Divine

by Steven Grosso

  He continued the length of the parking lot in the direction of the car’s location, Marisa by his side, arm in arm, both dressed in black, him a suit under a black peacoat, her a black dress that stopped three inches above the kneecap and a black jacket overtop, her black stockings running into her hard ankles and high heels, their shoes clicking against the ground in rhythm.

  His pants pocket vibrated and he reached in and swung the phone to his ear. “Lieutenant.”

  “Steel. How you holding up, pal?”

  “I’m fine. What’s up?”

  “Dead body last night in Rittenhouse, woman in her thirties, murdered, need you up there to see what’s going on. I want you on this one, reassign it to you. You want it?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll take it,” he said. Steel knew the best way to take his mind off his troubles was to keep it occupied.

  “You got it, thanks. Oh, and Steel…” Lieutenant Detective Williams said, “…again, sorry to hear about your grandmother. I’ll keep her in my prayers.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. I’ll head over there in a little.”

  Lieutenant Detective Williams read Steel the address, ran over some details, and hung up.

  A murderer had picked the wrong timeframe to commit a crime on Steel’s beat.

  4

  A

  fter leaving the burial site in Northeast Philadelphia, Steel and Marisa rode across I-95, heading for the crime scene in Center City. The car’s vents hummed and pushed steady, slow, warm air. The rubber tires bounced over invisible, tiny speed bumps, and his keys hung from the ignition and dangled and banged together like wind chimes. No radio. Steel rarely used it. His thoughts dominated, and Marisa had gotten used to it over the past six months, although she’d turn it on from time to time.

  Driving on 95 flooded Steel’s mind with that unforgettable case from the previous summer, of how it ended and the pain it caused so many people, including the two of them. Marisa was doing better now, though, spent damn near two months in the hospital recuperating. But her right shoulder and arm would remain permanently damaged, nothing drastic but radiating and dull pain could attack whenever the nerves would get aggravated. She was ready to get back to work, though, and had been cleared by several doctors the previous week.

  This case would be her first since her detective debut. And she’d tackle it with her work-partner/lover of six months, Steel. Marisa was tough, eager, couldn’t wait to put on the blazer and holster again. Steel was scared to death, had enough stress for a lifetime on the last case. But on this day, as he glanced over at a red roadside advertisement for Coca-Cola on the highway’s side, the flashbacks of that horrendous July afternoon blurred and faded into his grandmother’s face. God, it was tough to say goodbye to someone you love. Death is so final, so permanent, he thought, reminds all of us of our own mortality, that not one of us is invincible. Everything we wish we could have done or time we wasted with the deceased was over, finished, no chance to change, no time for another conversation, hug, or laughter over something silly. He had thought he would have had more time with her, but realized he didn’t think about that at all. Maybe he should have because the guilt was getting to him now, his gut jittery and sour with a layer of acid. The viewing, funeral and burial had provided some hope because his grandmother was still there, a physical body still present, even if dead. But as he drove on the highway he realized she was gone forever, her body never to be seen again, her warm touch no more, no time for another visit, a chapter of his life closed. Margret Steel was a spirit now, and all he had left of her in this life were memoires and photographs. His stomach dropped and twisted as if he were on a roller coaster and lined his gut with the largest snowball one could fit into an abdomen, a cold reminder of reality, of life’s vulnerability. His eyeballs reddened but he fought back the warm tears and focused on the road, hoped Marisa didn’t see, too much pride to show his tears. He figured that she knew he wanted to be left alone, didn’t want to intervene, so she let him grieve, flipped her hair to the side and stared out the window at a few cars zipping past their vehicle in the other lane and reappearing as Steel stepped on the gas and caught up to them.

  Steel’s brain flashed back to his days at the Jersey Shore with his grandmother. He couldn’t have been older than eight, nine. She’d take him out on the boardwalk in Wildwood, New Jersey, with his siblings, parents and grandfather. He could still smell it, almost taste it, a nose-full of saltwater and cool breeze blowing off the Atlantic Ocean and the blue-gray waves tumbling over one another until they reached the light brown sand and soaked and darkened it. His brain fired more signals, and his nostrils detected the scent of burned, oily French fries and warm strawberry cotton candy and burning oils and gasoline from go-carts and sun tan lotion and cheesy, greasy pizza. Everything about those moments etched themselves in his brain, unable to be removed. The arcades, the waterparks, the warm aroma of burned waffles in ice cream parlors, wooden walkway that stubbed your toe or tripped you up while strolling along, and roller coasters on Morey’s and Mariner’s Piers whipping and spinning around as kids yelled and roared. His eyes had always widened and lit up while riding The Great Nor’easter, the way it flipped him upside down until he was dizzy and laughing uncontrollably. The funnel cakes dipped in powered-sugar, which had turned his hands white and sticky before he’d even finish. The seagulls chirping in the early morning hours and brazenly flapping their wings, ripping food from his hand on the beach. Winning a baseball jersey or stuffed animal after a hundred tries for sinking a basketball into a net, a game that was as rigged as a deal between a politician and lobbyist. Those times were unforgettable, a kid’s dream. Ah, the memories of youth, childhood, he thought—everybody has their own subjective ones—and those were the times he remembered most with his grandmother.

  But the thoughts choked him up. He coughed a few times. Marisa glanced at him, back at the road, scratched her cheek, and acted as if she hadn’t noticed. His grandmother would live on in his heart, always, he knew, and the ache in his chest returned. I love you, he thought, forever. A blurry memory formed of when he used to wait by the door, just near the tree, in his home on Christmas mornings. He always expected her to arrive each year, but he’d taken for granted that he’d see her for dinner on the holidays as an adult. She wouldn’t be there this year, and it stung like hell.

  Steel guessed the death of a loved one made those who were still alive think about life, sort of a recap of their lives at that point, to stop them in their tracks and force a personal evaluation. He knew he’d make more time for family and thought of the wise words of Don Corleone from The Godfather: “A man who doesn’t spend time with his family could never be a real man.” That statement was right on. He’d try his best.

  His thoughts raced faster, and he did a quick review of how he had just turned thirty-three and didn’t have any kids. How would he make memories for a family he didn’t have? He wanted children, wanted a family of his own, hoped Marisa did as well, but wasn’t sure. Had he been wrong? he thought. Was she the one? He intellectually debated it for a moment, but somehow his heart already knew the answer. His grandmother had given him a saying that stuck with him: “No matter what…fight on.” Simple words but powerful to him, especially since clinical depression had been a friend of his over the past ten or so years.

  He flicked his turn signal, veered behind a black Toyota pickup with layers of sheet rock strapped to its bed, and cut off the highway. In less than a mile, he knew the stress and memories of last year’s case would rip through him in a new way with Marisa as his partner again and that it would mix with grief from his grandmother’s passing. His mind had a default when stress hit him all at once: depression. He just hoped he could handle it and “fight on.”

  5

  S

  teel jerked the steering wheel, parked just off Spruce Street on Fifteenth, and sucked in a deep, long breath before exiting the car. He and Marisa slammed their doors shut, battling the cold wind, and the metal clicke
d hard against the hinges. Swirling waves of frigid air smacked their faces and they squinted and zippered their jackets.

  “All right, where we at—Fifteenth, right?” Steel said.

  Marisa cast an eye at the green and white street signs and nodded. “Yep, Fifteenth.”

  Steel told her to hang back and wait for him. He trekked halfway up the block to feed the meter at the kiosk machine. On his way, he passed the Fox & Hound sports bar and gazed in, noticed the dimly lit dining area half-full with people, all in casual conversation and laughing, arms swaying as they spoke and heads tilted back as they occasionally sipped a beer. Several gigantic flat-screens faded in and out, playing a repeat of the Eagles game from the previous Sunday. The metal exhaust fan attached to the side of the restaurant sprayed warm air into his face and the clouds mixed of cheeseburgers, salt, stale beer, French fries and fryer-grease.

  He stopped at the machine along the curb, in front of the Rita’s Water Ice that was closed for the winter season. He glanced at the store’s green, red and white exterior and inserted a few wrinkled one dollar bills to buy some time for his car. But his money snapped back out from the dispenser, so he pressed it on his shirt and flattened each bill with his palm and tried again. It worked on the second try, and he was relieved, thought if it were summer he could have gone for a large chocolate and soft pretzel from Rita’s.

  He peered down the street at an impatient and cold Marisa waiting for him, hands wrapped around her arms and gliding up and down, off-white clouds leaving her mouth with every breath, the balls of her feet bouncing.

  Steel felt bad so he jogged down the block, hugged her, and pressed his cold palms into the cotton fabric of her jacket just over the small of her back, the hug a relief for him. He thought he may have given her the embrace more for himself rather than because she was cold. He needed it, needed to feel connected to another human being, needed to feel life on a day he had to say goodbye to the dead. He stared at her for a moment, right in her big, deep, dark eyes and marveled. He slid his hand through her silky black hair and across the olive skin of her cheek, as beautiful as ever. God, he was lucky to have this woman in his life, he knew, and hoped she felt the same. At times, he questioned if she truly loved him, not because he didn’t think she did, but because of his own insecurities that stemmed from his broken engagement years prior. He was over that woman but never fully trusted anyone again and understood he’d have to work on that trust if he was to take their relationship any further.

  They proceeded north toward Locust and down a few blocks, Steel’s arm cupped around her waist, and up a block to the address that Williams had given him.

  A single member of the forensics team paced in front of the building, waiting for Steel.

  “Paul. How are ya, buddy?” Steel said.

  Paul extended his hand, flipped the palm up for a shake. “Steel, can’t complain…wife’s pregnant, got a job, got a place to live, got food to eat, can’t complain.”

  Steel let his grip off Marisa’s waist and met Paul’s cold, chapped, calloused red hand and shook. “Congratulations.”

  Paul smiled and his excitement was all in his wide eyes and grin. Steel had never seen that man as happy as he appeared at this moment. Since they’d met about five years ago, Steel knew Paul as a mellow, reserved guy, a guy who could pound back two six-packs throughout the night, burp once, and you wouldn’t even know he was drunk. He just didn’t care for casual chit-chat, gossip or opinions from others, as if he only went through life and had a job because he had to, and if given another option, he would have spent his time fishing alone in the woods. But he changed a bit since getting married the previous year, appeared centered, like he had found what he hadn’t been looking for.

  “Thank you,” Paul said and shifted his small eyes to Marisa, tipped his head and scratched under his chin. “How you feelin’, Marisa?”

  “I’m getting there, ya’ know. Back to work on this case, ready to go.”

  Paul nodded, turned his eyes back to Steel.

  Steel knew this conversation was dead. Paul had said the required pleasantries. “So, what do we got here, Paul?” Steel said.

  He shook his head and stared at his shoes. “Woman in her thirties. Devastating. Gunned down right here in front of her home last night. We didn’t get to her until three hours after it had happened. It was so cold and dark,” he waved a hand, “and snowing…and the streets were quiet that nobody even noticed her.” He grimaced. “The blood on her face was lumped and hard by the time we made it here. What a shame. I’m here now to check inside the house. The mother’s in there now. We did a sweep last night but had to move the vehicles cause of a fire up the block. We got what we needed from outside, where she was shot…” He pointed toward the ground. “…but I wanna do another quick sweep from inside the home for my own sake. Come in and look around with me. Lieutenant Williams was telling me he reassigned the case to you. It’s a start, right? We have no evidence from the crime, nothing. No prints, weapon, nothing. And not one thing was stolen from her that we know of. Her purse wasn’t touched. We expedited the process cause of the holiday coming, but again, nothing…we don’t have anything, couldn’t find nothing. We’ll see with the autopsy, but I don’t think that’ll say anything we don’t know already. By the way, she was shot in the back of the head.” He stared at Steel. “You two have your work cut out for you.”

  Paul handed Steel a computer printout in a manila folder of the forensics reports and told him he’d also send them to his email. “I brought these so you could look it over.”

  Steel nodded, digesting the whole thing, his mind fuzzy, exhausted and depressed—the thoughts building up and ready to tumble like an avalanche. The fucking stress was coming back. All the therapy and hard work eluded him on this day. His heart palpitated. His old friend depression and his psychological demons were returning.

  “But you’ll send them over, righ—” Steel said.

  The front door of the building creaked open and interrupted Steel’s words. A woman stepped out and stomped on the top step. She was of average height, wearing blue medical scrubs, thin, African-American, and mad as hell. Probably more shocked, confused, and in disbelief than angry. Underneath her puffy red eyes and drooping, sad mouth, Steel could see a flash of her real self, warm and charming. He had a way of reading people, of knowing their character, came with the job.

  But she changed in a second. Her crinkled forehead skin, squinted eyes, eyebrows lowering almost to the bridge of her nose and tight jaw displayed her current emotion—rage.

  “I know that bastard is responsible for this, I know it…I know it. My little girl…I know it!” she yelled.

  The woman’s rage switched to hysteria. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she fought to speak but couldn’t, her voice choked up by mucus in her throat.

  The mother. Steel knew it.

  “Who are you?” she managed to whisper between sobs.

  “Ma’am,” Steel pointed to Paul, “he’s from our forensics unit.” He flicked a finger back and forth between Marisa and himself and flashed his badge. “And I’m Detective Benjamin Steel, and this is my partner, Detective Marisa Tulli.”

  “You handling my daughter’s case?” Her eyes darted across the quiet streets, reddening from pools of tears.

  “Yes, we are. And we’ll be working day and night for you, I promise.” Steel knew he couldn’t keep that promise, but family members needed to hear those things. Making them feel like the most important people in the world helped, gave them faith in the overall goodness of humanity.

  She wiped the tears with each wrist. “I have your man. He did it,” she cried out and her voice floated up into the sky so the gods could hear, “I’m sure of it.”

  “Can we come in to talk about this?” Steel said, shivering a bit from the ice-cold wind freezing his teeth to popsicles.

  The woman caught her breath and waved them in.

  Jesus Christ, Steel thought.

  6

/>   S

  teel, Marisa and Paul walked inside the gray building that housed Desiree Jones’s apartment. Desiree’s mother led the way, tugging at her blue scrubs and gliding her gray Nike running shoes through the dimly lit entry way. Thick streams of heat swarmed Steel’s body, almost too much, a hard adjustment from cold to hot, and beads of sweat seeped from his pores that stretched and expanded as if they were six-inch holes in his flesh. Steel’s skin blotched with red patches as the warm room temperature blanketed his cold cheeks. He scratched his face, ran a finger over the pinkish bumps, and sweat more under his layers of clothing he’d worn that day to the funeral. He shrugged for some comfort but ended up twisting the clothes instead. He and Marisa continued to follow the woman into the first-floor apartment, and he wanted to scream from the sweat dripping from his ribcage and washing over his stomach.

  Desiree’s mother twisted the silver knob and opened the door. A shot of light from two high hats attached to the ceiling bathed the spacious room. Damn, Steel thought, beautiful. The apartment was luxurious, elegance at its finest. The shiny hardwood floors sparkled and resembled a game-ready NBA court, and Steel thought Allen Iverson could have dropped fifty on an opposing team in his prime. The flat-screen television on a glass stand across from the sofa was at least sixty inches and as thin as a piece of plywood. Vanilla-scented candles from Bed, Bath & Beyond floated through the air. To have said that Desiree Jones was a neat freak would’ve been an understatement. Nothing was out of place—no clothes in the living room, every piece of furniture evenly spaced apart, not even the mail on the coffee table was out of place but aligned in size order.