Divine

by Steven Grosso

  ust after they had read the love letters, Detective Williams asked Steel to step into his office.

  Williams pushed the door closed behind him, wobbled behind his desk and plopped down. Steel sat in the chair in front, but he couldn’t stop thinking about John Fratt’s words during his initial interview with him—The sweetest, so sweet, sweetest in the world. Some variation of that, he couldn’t remember how he had worded it. Was he imagining that conversation out of desperation? Couldn’t be. He knew what he heard in that office.

  Williams leaned over in his seat, dropped his elbows on the desktop. He yawned. “I’m tired, been tired lately. Maybe a little winter blues, but the Lord Jesus always reminds me to shine. I been doing two services on Sundays now. One at nine in the morning and one at twelve in the afternoon, but I’ll do anything for my Lord.”

  Steel listened, didn’t particularly like when people told him about their personal God, seemed like Williams was saying it for a reason, as if he was trying to get Steel to convert. But he respected Williams’ beliefs, anyway. He knew Christianity was the only consistent thing in his boss’s life, that he had been raised dirt poor in West Philly, had seen three of his brothers murdered in the streets, and had watched his mother suffer and live through it all while still keeping her faith. Jesus was Williams’ saving grace, gave him an outlet to give back and help others try to live a moral life.

  Williams rubbed his cheek. “First off. I want to officially congratulate you on your engagement.”

  “Thanks, Dan.”

  Given their history, Steel knew he could call his lieutenant by first name at times. Others in the department were peculiar about that, wanted everyone to respect the rank at all times, mostly for ego. But after all, Williams was a detective at one time working for the Narcotics division while Steel was on patrol in the same unit. They were friends and fellow cops before Williams had become his boss, so occasional first name basis was all right. Officers were strange when it came to hierarchy and respect.

  “Just didn’t get the chance to officially congratulate you. Marriage is a beautiful thing,” Williams said.

  Steel didn’t move, half listening to him, half thinking of John Fratt’s beady, shark-eyes as he replayed their conversation in his mind.

  “Steel, you listening?”

  Steel blinked and snapped from his inner world. “Yeah, sorry, just thinking about something. I appreciate your words.”

  Williams squinted, observed Steel. “You also know what this means, right?”

  Steel had an idea but let him talk.

  “You and Marisa cannot work in the same department. It’s the rules. Once you put that ring on her finger, you break up your partnership as detectives, you know that.” He leaned over the desktop some more, his shoulders arched and belly indented in the edge, eyes narrowed. “But I’m going to let you two finish this case out, since you’re deep into it. Then I have to look for a transfer for one of you.”

  Steel held up his hands like he understood, twisted his mouth upward. He was relieved a bit and knew this was coming. It was just the way it was. Spending all day with Marisa would take a toll down the line, besides the fact that working a case with his future wife wouldn’t end well unless they had a private investigations firm. Home life and work life would inevitably collide. And Steel was a firm believer that couples needed independent time, that time apart from one another made each cherish the time spent together. The yearning was where the love was, made the moments in each other’s presence all the more meaningful.

  Steel turned a thumb back toward his cubicle outside the office. “Can I get back out there, Lieutenant? Wanna jump on these letters.”

  “Go ahead. But we’re clear on the transfer, either you or Marisa?”

  “I know the rules, of course.”

  “Good. Relay the message to Marisa for me, please.”

  “No problem.”

  Steel glanced at a few of Williams’ gold plaques and awards on the wall to his left, the Philadelphia Police logo stamped on each, and walked out.

  Just as he closed the door behind him and gripped the knob as it rattled in his hand, his phone rang. He strayed into a side office next to Williams’. He swirled his head back, looked through the glass cutout next to the door, checked that no one had seen him go in there.

  “Jimmy. What’s up?”

  “Detective Steel? This you?”

  “Yeah. It’s me.”

  “Where are you, Detective?”

  “I’ll be there in about two hours or so. I had to check something at the station. Hang tight.”

  Jimmy sighed. “I thought you were supposed to protect and serve. I tell you my family and I are in danger and you leave me hanging.”

  “I got a promising lead,” Steel said.

  “And mine isn’t?”

  “I don’t know yours. You didn’t give me a name.”

  Jimmy was silent for a moment. “I didn’t tell you because I want you to come here, so I know you’re serious about keeping my family and me safe. This guy’s insane.”

  “Who’s the guy’?” Steel yelled, glanced back and checked that no one had heard him raise his voice.

  “Who’s your lead?” Jimmy said.

  “We found love poems on her desktop.”

  “If I tell you, Detective, can you guarantee my family’s safety until you take this guy into custody?”

  “If you tell me, I’ll send the local police in AC to get you right now. Then we’ll get your wife and kids.”

  Jimmy blew air through the receiver.

  “Come on Jimmy…we have to put an end to this.”

  “My boss. John Fratt,” Jimmy said and mumbled unrecognizable words.

  Steel pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Fratt? You’re sayin’ it’s Fratt? Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, no doubt in my mind. He and Desiree were having an affair, and he went crazy when she broke it off. He’s deranged. He’s fucking insane. He is the biggest scumbag in the world. He’s a narcissist, beyond narcissism, a psychopath. He could manipulate anyone, and that’s what he did to Desiree. What a shame. I tried to warn her, but she didn’t listen. We worked closely together, and I told her over and over not to get involved with Fratt, but she had an affair with him. She wasn’t even that type of woman. He brainwashed her. Fucking convinced her, manipulated her. Listen to this. He used to get high-priced eighteen-year-old prostitutes who were new to that lifestyle just so he could fuck up their minds, just to get them when they were young and naive, just to tarnish them, just to take their innocence, just for power, for his own ego. That’s the type of guy he is. Fucking piece of shit.”

  “Where’re you exactly, Jimmy?”

  “In the Tropicana hotel, by the poker tables.”

  “I’ll call over to the Atlantic City police now. Stay there. Don’t move.”

  “Thanks, Detective.”

  “Thank you, Jimmy.”

  Steel ended the call and savored one of his vices, adrenaline. He needed it like a car needed gasoline to move. He let the warm blood course though his veins at a quicker pace, his heart rate to pump faster, and his body to choose to fight instead of flight. This case was about to come to a close, a murderer about to be brought to justice, widespread evil stopped before it could stretch anymore.

  37

  M

  arisa dragged a black computer chair next to Steel’s cubicle, and it was just the two of them in between the enclosed gray cloth walls. Steel explained that Jimmy had just confirmed that it was indeed John Fratt who’d written the poems.

  Steel said, “Look, we have letters here.” He pointed to his cell phone. “Jimmy’s story and DNA evidence from Desiree’s mother, Jeanette. We don’t know if the evidence matches Fratt, but we have enough for an arrest and to bring him in for questioning and DNA samples. Think about it. Why was it that Jeanette Jones was murdered the same day I’d spoken to Fratt, on the day I called over to the law firm first looking for Jimmy? Fratt was trying to cover
his tracks. I bet you Jeanette knew that Desiree was having an affair with him. So Fratt killed her to silence her. And then he killed or hired somebody to kill Kevin Johnson for jealously or to silence him or to throw us off, and Jonathan Herns to throw us off, I’m assuming. And now he’s trying to kill Jimmy because he thinks he’ll rat him out.”

  “Is it enough to bring him in, though? Jimmy’s story and the poems?”

  Steel tipped his head, contemplated her words. “Yeah, I think it is. I’m callin’ over to the judge for a warrant now.”

  Steel curled the desktop phone in his sweaty palm and jabbed at seven digits with the other hand—the magical numbers leading to the end of this hellish case.

  38

  T

  he judge issued a warrant for John Fratt’s arrest after about an hour, didn’t even challenge or question Steel’s request.

  Steel’s plan was to arrest Fratt in his home. Usually for a suspect that was perceived this dangerous, he’d bring along the SWAT team and a few patrol officers. But he didn’t have the time to organize it, didn’t want to tip off Fratt that he was coming, wanted to sneak up on him without an army of law enforcement agents. Steel sincerely believed that Fratt didn’t have any idea he was on his way, that he was that arrogant.

  Steel banged a right on Pine Street and crept up the block. He glided to a thirty-minute loading zone wide enough to fit a single car and stared at the strip of red brick rowhomes, a mixture of white, green and blue shutters next to each house’s front windows. The street held at least ten homes on either side of the black-paved street, and in the center of the block and at each end was a huge tree that hovered over the sidewalks and stretched well beyond the roof of each home. Steel figured the properties had to cost at least three-hundred and fifty grand, but weren’t any bigger than a home outside Center City, in a section like South Philly or the Northeast, where one could purchase the same size property for about one-sixty, one seventy. These residents had money and were professionals who worked nearby at Philadelphia’s hospitals and law firms and paid for location, convenience, and the nostalgic feeling of living close to where many Founding Fathers had envisioned and created America. Just a few blocks away, they could walk some of the same cobblestone streets and pass the same buildings that existed when Ben Franklin himself had strolled through the neighborhood.

  Steel cut off the ignition and glanced out at branches hanging from the tree trunks, bending and bowing from the wind, and at cement pavements and up to front doors that matched the window shutters. The neighborhood looked like it belonged on a postcard in a tourist gift shop for Historical Philadelphia, had simplicity or sophistication about it, an Old World feel.

  He turned his head toward Marisa. “You think he’s in there?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Steel slid down in his seat and checked the rearview mirror. He waited for a black pick-up truck and white sedan to pass his car and stepped out. Marisa followed. Both slammed their doors and blinked from the ice-cold wind gusts stinging their eyes.

  They approached Fratt’s home a few yards away, and their jackets and pants swayed, fighting the wind. The street was quiet and empty and Steel figured because it was Sunday, so the Eagles were playing, and the temperatures were dipping into the twenties with a wind chill in the teens. The wind whistling, a few car horns in the distance, and their shoes tapping against the cold silver ground were the only sounds.

  Steel climbed the three front steps and rang the doorbell. Marisa slid her hand under her jacket, then blazer, and gripped her gun with her fingers.

  “Keep the gun out,” Steel said, “when he opens the door, just in case.”

  Marisa kept her brown eyes on the front door, her dark hair blowing in the breeze.

  They waited a minute, but no one answered.

  Steel balled his fist and pounded the door three times, and his cold, chapped skin met the metal and burned and cut his hand a bit from the collision.

  Still no answer.

  He jogged down the steps, cupped his hands against the windows, and stuck his eyes into the circle his hands had formed. Marisa stayed in the same position, hand on gun, staring at the front door.

  A chill darted down Steel’s back—his whole body numbed and froze. His heart dropped and stopped his breath for a brief second. He pressed his eyes closer to the glass and his forehead bumped it.

  “Shit,” he said. “I think I see someone on the floor.”

  Marisa narrowed her brow and darted her eyes back and forth from Steel and to the window, her feet shifting toward Steel, not wanting to fully take herself away from the front entrance. “You serious?”

  “I’m almost positive.”

  “Shit,” she said under her breath.

  Steel took deep breaths, collecting his thoughts, which raced faster than a professional auctioneer’s voice at the auction of a lifetime.

  Marisa dropped the gun by her side, finger wrapped around the trigger. “If he comes out of this house, and I see a gun, I’m putting a bullet in his fucking head.”

  “Just relax,” Steel said and reached at his waist for his own gun. “We gotta get in there. I’m kicking the door in.”

  He climbed back up the steps and fastened his gun in his hands. Marisa tailed him, both palms wrapped around her gun’s barrel, a finger still brushing along the trigger. The wind whipped past them and dragged an empty soda bottle across the ground. Each flinched until they glanced down and realized what it was. Steel kicked at the door near the handle. It didn’t open.

  “Fuck,” he said. “All right. Wait a minute.”

  He sucked in a breath and exhaled.

  He laid his hand on Marisa’s shoulder and she moved down a step. His stomach swirled and he had that same feeling he used to get when he would enter a haunted house as a kid, a mixture of fear and apprehension, waiting for a zombie to jump from a hidden corner. In one motion, he lowered his shoulder and barreled through the door. The metal knob slammed hard into the wall behind it. They stepped through the entryway, hunched over, guns pointed.

  What awaited them, they didn’t know.

  The room was silent, not a sound, and a wave of dread washed over Steel. He tightened his lips, attempting to slow his heart pounding warm thuds against his chest.

  They inched into the living room, not a sound in the still air.

  Steel followed a trail of dried blood to a body on the floor.

  He stopped dead in his tracks, straightened his posture, ran a hand across his lips. He turned to Marisa, and she shook her head, her gun still pointed and ready to fire.

  The dead body of John Fratt lain face down in a pool of blood. His legs were straight, but his massive arms were curled over his bald head. Next to him was a woman, and Steel figured it to be his wife from the photo hanging on the wall to his left. Her body was face up and what appeared to Steel to be a gunshot wound to the right cheekbone—the skin around the maroon hole was plastered with dried blood that had caked and lumped over her open eyes. More dried blood was caked through her hair and stuck to her neck. Death and evil permeated the sour, foul air.

  “Jesus Christ,” Steel whispered to himself, sweat pouring down his face and ribcage.

  Marisa sighed and blew air into her cheeks as if she was holding back vomit, still pointing her gun.

  “Police!” Steel yelled. “Anybody here?”

  No one answered.

  They checked the kitchen, but nothing. Next, both climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. The first two were empty, everything in place—the beds perfectly made with the comforters spread evenly over the sheets, the bureaus polished to shiny perfection, not one speck of dust on the cream carpeting.

  Then they reached the third room. Two little girls, about eight, nine, one a little older, were on the bed, tied up, their mouths shut, gray electrical tape stretched over their lips. Their wide, comatose, traumatized eyes revealed the greatest level of fear Steel had ever seen in all his years as a detective. He could feel
their fear streaming from the pores of their skin, could feel it in the air, as if he were standing in hell, surrounded by four walls of pure evil. Marisa snapped her gun onto her hip and untied the girls at the hands and ankles. She pulled the tape from their mouths in one quick motion. Each girl shrieked, and the shrill cry pierced Steel’s eardrums. His heart sank at the scene, as if it had fallen into his gut, twirling near the belly button. Each child jumped back from Steel and Marisa, their tiny arms and legs swinging, each hugging one another, their fingers digging into the other’s shoulders.

  “It’s okay. We’re police officers. We’re here to help you,” Marisa said, slid closer to them. “Are you hurt?”

  The girls shook their heads no.

  The older girl mumbled, “He just tied us up, didn’t hurt us. He left the room after.”

  “Who tied you up? Daddy, did he tie you up?”

  The girls didn’t answer, looked petrified, as though their voices couldn’t say anymore.

  To Steel’s surprise the girls reached out and hugged Marisa. Their tiny fingers trembled, wrapped over and around Marisa’s shoulders. His stomach flipped, his back muscles stiffened, and he balled his fist and shook it—he could have knocked out Mike Tyson and Floyd Mayweather Jr. with a one-two punch combo. Motherfucker, he thought. Who the fuck? What the fuck? Where the fuck? How the fuck? Motherfucker.

  Marisa brushed one of the girl’s blonde hair to the side and spoke in a motherly tone, widening her eyes, nodding her head, softening her voice, “Who did this to you?”

  The girl didn’t say anything, trembled some more.

  Marisa turned to the other with the same question.

  She didn’t respond.

  Both the girls’ eyes were fixed into blank stares, as if they were unable to speak. Shock. Steel had seen it far too much as an officer and detective.

  The girls dug their faces into Marisa’s chest, and Marisa cradled their heads, ran her thin fingers through their soft hair, massaged their warm skulls.