Mike yanked his steering wheel and tried to slam into Steel’s car again. The reek of burned rubber and car fumes filled Steel’s vehicle. He held the brake tighter and somehow managed to pull behind Mike. Mike’s brake lights lit up bright red, then faded, then lit up bright red, then faded. Steel glanced at the highway to his left and right and knew this was getting dangerous. Mike was even turning his head around at Steel, taking his eyes off the road. Steel dropped back about twenty feet but stayed on track.
Mike braked for longer than the previous times, his speed dropping at least ten miles per hour every couple of seconds. He pulled onto the shoulder. Steel tailed him, crept behind his car. Mike leaped out, ran in front of the hood, and ducked.
Steel snatched his 9mm he had thrown on his passenger seat earlier and climbed from the car but stayed low to the ground, both hands wrapped around the Glock, pointing in the direction of Mike’s Ford. He shouted loudly enough to stretch his voice over cars’ rumbling tires swooshing by him, and the wind from the lanes to his left, “It’s over, Mike!”
“Fuck you!” Mike yelled at the top of his lungs, but it faded out to a whisper by the time it hit the highway noise and reached Steel.
“Just end this. It’s over,” Steel said.
Mike sprung up, his pistol clutched between his crooked fingers, pointed at Steel. His eyes hardened, and his jaw muscles bounced against his skin like marbles. “Look…I’m right, and you know it!” he shouted, yelling the loudest he could, his tongue and mouth flapping wildly.
Steel thought for a few seconds, never taking his eyes off Mike, contemplating how to handle this situation. “Okay, we’ll talk about it. Just put the gun down and let me help you.”
Mike shook his head, his eyes comatose, then inhaled deep and exhaled hard. “Don’t play that good-cop bullshit with me! I’m not insane! I’m fucking right!”
“Right about what?” Steel said. He didn’t turn his head but could sense that cars on the highway began slowing down to see the exchange. Heck, he knew cars did that when someone was getting a speeding ticket. This scene would certainly attract curious stares. He also knew the situation was becoming increasingly dangerous.
“About Tom Hitchy. I’m right that I killed that bastard!” Mike shouted. He licked his lips, blinked. “He was no good!”
“All right…well give me the gun, and we’ll talk about it.”
“Fuck you! You’re not talking to me about anything!” His eyes welled up and his mouth quivered. “You know why I did it?”
Steel shifted his body an inch.
“Don’t fucking move again!” Mike yelled. He gripped the gun tightly.
“All right, all right...but we can’t stay here. Just give me the gun.”
Mike rolled his watery eyes. “Remember when I told you about my family—about my sister and mom?”
Steel stared, finger on the trigger, laser beam focused on Mike’s chest.
“My sister didn’t commit suicide. She overdosed. She couldn’t quit, but was trying her hardest. She started in high school, fourteen. What do you know at fourteen? Then she kept up the habit when we moved above Hitchy in the apartment complex. I’d repeatedly asked him to stop selling that shit to her just before she died, but he still sold it to her, didn’t care if she lived or died.” Tears slid down his cheeks. “Yeah, she overdosed. They ruled it a suicide, but she overdosed. And then my mom died from heartbreak. And my family was destroyed. And then I killed that fucking prick, Hitchy. He was no good…no better than a fucking murderer. He lived off other people’s weaknesses, destroyed lives, ruined families. And I put an end to him!”
Steel watched him closely and thought of the contradiction of Mike’s words, how he had just called Hitchy a murderer, but didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “You can’t take the law into your own hands. Come with me, and we’ll talk about it.”
Mike leered at Steel, salty tears reddening his eyes by the second.
“All right…just come with me now,” Steel said.
“Stay where the fuck you are!” Mike shouted.
Steel eyed Mike’s pistol and sucked air into his nostrils. “What about Venice and my partner? What’s your reasoning there? And you killed Hector, didn’t you? Venice was involved somehow, I know it.”
Mike frowned and tears flowed. His wild eyes resembled those of a person during a nervous breakdown—shifting, popped open, nervous, distracted, and scared to death all at the same time. “I didn’t mean to hit your partner. I was aiming for that cocksucker, Knee. I’d been following you and your partner since you showed up at my apartment that day, questioning me about Hitchy. I saw everything—your kiss at the fireworks and dinner-date with Detective Tulli, meeting with Venice at that diner. I tailed the two of you and kept my rifle in the trunk of my car. Then I shot from a rooftop when the time was right, to throw you off, but missed Knee and got your partner.
“That UPS package was the rifle?” Steel shouted.
“Ah, smart fucking detective you are. Yeah, that was the rifle I used in that UPS box…had to bring it inside to adjust something.” He shook his head. “But, I…I meant it for Knee, not Detective Tulli.” He frowned, a disgusted look across his face. “And Venice—she deserved it. She’s nothing but a lying sneak who values money over anything else. That’s what’s wrong with this world. Love of money. Everything’s fucked up. Venice paid me to do it. Hitchy had $200,000 cash stashed away with her cousin, Hector. Hector was in on it…he was with me the night I killed Tom Hitchy...he made the phone call to meet under the highway for drugs. Hitchy thought he was meeting Hector, but he met me instead, and I put a bullet in his fucking head. And I gave that jerkoff Hector a hot dose…let him know what it feels like to overdose. He worked with Hitchy, selling for him on the side, dealing. All of Hitchy’s calls came in on a phone under Hector’s name. Hector told me that, so after I killed Hitchy that night, I took the cell from his car that he used for deals, so there were no traces from that phone to the payphone I called from.”
Steel stayed in position, gun pointed, wind blowing his hair, listening. That’s why Hitchy didn’t have any calls other than Venice, he thought. And I should have investigated Venice more. Damn. But she seemed so innocent. I had no evidence.
“Venice and I got to talking about Hitchy one night, about ten months ago, right after my sister died. After he had beat Venice and walked out one night. Yeah, Hitchy beat her. Surprised? Venice was friends with my sister, and that’s how I knew her. She came inside my apartment that night, and we started up, had a little thing going. I think she was falling for me because we carried that on for months, whenever Hitchy left the house. She told me about the money, the 200k Hitchy had stashed away with her cousin, Hector, and how she’d give me a cut if I killed him. I told her I’d gladly take him out for 40k, started my plan to kill Hitchy, and then later my larger plan, which you’re fucking up the conclusion of right now, by the way. I told Hector I’d give him 15k as a cut for helping me, for calling Hitchy to set it up. Hector was on drugs himself and couldn’t refuse. But I couldn’t give a shit about the money…it wasn’t about the money; it was my way to get even. In fact, I killed Hector and took the whole 200k from his apartment and gave it to charity. And don’t look, you won’t find out who I gave it to. Then I killed Venice. She lied to you. She hated Hitchy, used him for money, and wanted to run back with her mother to her mother’s hometown in her country with the cash stashed at Hector’s. Get this, I told her I’d go with her to her mother’s country, and she believed me, said I was the nicest guy she’d ever met.” Mike screamed at the top of his lungs, “How about now, you fucking bitch?” He tightened the gun in his hands. “Ha, it’s funny what people will do for money.”
This was going on way too long for Steel’s liking. “That’s enough!” he yelled. Sirens got louder from behind, and reflections of lights from police cruisers danced across the ground in front of him. “This ends now!”
Mike leered at the approa
ching vehicles, and his tears had all but subsided. “Hey, Detective Steel,” Mike said, a reflective twinkle in his eyes. “Do you know where we are?”
Steel was about to say I-95, but didn’t.
“We’re standing on the highway just above where I killed Thomas Hitchy,” he said and grinned.
“Just drop the gun and end this!”
Mike didn’t, and Steel decided he had seen enough. He leaned forward and angled his pistol.
Mike rapidly bit his wiry lips, his bulging eyes raging. “The police ruled my sister’s death a suicide, but that wasn’t the case. But you know what?”
Steel stared hard and slid his finger around the trigger, ready to fire.
Mike shouted, “Now, we have a real suicide!” He dropped his gun, and it bounced against the ground. He sprinted over to the guardrail, leaped, and didn’t stop. His arms swung and his legs kicked at the air, and he roared from deep in his lungs.
Steel bolted around his car, clicked his gun onto his hip, and frowned at Mike’s wailing. The yells echoed the closer Mike got to the ground but got quieter as though someone was turning a volume knob. His voice silenced when he crashed into the concrete below, the collision like a wrecking ball slamming into a building as if his body had dented the earth.
Patrol officers jogged over to the ledge. Drivers inched out of their cars—crying, in shock, terrified, nervous—and policemen directed them back inside. Steel quickly glanced over at Mike’s remains below, at the blood and body parts sprawled out, then turned away. He leaned against the guardrail for a moment before he walked to his car, gliding his palms over his hair. Police officers began directing traffic around the scene. Steel stopped at his vehicle. His blood-stained shirt hung from his pants and covered the gun on his hip. His face was tired and worn. His body was so tired, he was nauseous.
He couldn’t help but think of Marisa.
46
Steel jumped out of his car and took large strides toward the station. He dodged reporters, but they formed a barricade similar to the frontlines of a battlefield. The news people shoved microphones in his face and yelled in his direction to get a sound bite or video clip explaining what had just transpired on a Philadelphia highway. Various tones and pitches of voices muffled together, but Steel ignored the chatter, stared straight ahead. He pushed through and managed to escape the madness.
He walked through the lobby and took the stairs, heading for Lieutenant Detective Williams’ office. Williams had been waiting for him ever since he’d turned on the television and viewed a live shot of the standoff between Mike and Steel.
Steel laid his hands against the bottom of his shirt and tried to tuck it but gave up and let the right side dangle, his mind racing and interrupting the process. He looked up and noticed Williams standing by his door, one hand on the frame, the other in his pocket. He half-frowned, half-smiled, and Steel wondered if it was a condolence gesture. Was it Marisa? His heart dropped, and his stomach flipped. His forehead ached, felt like a brain-freeze as if he had just downed a cold glass of water too fast. He approached Williams without saying a word.
In one motion, Williams pushed off the doorframe and extended his hand for a shake. “Steel.”
Steel’s body shuddered, still waiting for bad news. “How is she?”
“Just called over there. Still in surgery…situation’s still critical.” Williams frowned.
Steel inhaled, a knot in his stomach bunching together, then exhaled and dug his nails into his scalp until the skin was sore.
Williams grimaced and wobbled over to his seat as if his feet were in pain. He plopped down, and the floor shook. He tossed his glasses onto the desktop and rubbed his temples. “You’re all over the news, Steel.”
“Ya’ know,” Steel said and shrugged, “this case sorta just fell in place on its own. But I always felt Mike was off a bit, always. But, I didn’t have a clue th—”
Williams cut in, “That’s what good detectives do, follow leads.” He squinted and put his glasses on his face. The maroon tints focused on Steel. “And you’re one of the good detectives, Steel.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.”
Steel slouched, kicked out his legs, and pulled Venice’s envelope from his pocket. He held the note sideways and wiggled it so that Williams could see.
“What’s that?”
“I found it hanging from Hitchy’s girlfriend’s hand after she was gunned down. It’s addressed to me.”
Williams nodded, and Steel took it as a cue to open it.
He swiped a finger across the seal and tore off the glue, then unfolded the white sheet of paper and read the handwritten note, scratching his cheek.
“What is it?” Williams asked.
“Everything’s in here. She explained how she paid Mike to kill Hitchy. How her cousin, Hector, stored the money in his apartment. The story is the same as the one Mike gave me on the highway, except that she says here that she tried to warn Hitchy the night he was killed but that he didn’t answer her call after he left the house. She talks about her remorse, how she couldn’t live with herself.” Steel ran a hand through his hair, pressing hard on his skull. “This was a messed up case. We had Hitchy—well, sooner or later, ya’ know, somebody woulda gotten him. Then we had an emotionally distraught man with a vengeance try to take the law into his own hands. You can’t play God. The guy went about it the wrong way; he coulda came to us or used his experience to counsel kids about drug use, do something positive for the community, instead of killing people. Then we had Hitchy’s girlfriend, Venice, setting him up for money.” He shook his head, disgusted. “It never ends. And now my partner is fighting for her life.” He stared into Williams’ round eyes. “At least we got Knee off the streets, still got him on drug charges. His,” Steel held up both hands and wrapped quotes around the word, “boy,” and continued, “is going to testify.”
Williams laid both palms onto the desktop and digested the details. “Right about that one, my friend. Now, I’ve got to go and give the media something—let them know why a woman was gunned down in front of her home, why a near-shootout held up traffic on a highway, why one of our own was shot, and why a man jumped to his death. We’ve only put a dent in this crime wave, but it’s a start—but a start just for the police—a nightmare in the public eye.”
“You want a quick rundown of what I know before you go out there?” Steel asked.
“Nah. I’ll just say we don’t have all the facts yet.”
“If only Mike would have come to us first, told us about Hitchy selling to his sister.”
Williams shook his head. “Our job consists of ‘if only’…you know that. Humans are emotional and, oftentimes, act irrationally when those emotions are challenged. Not to that extreme, but you get my drift.” He crossed his arms. “And to think about it, this whole case stemmed from, and revolved around drugs and greed. From the people who sold them, to the people who abused them, and to the family members of those affected by them. Like a butterfly effect. Drug abuse ruins lives, ruins families; it’s destructive, destroying this generation.”
Steel listened as Williams spoke from experience, with an air of wisdom in his voice.
A cell phone rang. Williams held a finger to Steel and spun his seat around so that his back faced him. He spoke inaudibly, nodded a lot, and hung up after a minute or two.
“Steel, we’ve just sealed off Mike’s apartment. Found a manifesto of some sort and an outline of more murders he planned to carry out. This guy was planning to take down more drug-dealers, go after politicians. I think it said anyone he deemed corrupt. They found the 9mm he used to kill Hitchy, too. So you stopped his plans. There’s a difference between vigilante and nutcase. Good, decent people don’t like corruption but also don’t like when people go around taking the law into their own hands. Mike didn’t act any better than Hitchy; he broke the law just like Hitchy had. Our job isn’t to judge morally but to enforce the law. And, ah, both broke it. But that�
��s why we’re here…to level the playing field—hold people accountable. The world’s unfair, and that won’t change no matter how many law enforcement agencies or vigilantes there are. But we provide a safety net.” He scratched his upper lip with a finger.
Steel nodded, trying to listen, but his mind drifted off. “I wonder how Maris—?”
Williams held up his hands and pointed to the door.
Steel stood and left. There was somewhere he needed to be.
47
The elevator lit up then beeped. Steel took a deep breath and waved an arm forward to let others out first before stepping off.
He walked the white floors along the narrow hallway for the second time that day. Plastic bins held clipboards that hung by each patient’s room. He could see Marisa’s family gathered in the distance, talking to a few law enforcement agents. His stomach had been through enough, but the knot in his gut squeezed tight. The back of his neck was drenched, along with his blood-stained shirt still hanging from his pants. His eyelids hung low, a dark circle under each eye.
Marisa’s father paced back and forth, staring at the ground, running his knuckles over his lips. He flipped his head up and stretched his eyes at the sight of Steel.
Steel hurried over and extended his hand. “Mr. Tulli,” he said as they shook, “how’s she doing?”
Marisa’s father lowered his head, shook it, tears welling up in his eyes.
Steel’s heart froze, stopped beating. His face turned pale, and his eyelids stood still, no blinking. Goosebumps bubbled over his skin and chilled its surface.
Nicky Tulli patted Steel’s back.
Steel stared at him, but now his whole body tingled. He couldn’t move.
“She…ah-ah…she’s out of surgery. They stabilized her.” He jerked a thumb back at his family with the small amount of energy he had left in his body and shook his head slowly. “She’s gonna be all right.”
Every muscle and nerve in Steel’s body loosened. He pushed all the air in his lungs out through his mouth. The breath forced a small laugh, but he didn’t say anything.
The Highway (A Benny Steel and Marisa Tulli Novel - Book 1) Page 24
