The Killing Room (Richard Montanari) - By Richard Montanari Page 0,68
right. Okay?’
Nothing.
‘Gabriel, is it this guy DeRon Wilson? Is it DeRon Wilson who told you to stay away from me?’
No response.
Byrne had his answer.
TWENTY-THREE
Byrne parked on the corner of Third and Westmoreland. According to information he had gotten from a friend of his named Joe Miciak, a detective in North, Wilson maintained three apartments. Word was, on this night, that he could be found at this one.
Byrne looked at the sheet on the seat next to him. He had breezed into the office, run DeRon Wilson’s name. Besides being a person of interest in Terrell Hightower’s shooting, he had two counts of possession with intent, five counts of misdemeanor assault, lewd vagrancy, shoplifting, possession and passing of counterfeit currency. And that was just the first page.
Byrne entered the building, took the back steps. The walls were covered in tags, the stair platforms were stacked knee-high in plastic bags and loose debris. The smell was all but toxic.
He pushed open the door to the second floor. Byrne noted that more than half the doors had jimmy marks along the jambs, splintered wood that indicated a break-in. Some of the apartments had padlocks on the outside. Sounds filled the hallway – hip hop, game shows, radio ads, arguments, barking dogs.
DeRon Wilson’s was the last apartment on the right. Byrne opened the window at the end of the hall, checked to see if there was a fire escape. There was, so he left the window open. If Wilson decided to jump out, at least Byrne wouldn’t have to break the window to chase him.
Byrne stepped up to the door, knocked. He heard the volume of the television lower, footsteps padding to the door. He saw the peephole go from light to dark, then light. Nothing. He knocked again.
‘Philly PD,’ he said.
Byrne was just about to knock a third time when he heard the bolts turn. A girl opened the door. She was light-skinned, pretty, no more than seventeen. She wore a short silk kimono.
Byrne showed his ID. ‘I’m looking for DeRon Wilson.’
‘Don’t know him.’
She went to close the door, but Byrne got a foot inside the jamb. ‘Miss, it’s very important that I speak to him.’
‘I said, I don’t know him.’
Again she tried to slam the door, but this time Byrne got a shoulder into it. He heard doors open in the hallway behind him. He glanced inside the apartment. The walls were covered in a vinyl, wood-grain wallpaper. A 60-inch plasma TV against the far wall showed an old music video. The floor was littered with brightly colored toddler toys.
Before the girl said another word a man came out of one of the bedrooms.
‘It’s cool, baby,’ the man said.
DeRon Wilson stepped into the living room. Even though Byrne had the man’s stats, DeRon was a lot smaller than Byrne had anticipated – chiseled hard, late twenties, standing about 5’4”. He couldn’t have weighed more than 125. A real bantam, in all respects. In his most recent mug shot he had short dreads, but now his head was shaved. He was covered in tats. He wore a white wife-beater T, jumbo shorts, slung low. Byrne looked at his hands, the pull on his belt. If he had a gun, it was not tucked into his shorts.
‘PPD always welcome here,’ Wilson added. Heavy-eyed, he proffered a smile.
‘Are you DeRon Wilson?’
Wilson stepped fully into the doorway. The girl disappeared into the bedroom. Byrne backed up, giving the man space. All part of the power play.
‘What can I do for Philly’s finest?’ Wilson asked.
‘You can start by answering my question,’ Byrne said. ‘Are you DeRon Wilson?’
‘Everybody knows me.’
‘I’m going to take that as a yes,’ Byrne said. ‘Do you know a boy named Gabriel Hightower?’
Wilson smiled. Three golds in the grill. ‘I know lots of boys.’
More doors opened. Byrne turned to see a half-dozen people in the hallway. They all had cell phones in hand.
‘Do you know him?’ Byrne repeated.
‘I might. But why I gotta tell you?’
‘Mr Wilson, could we step inside? This will only take a few moments of your time.’
Wilson did not back up, did not invite Byrne inside. Instead, he moved further into the hallway, making Byrne retreat a few more steps.
Wilson put a finger into Byrne’s chest. ‘I think you need to get out my face.’
Byrne looked down at Wilson’s finger, swept the hem of his coat back and unsnapped his holster. ‘You need to take a step back.’