rates are up from last year, and we’re not even in July yet.
A sharp whistle whipped by his ear, its echo like a drain unclogging itself, and he flinched, spun his head around. He swung the light through the darkness with a nervous hand. Debris floated in the air, and newspapers flapped in the wind. He held the flashlight steady, studied the ground, and chalked up the noise to a stiff breeze. He circled the area again, and the bottom of his sneakers scraped the pebbles on the ground. His spotted a few old, beat-up mattresses, blankets, more newspapers, worn-out clothing, and one lone sneaker, probably belonged to the homeless. But who? It could have been anyone. The homeless wandered from place to place. Steel didn’t know that area anymore and couldn’t connect anyone he might have known to hang around there.
He continued on to the exact location where Hitchy had been shot, stood still for a moment, and clicked the flashlight off. It was eerie, pitch-black. The wind howled, and adrenaline rushed through his body. The darkness, along with the danger, the chase, the unknown, were Steel’s vice. If there was a street drug for adrenaline, forget it, he’d get hooked.
At that moment, he realized Hitchy wouldn’t have seen it coming, not in the darkness, not in the pitch-black night.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered to himself. “I gotta get to the bottom of this.”
PART TWO<
br />
SUMMER LOVIN’
16
The man with a plan sat in darkness, his silhouette decorating the wall behind him. He rubbed his palms together, deep in thought, but something wasn’t right. Where was the satisfaction? The thrill of the kill had faded, even though he’d gotten his revenge. Was it enough? He wanted more, contemplated whether or not to take out all of his enemies. Yeah, that was it. The idea struck a nerve deep in his bones. Blood coursed through his veins, and his heart kicked up a notch, pounding against his chest, his mind made up. He had more to do.
17
The air conditioner pumped in Lieutenant Detective Daniel Williams’ office, but the room was still warm and muggy. It was Wednesday, July 4th, and most people were out doing something other than work, but not Steel and Marisa. Steel impatiently sat in a chair in front of Williams’ desk, rotating his body in twenty-second intervals. Marisa leaned back in her seat. Each shot the other eager eyes mixed with hope and desperation. One week had passed since the case had opened, and Williams had told Steel earlier in the day that he wanted to see him and Marisa in his office.
The past week had been a tough one for the city of Philadelphia, with the sun and humidity still torturing its citizens, although not too bad on this day. And festivities had already begun before the July 4th holiday, but not all were festive. A few days prior, all within four hours of each other, at three separate street barbecues, a total of six people had been gunned down. Three of them were teens—four in West Philly, one in North, and one in South. A few of those killings had been drug-related and a few the results of drunken arguments. News reporters had been all over each scene. And on top of that, Lieutenant Detective Williams’ boss’s boss, Philadelphia police commissioner, was cracking the whip at him and others over some issues within the police department. Officers at every district were being reprimanded and warned over YouTube videos surfacing of two patrolmen roughing up a robbery suspect after a chase. Steel thought the media had overplayed the incident; however, the two officers had been suspended, and all officers on the force were reminded of repercussions of such actions.
The Highway (A Benny Steel and Marisa Tulli Novel - Book 1) Page 11