The Highway (A Benny Steel and Marisa Tulli Novel - Book 1)

by Steven Grosso

  He took a glance around and couldn’t help but admire the artistic aspect of a Catholic Church. A hand-painted scene of Jesus feeding the masses decorated the wall just behind a granite and gold altar. Incense thickened the air and aggravated his allergies, and his nose itched. Maroon rugs lay under each pew and led to the altar. A rectangular cutout of space was next to the microphones on either side of the altar, which had rows of red candles lit up as flames flickered behind the red plastic. Above him, a balcony held rows of seats and instruments, he guessed for the choir.

  He closed his eyes and memories formed.

  He saw himself as an eight- or nine-year-old-boy, in a Catholic school uniform—slacks and tie—singing along as the parishioners belted out standard weekly songs at morning Mass. He’d daydreamed a lot as a kid, especially of Heaven and what it would be like. He had envisioned God as an old man in a robe with a white beard and cane, sitting on bright green grass, a clear blue sky in the backdrop, with white lambs and sheep by his side. Deceased loved ones would be there. Most of those thoughts had stemmed from teachings in his religion classes, but some were his imagination. He’d had a strong moral compass back then, even at such a young age, and had figured God was good and wanted people to be good. He had rationalized in his young mind that people felt bad when bad things happened, and people felt good when good things happened, so that meant God wanted us to be good.

  He swallowed hard and thought how he still held the belief that he’d see his deceased family members again in the afterlife, hopefully, his cousin. But he’d dropped the image a long time ago of what God would look like to greet him. Man, he’d do anything to have one more conversation with his cousin, to apologize, to see him as a grown man. He hoped he wouldn’t have to say a variation of that about Marisa.

  He squeezed his eyes so tight that creases formed next to his eyelids, and he tried to channel some of that boyhood wonder as he thought of Marisa’s smiling, healthy face. He fought waves of tears just behind each eyeball. The warm, salty moisture almost penetrated and stung his eyes. Marisa needed a prayer, and he said one, but to whom he didn’t know. He hoped someone up there was listening and asked God to watch over her and to get her through this. He prayed for her family and asked for strength and guidance and wisdom as a detective. At times, he just sat and stared, gripping the edge of the pew with his palms, rocking back and forth. He pleaded with God, whoever it was, to help families and people struggling and to give them direction. Lastly, he prayed about this case, but not only for a close to the Hitchy case, but also for the ability to bring Marisa’s shooter to justice.

  He got to his feet but didn’t do the sign of the cross or follow Catholic traditions. Instead, he asked God once more for guidance and then left the quiet church. He could only imagine the chaos he’d walk into once he got back out there.

  42

  Steel walked faster than he would on a casual stroll downtown, weaving between pedestrians on either side of him, often bumping elbows. A brief breeze circulated throughout the streets, blowing his hair back and forth, and the sun seemed hotter than before he’d gone inside the church. There wasn’t a cloud in the picture-perfect blue sky. The sunlight beat down on him but didn’t ease the darkness and pain pulsating through his mind and body.

  He picked up his pace and found the lot where he’d parked his car. As he entered, a lot attendant tipped his cap, which matched his red two-button polo shirt. Steel took the concrete stairs instead of the elevator. The steps were stained from grease and car oils that had leaked and stuck to the bottom of customers’ shoes. Black footprints lined the concrete.

  He entered level three and jogged through the dark lot. His footsteps sent echoes throughout, bouncing off the concrete layers. Some sunlight fought through a thin slit on a sideways angle at the far end and streaked between two walls.

  He found the car, slid the key into the ignition, and rubbed his face with both hands. His eyes seemed nearly a hundred pounds, and his stomach tightened as if someone was ringing his insides out like a washcloth.

  “Get yourself together,” he whispered, staring into his rearview mirror. Marisa’s father’s strength as he had fought back his tears for his family’s sake played through his mind. The washcloth inside his gut tightened some more. Just the thought of a team of doctors with gloves and metal tools scrambling to stitch Marisa back together released hot blood into every one of his vessels and veins. His skin flushed, and the parking lot spun from dizziness. He fought back chunks of sour vomit just under his ribcage. His throat and upper chest hurt like he had just downed a bottle of vinegar.

  His left pocket vibrated. He grabbed his cell and didn’t bother to check the caller ID. His voice trembled as he said, “Hello.”

  “Mr. Steel…I…I…”

  Steel jerked his head back and cut off the voice. “Venice. Where the hell are you?”

  She didn’t speak, and Steel could hear wind swirling in the background.

  “Venice! Hello!”

  Still, she didn’t say a word. A few seconds passed. Venice sobbed slowly, which muffled through the receiver on Steel’s end. Soon, it turned to whining and heavy breathing.

  Steel twisted his back against his seat and pressed the phone so close to his ear that it could have snapped in half at any moment. “Venice, what’s going on? Where are you? Talk to me!”

  She spoke slowly between sobs and sniffles. “Look, Detective. I just…I just.”

  “What?”

  “I just don’t know how to say it.”

  “Say what?”

  Her voice cracked and quivered as she said, “You just have to come meet me.”

  Steel reclined in his seat until his head hit the headrest and thought for a moment. The anxiety briefly stopped. He seemed to become much braver in real-life situations than he would always imagine himself to be during his episodes of excessive worrying and thinking of every possible negative outcome that the universe could throw at him. Maybe he prepared himself with the worrying—trying to find certainty in an uncertain world—but, odds were, most of the things he worried about never came to fruition. His excessive worrying made him fear worst-case scenarios, but he often surprised himself at how calm he was in the actual situations.

  “What happened? You heard about my partner on the news, I’m sure. Is that what this is about?”

  “No.”

  Steel froze, thrown off a bit. He sat up and lifted his head from the seat. “Tell me something, and I’m on my way.”

  “Um…” The sobs picked back up. “…I just…I just found out about Hector, and…and I might’ve had something to do with Tom’s death. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I would…I…I’m so sor—” she said and cried almost to the point of losing her breath.

  Steel’s eyes sprung open, and he stretched his ears back so far the skin on his face tightened and flushed red. He gripped the shifter and dropped the car from park to drive. “Where are you? I’m coming now.”

  “I’m, uh, at my apartment,” she said, her voice thick and sodden.

  “Don’t move! I’m coming now. And what about my partner? What can you tell me?”

  “Just come…I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  43

  Steel weaved through the streets, sirens blasting, attracting head-turns from pedestrians. He didn’t bother dialing the station. He wanted to personally handle this case; it was personal to him. He cut through traffic as best he could but still got stuck at an intersection just two blocks from Venice’s apartment.

  He screamed, “Fuck…what the fuck? Move these cars!” But there was nowhere to go. His phone rang, and in one swift arm-swing, he answered it. “Hello.”

  “Ben, everything all right?”

  “Mare, not a good time. Just got a big lead on the case.”

  “Ben, wait, real quick.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “A toxicology report came back from the autopsy of, ah,” she ruffled
a few pages, “Hector Illiteo.”

  “Yeah,” Steel said, half-focusing on the phone conversation, half-focusing on the road, trying to find a way to maneuver around traffic.

  “Overdose. Poisoned. Somebody gave him a hot dose.”

  “No, shit.”

  “Yep…and we have a homeless man here at the station. Said he was there the night Hitchy was killed. Said he sleeps down there sometimes. And said he heard about Marisa on the news while he was at Dunkin’ Donuts and how it was possibly connected to the Hitchy murder. He didn’t come to us before because he was afraid, he told me. Also, he told me it was a man who pulled the trigger, but that’s all the information he had, not much. He couldn’t get a good look at him because it was dark, but the man wore an overcoat, sunglasses and a cap. I don’t know, though, this guy seems a little mental. He said the gunman threatened him the night it happened while he was trying to sleep under the highway and told him to keep his mouth shut…and that’s why he came in. He’s scared. Plus, he wants food. So, I don’t know.”

  Steel found a slit in traffic and cut through like a running back in the NFL. “Mare, thank you so much. And listen, keep that guy there. Don’t let him leave. I have to take care of something.”

  44

  Steel jerked the wheel right and turned onto Venice’s street, then dialed her number. She answered after one ring.

  “I’ll be out in a minute. Where are you?” Venice said.

  “I’m pulling up now. Come outside.”

  Steel clicked open his glove compartment and pulled out his 9mm Glock 19. He wasn’t taking any chances. He turned to his left and shoved it in between the door and seat cushion. The hard, cold pistol grazed his hip, and he could grip it in seconds.

  He waited in front of her apartment complex and swiveled his head, staring into the rearview mirror, side mirrors, and out the windows. Then, he didn’t take his eyes off Venice’s door for a tense moment that felt like an hour, wondering about Marisa’s condition.

  The doorknob rattled, and Venice stepped out. She was dressed in light blue jeans, a black tank top, and a pair of black Ray-Ban sunglasses that covered most of her face. She held a wad of tissues in her hand, and her dark hair lay just below her shoulders. She glanced at Steel and then locked her door. Steel drummed a finger against his cell phone in his pocket.

  He flinched then slightly jumped; his buttocks lifted off the seat. A voice shrieked high enough to penetrate through his rolled-up windows. The echoes circled his car and pierced his eardrums—the shrill cry like one of Michael Myers’ victims. The scream’s desperation raised the hair on his arms. He looked around, confused, sweating, panting, his heart pounding. He settled his attention on Venice. Her back slammed hard against her door, and he heard her elbows and shoulder blades collide with it. She pressed both hands out in front of herself as if she was holding up a falling building. Her handbag smashed against the pavement, and the contents sprawled out on the concrete. She yelled, cried, pleaded, and squirmed against the door, shaking her kneecaps and forearms violently. Her lips quivered. “No! Please! No! We had a—” she wailed.

  Steel snatched his gun, forced a shoulder into his door, and crawled out. He peeked over the hood of his car and got an angle from her vantage point.

  He flinched then ducked twice, just as two shots cracked through the air and ripped through Venice. A cloud of gray gunpowder hung in the warm wind, its aroma like a grill after it had cooked a fresh steak. Steel laid his head against the driver’s side door, crawled around the vehicle, and watched Venice’s lifeless body sliding down to the pavement. She collapsed on the sidewalk, and her skull smacked the concrete. The impact reminded Steel of the crack of a baseball bat. Puddles of blood oozed out and soaked the cream pavement.

  His heart rate soared and pummeled his chest. Oxygen pushed in and out of his lungs at a pace he couldn’t keep up with. He closed his mouth and breathed through his nose to slow his heart down, but his breathing sped up faster and didn’t care for his efforts to manage it. His five senses heightened; things seemed brighter but foggy, everything in slow motion. He pushed his body up from his knees, but he kept his back hunched, clutched the gun in between his sweaty palms and fingers. He sprinted over to Venice and glanced around, his head dizzy from rapid shifting. He knew instantly she was dead. A white envelope dangled from her right hand. He squatted and read the blue ink on back: DETECTIVE STEEL. He shoved it into his pocket.

  Steel focused his vision down the street and zoned in on a guy jogging with a pistol in his hand until he reached a car midway up the block. The man with a plan tossed the Smith & Wesson through his passenger side window, swung his body around to the driver’s side, and hopped inside. He revved the engine, and it roared. He backed up, cut out of the parking spot, and floored the gas pedal. Steel braced himself for impact, watching the car zoom toward him. He dove onto a front porch and away from the speeding vehicle, his elbows taking the brunt of the fall, scraping and burning, the skin pink and raw under his suit jacket. The man with a plan cut the wheel back at the last second, sparing Steel’s life, and hooked a fast, crooked turn onto the intersection. Cars slammed on their brakes and honked in rhythm. Steel jumped up and brushed himself off as neighbors appeared from their houses with concerned faces. Steel replayed the image of the man’s eyes he had just stared into—the man underneath a striped red, white, and blue Phillies hat. Steel couldn’t believe what he had just seen. He whispered, “Mike,” and raised his eyes to Mike’s windows on the third floor of the apartment complex, then back down to Venice’s lifeless body, her eyes open, arms and legs twisted and bloody. Neighbors warily approached Steel and treated him as if he was a member of an alien race, but he flashed his badge and told them to stay back. He radioed for backup and an ambulance and sent them to Venice’s apartment. He ran to his car, flipped on the sirens, and took off. He had a chase on his hands.

  45

  Steel didn’t take his eyes off the back of Mike’s round 1990s model blue Ford Taurus as it sped recklessly through the packed streets of Philadelphia. Mike’s pear-shaped head shifted from side to side. He swerved around cars, doing double the speed limit. Drivers in front, behind, and next to him honked, threw up their hands, and, after seeing lights and hearing sirens from Steel’s vehicle trailing behind, cut to the side of the road and moved the hell out of the way.

  Steel mimicked every one of Mike’s turns, stops, and maneuvers, gripping the wheel with his damp hands, leaning over the dashboard. Police chases always put Steel on edge—the break-neck speeds, the unsuspecting pedestrians, the unpredictability of the disturbed driver in front of him—the whole idea bothered him.

  Police sirens rang out and attracted the attention of everyone walking the streets of Center City. Mike’s speed declined momentarily due to heavy traffic, so he turned off Market Street and headed south toward Chestnut. Just as Mike skidded past oncoming vehicles, the streetlight switched from yellow to red. Steel grimaced and slammed the heel of his hand on his horn, honking in hopes of slowing down the cars about to accelerate toward him. Drivers at the intersection got the message and came to sharp, hard stops, but some returned a round of honking and curiously observed the chase. Pedestrians stopped walking, pressed their hands to the middle of their foreheads to block the sun, as if they were saluting, and then turned their eyes away from the trail of wind and exhaust fumes. A few waved a hand in front of their faces and coughed.

  Steel dug his foot into the gas pedal and pulled right behind Mike, almost tapping his bumper. Mike floored it and sped even faster but couldn’t get around idle cars. Steel dropped back and avoided a collision. God forbid a pedestrian had been in their path. Mike hopped the curb, nearly knocking over street merchants selling handbags and watches, then hooked a left, tires screeching. His speed increased in seconds, and all Steel could do was watch until he found a way to make the same move.

  Mike banged several lefts and rights, disregarding traffic lights and stop signs, and dro
ve for blocks. Steel pursued and kept on pressing but tailed him.

  Mike’s turn signal reddened and blinked, and he veered onto I-95, his car swaying back and forth.

  Steel mumbled to himself, “What’s this guy crazy? He’s gonna do this on a highway.” But he followed Mike’s actions and clicked on his own turn signal out of force of habit. The sirens still rang but were quieter as they faded into the wind from speed and tires rumbling beside him. Mike merged left, cutting across two lanes, and sped up, his tires bouncing against invisible bumps in the road. Steel stayed in the far right lane, watching. Five or six cars rode in between them but quickly backed off as Steel stuck his arm out his window and waved them back. Mike glided back over two lanes and tried to run Steel off the road. Steel glanced at his speedometer, and it read well over 90. “Fuck!” he yelled. He stomped on the brake pedal, gripped the wheel, and swerved right just in time to avoid a collision.

  “Son of a bitch!” Steel shouted. Spit splattered his windshield. “Pull over!”