The Quiet Edge
Page 1
The Quiet Edge
Rob Cornell
Copyright © 2020 by Rob Cornell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The Quiet Edge is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For my brother, Dave. Get a life!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Also by Rob Cornell
About the Author
One
He should have known better.
That’s what Harrison Hart would tell himself several times over the coming days. He should have freaking known better. But when the woman shrieked, and Harrison turned toward the sound, and he saw the guy with the spiky hair and torn up jeans yank the brown leather handbag out of the woman’s grasp, what the hell else could he do but run after the jerk?
Harrison was on his way to the Java Hutt on Nine Mile Road in Ferndale when he witnessed the purse snatching. He had just dropped his brother off at his therapy appointment and had an hour to kill. He had planned on using that hour to caffeinate his way through his typical afternoon slump. The August humidity put the heat index at over ninety degrees. Nothing unusual for Michigan, but Harrison was used to hiding out in places with air conditioning during weather like this. He sure as hell tried his best not to run around in it.
Too late, though. His instincts to chase the purse snatcher had kicked in, and now he barreled down the sidewalk in the heart of Ferndale’s trendy downtown area, working up a sweat his Speedstick didn’t stand a chance against.
The guy only had about a five yard head start. He carried the purse under one arm like an oversized football. He must have heard Harrison’s running footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, spotted Harrison coming, and poured on the speed.
Harrison might have been in his early forties, but he kept himself in prime shape, even after leaving the FBI a year ago. He easily matched the purse snatcher’s pace. He also had the advantage of not carrying anything to slow him down. Judging from the snatcher’s frantic gait, he probably didn’t run very often. Definitely not for regular exercise. If Harrison didn’t catch up on speed alone, he would inevitably outlast the snatcher’s endurance.
This chase was essentially over before it had begun.
The snatcher didn’t realize that yet. He cut left into an alley, stealing another glance at his pursuer before disappearing around the corner.
Harrison smirked to himself. He knew the alley would take the snatcher over to Troy Street, right across from one of Harrison’s favorite restaurants, One-Eyed Betty’s—which had the most glorious list of craft beers on tap and a shrimp po’boy to die for. It was a long alley. The snatcher would never reach the end of it before Harrison got to him.
He took the corner as fast as he could without careening out of control.
Once again, the snatcher looked behind him. A foolish move. Only slowed him down. His eyes went wide when he noticed Harrison gaining on him.
An amateur might have wasted breath shouting for the thief to stop. Not Harrison. He put all his energy into sprinting. The snatcher only made it a quarter of the way down the alley before Harrison got close enough to reach out and grab the guy’s shirt collar. He heaved back and put on the breaks at the same time.
The plain white t-shirt ripped, the sound reverberating between the alley walls, but the collar held together and caught the snatcher around the throat. An abrupt gak popped from his mouth as if he were about to hurl. Momentum carried his lower body forward, but the collar kept his upper body from going any further. His legs shot out from under him, and he slammed to the concrete on his back.
Harrison let go of his shirt and made a grab for the handbag.
The snatcher rolled away and curled his body around the bag, blocking Harrison’s grip.
Not in the mood to fight fair, Harrison kicked him while he was down. “Let go of it. You’re done.”
But the guy didn’t know when to quit. He rolled again, out of range of another kick, and scampered to his feet. He breathed hard through his clenched teeth, lips peeled back, spraying spittle with each quick exhale. A flap of shirt that had torn from the seam of his collar waved like a white flag. Too bad the idiot wasn’t actually surrendering.
Harrison closed the distance between them and grasped the purse’s leather strap. “Just let go. Don’t make me hurt you.”
The trademark snick of a switchblade releasing drew Harrison’s attention to the snatcher’s free hand. He caught the sunlight glinting off the blade only a second before the snatcher swung it at his face.
Harrison released the purse and arched his back to avoid the blade’s arc. He felt the breeze of it passing by on the tip of his nose.
Thankfully, the snatcher didn’t take a second swing. He used the opportunity to spin and keep running down the alley.
“Hey,” someone shouted from behind Harrison.
He turned toward the voice. The purse’s owner stood in the mouth of the alley, her fists clenched, a deep scowl carved into her fake-tanned face.
“That’s my purse.” Her tone had an accusatory edge, as if she thought Harrison had helped take the purse instead of trying to catch the actual douche responsible.
“I know,” Harrison said and turned back to the task of recovering it for her.
The delay gave the snatcher a good lead. He had reached the end of the alley and took a right, sprinting out of view. He still ran like he was made of nothing but flailing limbs, but with his fresh head start and the knife in his hand, retrieving the handbag had gotten a little more complicated.
When this was over, Harrison decided he would skip the coffee and go straight to One-Eyed Betty’s for a beer instead. Something with lots of hops and refreshing citrus notes…and a high alcohol content. Dylan could drive them home when he got out of his appointment.
He took off after the snatcher once again.
Mid-afternoon on a weekday, there wasn’t a lot of foot traffic on the sidewalks, even for a hotspot like downtown Ferndale. That made running easier for both Harrison and the snatcher. But it also made it easier for Harrison to keep the snatcher in his sights. He finally caught up with the thief two blocks over, in a residential area. This time, to avoid a slash from the switchblade, he kicked the snatcher’s legs out from under him instead of grabbing him.
Bummer.
The humid air felt thick and hot in Harrison’s lungs as he worked to catch his breath. He pointed at the snatcher. “Stay down.”
The idiot must have been hard of hearing. He got to his feet, panting, sweat making his spiky hair glisten as if he’d applied a fresh glop of gel at some point during the chase. His gaze flicked to the purse, then back to Harrison. He wagged his blade in front of him. “What’s your problem, man? This ain’t your business.”
Harrison held his hands out to his sides. “What can I say? I have a hard time seeing a bad deed go unpunished.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed, dumbass.”
“Try me.”
He jerked as if to come at Harrison, but dashed toward the purse instead.
“Oh, no you don’t.”
Harrison went for the purse, too.
Both of them grabbed the strap at the same time. For a couple seconds, they played tug-of-war. Until the snatcher remembered he had a knife. He swiped the blade at Harrison’s forearm, forcing him to let go.
The snatcher was still yanking on the purse strap when Harrison released. The sudden lack of a counter weight sent the snatcher flailing backward. The purse swung wildly, the force popping the snap that had held it closed. A hairbrush, lipstick, compact, keys, a wallet, a flurry of crumpled receipts, and a half-dozen other random items came flying out like shrapnel from an explosion.
Harrison dodged back to avoid the spray.
The snatcher staggered, but kept his feet. He looked from the emptied purse dangling from the strap still clutched in his hand to the assortment of things now scattered across the lawn. His gazed stopped on something in the grass. His eyes narrowed.
Harrison sighed. “It’s over, dude. I’d run if you don’t want to get your ass kicked.”
The snatcher looked at him. He held up his switchblade like someone in a commercial holding up the product they were advertising. “I still have this.”
“You’ll need more than that,” Harrison said. “Trust me.”
The snatcher’s next move took Harrison completely off guard. He threw the freaking knife.
It was a pretty good throw, too. The switchblade tumbled end over end right at Harrison’s face. He twisted away and ducked. The blade sailed overhead and landed with a clatter onto the sidewalk. Whether or not the snatcher believed he could hit Harrison with that toss didn’t matter. It was a perfect distraction, and Harrison braced himself for a follow-up attack as he straightened and turned back.
To Harrison’s surprise, the snatcher made his second smart move that afternoon. He ran for it. He was already headed up the driveway of the neighboring house when Harrison spotted him. He had left the empty purse behind on the grass.
The guy deserved an ass-kicking, but since he had finally given up on his attempted theft, Harrison let him go. He’d had his fill of running through the boiling humid soup that passed as air anyway.
The ex-purse snatcher disappeared into the neighbor’s back yard. A handful of seconds later, Harrison heard the rattle of chainlink as the failed thief hopped a fence.
Harrison let loose a long sigh and tugged the front of his sweat-soaked shirt to unstick it from his chest. Then he got to work hunting through the lawn for the stuff to put back into the purse. Once he was sure he got it all, he headed back to find the woman it belonged to, pausing on the way to pick up the snatcher’s switchblade off the sidewalk. Not something he wanted to leave for some kid to run over with his bike.
Two
Harrison found her right where he’d left her—at the mouth of the alley by the Java Hutt. When she saw him strolling down the alley with her purse in hand, she stomped toward him, fists clenched at her sides, wide shoulders swaying, looking a lot like a bull in a flowered sundress and leather sandals. She had a flat, over-tanned face, and deep-set eyes. Her black hair was cut in a pixie style, which showed off her flashy gold hoop earrings.
“You better not have taken anything from it.”
Harrison stopped short. “I just ran two blocks in ninety-degree heat and almost got my nose sliced open.”
She kept coming at him. Her nostrils flared. The hem of her dress swished around her thick knees as she marched. She didn’t say anything until she reached him and held out her hand. “Give.”
Her abrupt manner baffled him, made him hesitate a second instead of handing the purse right over. Big mistake.
If looks could kill, hers would have destroyed a whole planet Death Star style. “There’s no cash in it, as you probably already saw. I don’t have my checkbook either, so don’t think you’re getting a reward.”
“I don’t want a reward.”
“Then why haven’t you given me my damn purse already?”
“Feeling a little underappreciated, I guess.”
“If you want a pat on the head, you’re going to have to bend over. You’re too tall.”
It wasn’t until she said that that Harrison realized the woman stood hardly a couple inches higher than five feet. Her mere presence had made her seem taller. He was six-two, but sure didn’t feel it right then.
What he did feel was hot, sticky, tired, and not in the mood for this woman’s attitude.
He shoved the purse at her as if handing over a sack of smelly trash. “Please, take it.”
She jerked it out of his hands and immediately started going through it.
“I didn’t take anything.”
“Uh-huh.” At first, she searched through the bag with an irritated precision. But once she went through everything, she started over, movements more jerky, her breath quickening, the look in her eyes turning more panicked than angry.
Harrison hated to ask, but he did anyway. “What’s wrong?”
She ignored him, shoving the stuff inside the purse one way, then the other, pawing through it like a cat in a litter box.
“If there’s something missing,” Harrison said, “it might have fallen out. The purse got dumped while I was fighting the guy for it.”
Her gaze flashed up to him. “Dumped?”
“I did a thorough search. But the grass was pretty thick, so—”
“Grass?”
Harrison pointed in the general direction of the place he’d squared off with the snatcher. “Someone’s front lawn a couple blocks over.”
“Did the other guy take anything?”
Other guy. Like they were in on the whole thing together. This woman had clear trust issues. “I didn’t see him take anything. He did, however, throw this at me.” He pulled out the switchblade from his back pocket and showed it to her.
She barely glanced at it. Apparently, she was as short on sympathy as she was gratitude. “You need to take me to where this happened.”
Harrison put the switchblade away and took out his phone to check the time. Dylan had thirty minutes left of his appointment. As unappealing as the prospect of spending any longer in this crabby woman’s presence was, he couldn’t blow her off now. He’d committed to helping her when he nearly took a knife to the face. Might as well see it through.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
Despite her short legs, the woman could have competed as a professional power-walker, if there was such a thing. She set a furious pace, hampered only by Harrison’s unwillingness to match it. She made sure to express her impatience with a variety of grunts and whispered curses the whole walk over.
When they reached the proper street, Harrison pointed out the house. “Fourth one down, with the shrubs that look like poodle tails sticking out of the ground.”
She took off, trading in the power walk for a full jog. Harrison trailed behind her. By the time he caught u
p, she stood in the center of the lawn, scanning the grass as she made a slow turn. She wrung her hands together, absently tugging at one hell of a rock on her left ring finger. Harrison pitied the dude who had to suffer her wrath on a regular basis.
“What is it you’re looking for?” he asked. “Maybe I can help.”
She kept her gaze down on the lawn. “You sure this is the place?”
Harrison crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “Yep.”
“There’s nothing here. Nothing.”
“I told you I searched thoroughly. It’s kind of a specialty of mine.”
She paused her search and glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m a private detective. And I used to work for the FBI. It means I’m good at finding things.”
“The FBI?”
“Until relatively recently.”
She gave the lawn another quick look—it wasn’t a particularly large square of sod—grunted, and stomped her foot. Harrison worried she might start crying for her mommy dearest any second now. Good thing it was midday and most of the neighborhood residents, including the owner of the house whose lawn they were traipsing over, appeared to be off to work or running errands or whatever. How embarrassing would it be to get caught with a grown woman in the midst of a temper tantrum?
Thankfully, she drew herself back from the edge of a full toddler meltdown. She sucked a deep breath through her wide nose, smoothed her hands down her dress, and lifted her chin. “You better not have taken it.”