Steel and Marisa detected a Hispanic accent.
“Hello, ma’am.” Steel patted his chest and then rested his hand on Marisa’s forearm. “I’m Detective Benjamin Steel, and this is my partner, Detective Marisa Tulli.”
The woman gave an obligatory smile, but she still didn’t fully open the door. Her face was wrinkled and hard.
“We’re looking for Venice Garcia, ma’am.”
“Who you are?”
The language barrier was confirmed. He showed her his badge and spoke slowly. “Just have to ask her some questions about Thomas Hitchy.”
The woman shifted her eyes in thought for a moment as if converting his English to Spanish. She tugged the door open, frowning the entire time, and pointed at the staircase. Steel spread his left arm out, palm up, implying for her to lead the way.
He and Marisa stared at the hallway. From the outside, the building seemed as though it should’ve been nicer inside. Steel didn’t expect chipped, water-damaged paint on the walls or dusty and dirty floors. The woman gripped the railing on her left and walked up the stairs one foot at a time, each step an enormous effort. The walls reeked of stale, flower-scented air freshener and dust clouds. The woman’s sandals flipped and flopped to the top. Steel and Marisa’s dress shoes pounded the wooden steps, and the shaky wood creaked as if it would give out at any moment.
As the woman reached the top, she breathed shallowly. She wrapped one hand around her hip and wiped her forehead with the other. “My daughter in here,” she said. She twisted the knob, waved them in, and called out a few sentences of Spanish to her daughter.
Steel peeked in first, then walked through. Marisa smiled, thanked her, and stepped in.
Steel’s vision tunneled in on the first thing he saw and knew it was the expression of the person most affected by a murder. He’d seen that look many times—grief. Detectives were as good as psychologists at spotting emotions on people’s faces, a byproduct of the job that required no effort.
Venice Garcia sat on a beige leather sofa and barely reacted when they had walked in. Tears soaked the skin around her puffy eyes, and her hair was tied back into a ponytail. A box of tissues lay on her lap, and a bunch of crumpled, wet ones popped out of her balled up fists. She wore gray shorts and a white t-shirt.
As they walked over to greet her, Steel took in the home of the man’s murder he was investigating. The apartment had a modern, trendy appeal to it. It was obviously pricey; every property in that area of Philadelphia was. But from what he could tell, it was spacious for the price, with a large kitchen, living room, and two bedrooms. The hardwood floors below him sparkled. The flat-screen television attached to the wall had to be at least sixty inches and resembled one that would’ve been advertised right before Super Bowl Sunday. The apartment smelled much better than the hallway. Steel sucked a shot of air into his nostrils and knew it was the scent of brand new furniture—new leather, new kitchen table, and new hardwood floors. He turned his head toward a large fish tank and estimated well over twenty gold and silver fish swimming.
Venice lifted her tired brown eyes.
“Ms. Garcia. I’m Detective Benjamin Steel.” He motioned toward Marisa. “And this is my partner, Detective Marisa Tulli.”
Venice pointed to a small sofa next to the one she was sitting on and lowered her head.
“Ms. Garcia…I know this isn’t the best of times, but…”
She sniffled. Keeping her eyelids open seemed to be a struggle. The white of each eyeball was streaked with red lines. “Call me Venice,” she said, the pitch of her voice just above a whisper.
“Okay, Venice. I know the last thing you want to do is answer questions from us…” he glanced at Marisa, “…but the faster we get answers…the faster we find out who did this to Tom.”
He knew what he was doing, using the oldest detective trick in the book, softening up the person he was questioning, making them trust him.
He angled both kneecaps toward her, rested his elbows on his thighs, and leaned forward. “We’re going to do everything in our power to get the person responsible for this.”
Venice’s bottom lip quivered, and a stream of tears filled her bloodshot eyes and flowed down her red cheeks. She scrunched her face and snatched a tissue from the box on her lap.
They let her cry.
Steel studied her while giving her a moment. She was an attractive woman—short but thin as a rail. However, her build fit her. She had long black hair, oval brown eyes, full lips, and caramel skin. The skin on her face was so firm it resembled a porcelain doll. She didn’t look twenty-nine, probably could have gotten carded to buy a pack of cigarettes.
He couldn’t help but feel sorry for her as she wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
Marisa wiggled in her seat and plucked another tissue from the box, handing it to her.
The tears stopped, and she coughed and shook her head.
Marisa took it as a thank you.
Steel held out his palms and nodded as he twisted his mouth upward, treading softly. His voice was consoling as he said, “All right, Venice…you ready to continue?” He waited for a response.
She blinked and slid each index finger along the moist, dark circles under each eye.
“How long have you known Tom?” He raised his eyes over her head, at her mother, who stared at him from the kitchen, a cat on her lap, hanging on his every word. He caught a glimpse of Venice in her face, only thirty years older. Her wrinkled skin and stone eyes were signs of wisdom, of having a hard life, of a warrior surviving in a foreign country as an immigrant.
Venice crossed her legs, dangled her foot, and overlapped her hands across her midsection. Her voice was high and sweet, almost musical. “We met a few years ago…um….a little over three years ago.”
Steel listened, and Marisa scribbled on a yellow legal pad. “Tell me a little about Tom,” he said.
“What do you want to know?”
“What did he do for a living?”
Venice blinked, taken aback a bit. She stared above Steel’s head as she was about to speak, and he knew it was going to be a lie. “He never talked about work. He said he inherited some money from his family.”
“Vennnice,” he said, his words dragged out with an air of sarcasm, “from whom?” He couldn’t help himself and figured if she was starting out on a lie, he had no choice.
“His uncle or something…we never talked about money. He had it, paid the bills, and that was that.”
“Venice…we just want to remind you that we know Tom’s family history. We need your cooperation.”
Marisa dropped the legal pad onto the sofa and said, “We’re going to need honesty if we’re going to solve this thing. We understand it’s hard, but...”
Venice connected both palms together into prayer-hands and shook them. “What do you want from me?”
Steel cleared his throat and spoke very matter-of-factly. “Look, we know what Tom’s game was. We know what he was, and we know the things he was into.” He leaned closer. “Now, we need you to tell us what you know, like my partner said, we need honesty here. It’s hard…I know.”
Her eyes welled up again, but she suppressed the tears by blinking. “Okay, you know what he was. Again, what do you want from me?”
“What was he, so we’re on the same page here, Venice?”
“He was a drug-dealer. Happy?”
“I’ll be happy when I solve this.” He scratched his cheek. “What did he sell?”
“Pot.”
“That it? Not cocaine?”
“That’s what he told me.” She looked away for a second before gazing off, as if remembering something. “He wasn’t a bad guy, you know. I lov—”
“Venice…” he held up his hands, “…we didn’t come here for that. We came to ask you a few things about the events and Tom.”
She rolled her eyes, and tears broke through quick blinking.
Steel locked
eyes with Marisa, and they waited until Venice’s last tear dried.
“Where were you two nights ago when Tom was shot?” Steel asked.
“What are you implying, detective?”
“Implying? I’m not implying anything. Standard procedure, Ms. Garcia. Now, please, where were you?”
“I was here.”
“Was Tom home that night?”
“Yeah, he was home until, I would say, about 8, 8:30.”
She sobbed.
Steel bit down on his tongue and reminded himself to slow down with the questioning. After all, the woman had just lost her boyfriend of three years.
Marisa shot Steel a curious look, and he read it as a signal to have some empathy.
She took over questioning and mirrored Venice’s posture, sitting back, crossing her legs casually.
“Did he say anything before he left?” Marisa asked.
Venice sniffled and wiped her eyes with the tissues in her hands, which dampened and ripped to the touch. “We were arguing. It was so stupid. I wanted to watch a movie, and he didn’t. I think he left because of me. And then he’s dead…and now you two are making me feel that much worse about it.”
She dropped her forehead into her palms, and as if on cue, a thud echoed from the kitchen. Her mother jumped up from the kitchen chair, wobbled bow-legged to the sofa, and stared hard into Steel’s eyes before sitting next to her daughter, her nostrils flaring and jaw tight. She slid a hand across Venice’s shoulders and rubbed slowly.
Steel and Marisa listened to the heavy, deep sobbing. Their muscles tensed, and the silence in the room, save for the crying, was eerie. Venice’s mother squinted, and her firm eyes were a mirror of the stiff environment.
“Again, Ms. Garcia, I apologize for the questioning, but we have to eliminate every possible scenario. We have to put this thing together like a puzzle, and every piece matters.”
Venice moved her head, her eyelids a thin line as the skin around them creased. She nodded rapidly, and tears ran sideways and dripped onto the sofa. Steel had a feeling she understood he had to ask but also knew she was just about done with the questioning for the day; her face revealed it.
He waved a hand at Marisa and took back over. “Did you and Tom fight a lot?”
She wiped her tears. “Yeah, but we loved each other…that’s what people do.”
“Was there any violence in the home?”
“No, Tom never touched me. He punched furniture sometimes but never me. And I never hit him.” She flashed a small smile as she thought of Tom. “If you’re implying that I had something to do with this, uh, with all due respect, you’re crazy. I loved him.”
“Not implying anything. Did your family like Tom?”
“It’s just me and my mom. He treated my mom like a queen.” She grabbed her mother’s forearm, squeezed.
“Did your mom know what kind of work Tom did?”
“No, no, she barely speaks English.” She shook her head. “She wouldn’t understand that sort of thing. She’s from the old school. She’s a hard worker and paints in her free time, loves art. In fact, she named me after Venice, Italy. She traveled through there as a young girl and fell in love with it—the water, the boats, the weather—everything. She said when she first held me she had that same feeling that Venice gave her all over again.”
Steel let her talk. The woman had to vent somehow. But he wanted to get back on track. “Did Tom say where he was going that night?”
“No…he just stormed out. I fell asleep on the sofa, and the next thing I know, two police officers were at my front door the next day.”
“Did Tom have any enemies that you know of?”
“He could of…but I swear to you…he never brought that in here. He didn’t talk about the drugs. I didn’t want to hear it. I told him I didn’t want him to do that no more. He promised he would stop.” She whimpered, and her fingers trembled. “He promised he would stop soon.”
“What about Knee?”
Venice turned her lips right and shifted her eyes in the same direction.
“You know him, don’t you?”
“Yeah, Tom didn’t like him…that’s all I know.”
“You don’t know who he is or anything?”
She shook her head no. “Never seen him. I heard Tom mention him on the phone, but I never seen him.”
“Did you know Tom got into a fistfight with him?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Steel studied her. She seemed sincere and wasn’t crying anymore.
“Did Tom have any family in the area?”
“I thought you knew about his family.”
“We do, but you never know.”
“Nah…Tom didn’t have family. His parents died, and then, uh, his grandmother died, and that was it.”
Steel rose from his seat. Marisa scribbled final words as she hunched over and stood in the same position she was taking the notes in.
Steel extended his hand, and Venice shifted wet tissues from her right hand to her left and shook it, her hand still cool as it hit Steel’s.
“Thank you, Ms. Garcia,” he said. “We’ll be in touch as we learn more. We’re going to need your help.”
She waved. Her mother just sat there, and her eye-rolling and frown revealed that she wasn’t too pleased with the two of them.
Venice trailed them to the door, her attractive face worn and in need of sleep. “I’ll help you with whatever, and I’m sorry about today. I’m grieving.”
“No worries,” he said. “Oh, and one more thing.” He whipped a finger up and down and pointed. “Who lives on one and three?” He held his lips in an about-to-whistle position, waiting for a response.
“The landlord lives on one, and Mike lives on three.”
“Who do they live with?”
“The landlord—oh, sorry, his name is Sam by the way—he lives with his wife. Mike lives alone.”
“Thanks.”
Steel and Marisa left the apartment. This case was just getting started, but Steel was already stressed.
12
Steel and Marisa’s shoes smacked and thumped the wooden staircase again as they made their way down to the first floor. The dust overpowered the flowery scent this time, and they could see dust floating in the air as the sun sliced through a small square window along the wall.
“Let’s check out this landlord first,” Steel said.
Marisa looked around and slowly spun in a circle. “Right here, over there.”
She pointed at a white door with a plastic tag: FIRST FLOOR.
Steel marched over and tapped four knuckles against it. They heard ruffling, and the door opened. A man in his sixties stood with his mouth and eyes wide open. Steel glanced down at the top of the man’s head and estimated him to be roughly 5’6. He wore a pair of khaki shorts, high tube socks, and a black tank top. His hair was stone gray and slicked straight back, and his mustache was the same shade of gray. Bushy, curled hair hung over his tank top, and he had what appeared to Steel to be old war tattoos on each arm. One was an American eagle with faded dark green ink, almost navy blue. Probably Vietnam, Steel thought.
The man’s back was hunched, and his jaw pushed out further than his upper teeth. He looked Marisa and Steel up and down. “Can I help you?” he said, his voice deep and raspy, most likely one of a longtime smoker.
“Hello, sir. I’m Detective Benjamin Steel, and this is my partner, Detective Marisa Tulli.”
The man didn’t seem impressed.
“We would like to ask you a few questions.”
The man angled his pointy jaw and then straightened his underbite, waved them in.
As they strolled inside, Steel circled his eyes across the apartment and asked, “So, you own this building?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” the man said, toughness in his voice that revealed someone who’d worked hard his whole life and didn’t want to be questioned by “a bunch of kids
.” Steel knew most people were suspicious of authority, and he could relate.
The apartment wasn’t modern, and Steel guessed it hadn’t been remodeled in over twenty years. It wasn’t even close to Tom’s. The sofa was brown cloth and had a white blanket draped over it. An old 1990s model, what had to be 22-inch Sony television, was propped up on a wooden stand a few feet away from the sofa. The walls held a thick scent of stale cigarette smoke. Steel noticed a red and white pack of Marlboro sitting on an end table next to the couch, directly under a table lamp. His body tensed at the sight of the smokes. His heart sped up. A hot sweat pushed through his skin, forming a layer of heat. Man, he could have used one. He’d quit smoking the previous year but still craved the nicotine that used to comfort him on long stakeouts and investigations. But he directed his attention back to the apartment, and the cigarette craving subsided. The one thing this apartment had going for it was that it was spacious. A run-down blue carpet covered the floor. A few paintings of nature scenes hung on the walls, and a small bookcase, with about twenty paperbacks, was near the entrance of the kitchen, although the sink and stove weren’t visible.
“Would you like some coffee?” the man asked.
Steel waved a hand. “No, thank you.”
Marisa shook her head and forced a thin smile.
He pointed to his sofa. “Well, have a seat then. I gotta run into the kitchen for another chair.”
He slipped into the kitchen.
Within seconds, he reappeared carrying a wooden chair and dug it into the blue carpeting, then sat down.
Steel positioned himself his usual way, both knees pointing at the person he was questioning, elbows pressed into his thighs, hands out in front of himself. “So, I’m sure you’ve heard about your tenant, Thomas Hitchy?”
“Yeah, I heard last night,” he pointed at his front door, “the cops were here.” He bobbed his head, made duck-lips. “I feel sorry for Venice,” he turned his eyes up in thought, “what a sweet kid, she is.”
The Highway (A Benny Steel and Marisa Tulli Novel - Book 1) Page 8
