The Quiet Edge

by Rob Cornell

  If that didn’t work out, he could try a more direct approach.

  He stopped into Kamille’s office to tell her he’d need the rest of the day off, explaining the situation with Jake.

  Kamille shook her head. “I would have sent that bitch on his way. He dug this hole himself.”

  “I did have a small part in screwing up his plans.”

  She gave him a Seriously? look. “You did the right thing. None of this is on you.”

  “Even so, I can’t just let Ona kill this woman.”

  “Look, bud, you don’t have to convince me. You want to stick your neck out for these creeps, that’s your deal. Have fun.”

  “Thanks?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Before he dug into his surveillance of Jankowski, Harrison drove toward home to check in on Dylan, let him know he’d probably be scarce tonight. He wasn’t sure what kind of state he’d find Dylan in. He knew his brother hadn’t slept at all last night. He’d disappeared to his studio in the basement around ten, and Harrison had heard him still shuffling around down there in the morning. Hopefully, he’d at least gotten a nap in. But Harrison knew from experience one of Dylan’s manic states could keep him up for days at a time.

  On the way home, Harrison picked up some gyros from KouZina in downtown Royal Oak. The smell of warm lamb filled the car, making his belly rumble. The anticipation of biting into a pita loaded with lamb, onions, tomatoes, and tzatziki distracted him from the shit storm he had volunteered to wade into.

  He came home to a strange car parked in his driveway. A silver Audi sedan with a fair amount of rust around the wheel wells and one of the back windows replaced with a trash bag and copious amounts of duct tape. Harrison was certain he had never seen the car before. It would have made an impression.

  He pulled in beside the Audi, grabbed the gyros, and went inside.

  Harrison paused on the landing inside the front door and listened. The house was quiet. If Dylan had a visitor, they weren’t talking.

  “Dylan?”

  Silence.

  A shaft of afternoon light poured through the front picture window, catching a swarm of dust motes in its ray. The ticking of the clock in the kitchen sounded twice as loud as it should have.

  He must have finally fallen asleep.

  But then what was up with the car in the driveway?

  Maybe he wasn’t sleeping alone.

  Dylan had never mentioned seeing anyone, but he kept a lot of things to himself. With as touch and go as their relationship had been since Harrison moved in, he could see why Dylan might have kept news of a girlfriend to himself. Hell, who knew what he did while Harrison was off at work? Harrison assumed he played video games, painted, watched TV, read. All the things he had seen Dylan do when they were both at home.

  As a former FBI agent, Harrison should have known better than to assume anything.

  Now what? If Dylan did have a woman in his room, Harrison sure didn’t want to barge in on them.

  To hell with it—his gyro was getting cold.

  Harrison went into the kitchen, got himself a plate out of one of the cupboards, and sat down to eat. As he ate, curiosity about the mysterious car and Dylan’s current status itched at the back of his mind. He made it halfway through the gyro before the sound of his own chewing in the stillness drove him to his feet.

  He went upstairs and stood at Dylan’s closed bedroom door. Head cocked, he listened. He thought he heard a steady, soft snore. Whether it belonged to Dylan or someone else, he couldn’t be certain. It did sound like only one person, though. Maybe Dylan was alone after all.

  Then whose car is in my driveway?

  The question would nag him beyond distraction. He had to know. He raised a hand to knock on Dylan’s door. Hesitated. If Dylan was sleeping, did Harrison really want to wake him up just to satisfy his own curiosity? Better to take a quick peek, see if he had anyone in there with him, then withdraw and get more details later when Dylan was rested.

  He gripped the door’s tarnished brass knob. It felt slick and cool. As quietly as possible, he turned the knob—the metal shaft made a whisper of a scraping sound as it twisted—and opened the door a few inches.

  Dylan’s bed was in plain view from the door, and Harrison found his brother asleep on top of the covers, still dressed, his ratty jeans and white t-shirt spattered with paint of all sorts of colors, some bright, others dark and muddy. He lay curled up on his side, facing the door.

  Alone.

  The sigh of relief Harrison released surprised him. He hadn’t realized how much the thought of Dylan having a secret lover bothered him until right then. He hoped Dylan could share those kinds of things with him. But if he wanted that, he needed to make a better effort himself at showing interest.

  There was a downside to finding Dylan alone. It didn’t offer any hints about that damn car. He would have to check in with Dylan later to solve that little mystery.

  As Harrison started to pull the door shut, Dylan stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and his sleepy gaze found Harrison watching him. Dylan wrinkled his nose. “Why are you staring at me while I sleep?”

  Warmth crept over Harrison’s cheeks. Busted. “Sorry. I brought lunch home and was just checking on you.”

  Dylan blinked some sleep out of his eyes, the word lunch seeming to get his synapses up to speed. “You get something for me?”

  “Of course.”

  Dylan swung his legs off the bed and sat up on the edge of the mattress. He yawned and rubbed his face with both hands. His long hair was so tangled, some locks looked like messy braids.

  Harrison pushed the door open the rest of the way. The smell of oil paint and sweat hung thick in the room and came out to greet Harrison in the hall. “How you feeling?”

  Dylan shrugged. “I’m alive.”

  “Sorry if I woke you.”

  “What did you bring for lunch?”

  “Gyros from KouZina.”

  He grinned. “Apology accepted.”

  As much as Harrison wanted to start asking questions about the mystery car, he held back until they were both seated at the kitchen table and Dylan had had a chance to take a few bites of his gyro.

  “So,” Harrison said, master of the subtle transition, “what’s up with the car out front?”

  He caught Dylan mid-chew. Dylan smiled and nodded as he finished his mouthful. “Was wondering when you’d ask that.”

  Harrison smiled back. Waited.

  “It’s mine,” Dylan said with blatant pride. He looked about ready to float out of his chair. “Bought it this morning.”

  Harrison set the tail end of his gyro onto his plate. All at once, the lamb didn’t sit so well in his stomach. “You bought it?”

  “I’m tired of feeling like a prisoner, having to depend on you to get everywhere. And calling taxis out to the suburbs ain’t cheap, right?”

  “Neither is a car. How did you pay for that…thing?”

  “With my own money. I have some, you know.”

  “Yeah, but…how much did you cough up for that junker?”

  Dylan tossed his half-eaten gyro down. The pita split open and barfed its contents across his plate. “Here we go.”

  “Here we go what?”

  “I can hear the fatherly lecture coming. Might as well get it out of your system.”

  Harrison slid his plate aside. A curl of red onion fell of the edge onto the table. “Don’t turn this around on me. I have every right to worry about how you’re spending your money.”

  Dylan let loose a short, humorless laugh. “You aren’t my parent.”

  “No, but I am your caregiver. It’s my responsibility to look after you.”

  “Caregiver?” Dylan hung his head. His hair dangled across his face like a matted curtain. “I’m not some old man on his deathbed, for Christ’s sake. What’s next? You want to start wiping my ass for me?”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  “Not so sure about t
hat.” He looked up, ran a hand through his hair to pull it away from his face. “You’ve been micromanaging my life since the moment you moved in.”

  “I’m trying to take care of you, Dylan. Why the hell else do you think I came back here?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody asked you to. I know I didn’t.”

  “You want me to leave, is that it? Just let you rot away in this house until the depression finally gets the best of you and you…”

  “What? Say it, Harrison. Spit it the fuck out.”

  “Kill yourself.”

  Dylan rolled his eyes. “You don’t have a clue.”

  “Then give me one.”

  “Having you looming over me all the time? That makes me want to kill myself more than anything.”

  Harrison had taken actual, physical blows to the gut on several occasions. None of them hit as hard as the psychic punch Dylan had just delivered. Harrison opened and closed his mouth, breathless. A sick tingling that started in his belly spread through his whole body, right to the fingertips.

  For a second, uncertainty flickered across Dylan’s face. He looked ready to say something. Then the moment passed, Dylan shoved his chair back—the scraping of the feet against the kitchen tiles sounded like the hiss of an angry cat—and stood. He looked down at his burst gyro. “Thanks for lunch,” he said without a drop of gratitude in his tone.

  He stormed out. The sound of his feet thumping on the basement stairs echoed through the still house. Then silence fell once again.

  Harrison stared across the table as if Dylan still sat there. He remained frozen that way for several minutes. The smell of his cold lamb turned his stomach. The taste of it clinging to the back of his tongue turned it even more. He was never going to eat lamb again.

  Nineteen

  Having you looming over me all the time? That makes me want to kill myself more than anything.

  The words played on a constant loop while Harrison sat in his car, parked in the lot outside of Ken Jankowski’s apartment building. He had a spot that allowed him to face the car toward the entrance. The first hint of twilight shaded the sky, except in the west where the clouds glowed bright pink with streaks of orange. Harrison had a 90s alternative rock playlist going, the volume turned low. He just needed some low-grade noise to keep Dylan’s voice from overtaking every cubic inch of his skull.

  Maybe you screwed up moving back. He doesn’t want you here. You’re obviously not helping him. And, let’s face it, you never wanted to quit the FBI. Working with Kamille is great and all, but PI work is slumming it, right?

  She’d probably break both his arms if she ever heard him say anything like that out loud. He never would, obviously. But he had to be honest with himself. And if he was honest, he had to admit he was unhappy. This was not the life he had envisioned for himself.

  So what? You’re going to abandon your brother? All because life isn’t everything you want it to be? That’d be a dick move, bro.

  Then what the hell was he supposed to do? According to Dylan, Harrison’s presence only made things worse. Leaving would be doing Dylan a favor.

  You don’t really believe that, do you?

  It didn’t matter what he believed. It mattered what Dylan believed.

  A spiky ball of pain flared up between Harrison’s eyes. He crushed his eyes closed and rubbed his forehead. He wasn’t going to resolve this sitting alone in his car. He needed to hash it out with Dylan, as awkward as any conversation with his brother would be now.

  Hey, I know you said my mere presence makes you suicidal, but can you put off killing yourself long enough for us to talk about it?

  Harrison tipped his head back and let loose a long, whistling sigh. He didn’t want to think about this anymore. But as long as he sat alone in this car, he doubted he could think about anything else.

  So why sit? Why not do something?

  Before he could talk himself out of it, Harrison got out of the car and strode toward the apartment building. He took the stairs to the second floor and found himself standing at the door to apartment 2C, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing, as if he’d slept-walked his way there. An unpleasant, sour smell seemed to be baked into the very walls. And speaking of walls—the grimy, yellow film on them probably outdated any of the building’s current residents.

  He glanced both ways down the hall. The bass thrum of a stereo system came from a few doors down. Otherwise, all was silent. He didn’t have any kind of plan. He didn’t even know if Jankowski was home. That’s why he’d planned on running surveillance—to find out minor details like that. If he couldn’t bring himself to sit still in his car, he had to come up with something else.

  He knocked.

  Why the hell not? Seeing Harrison at his door would certainly shake him up. Harrison could say something like, Hey, remember me? Throw him off guard, then start throwing questions, see if he slipped and gave anything away.

  But Harrison’s knock went unanswered.

  He tried again, a little louder and longer this time. The result was the same. Silence except for the bass beat from down the hall.

  Not home?

  That left him with only a couple options. Either head back to the car and wait…and have his mind run in circles over this thing with Dylan. Or…break in? The door had a deadbolt and a standard lock in the knob. While Harrison did have a set of lock picks in his glovebox—and knew how to use them—he didn’t particularly feel comfortable standing in the hallway, openly performing a B&E, no matter how dim the lighting from the dirty sconces on the walls might have been. That was a quick way to lose his PI license…and piss off Kamille in the process.

  He was more worried about the latter.

  On a whim, he tried the knob. He started when the knob actually turned, as if Jankowski had rigged it to electrocute unwanted visitors. Rather than push the door open, he tried knocking one last time. He thumped the door with the heel of his fist half a dozen times, hard enough that he expected a nosy neighbor to peek out into the hall to find out what all the pounding was about.

  Apparently, the neighbors in this apartment building preferred to keep their noses to themselves. No one bothered him. And Jankowski still didn’t come to his door.

  All right. You’re the one who left your door unlocked. Don’t blame me for snooping.

  Harrison swung the door open.

  Twenty

  As it turned out, Ken Jankowski was technically at home. He sat in the center of his couch—a ratty flea haven if ever there was one—wearing nothing but a pair of tighty-not-so-much-whitey-anymore briefs that looked like they’d gone through too many loads of mixed darks and lights. His skin was almost the same over-washed gray, except for the bib of blood that had poured down from the open slash in his throat.

  His eyes were still open, staring deadly at an old tube TV set on a pressboard TV stand that looked only half-built, the doors missing from the lower cabinet, and only one vertical board alongside the TV that might have belonged to a hutch or upper shelf if completed. The TV was on, showing an action flick as dated as the television it played on, but the volume was muted.

  For a second or two, Harrison stood locked in place. He’d seen his fair share of murder victims, but he had usually gone in expecting to see one. This corpse had taken him by surprise.

  A fly buzzed a loop around Jankowski’s head, then lit upon his open right eye.

  That triggered Harrison’s gag reflex, which in turn kicked him out of his stasis. He mashed his knuckles against his closed mouth and swallowed down the urge to puke. Despite his body’s natural instinct to retreat, Harrison stepped into the apartment and shut the door.

  Harrison surveyed the room. The window shades were drawn down. The only light came from the bluish glow of the TV screen, but there wasn’t much to see. Studio apartment. A dirty bare mattress lay in one corner. Another corner hosted a mini fridge with a hotplate on top of it. Doorway in a third corner, on the opposite side of the TV, probably led to the bathroom.
The only other furniture was the coffee table, covered with ash and cigarette butts. Harrison wasn’t sure where Jankowski kept his clothes. In the closet, maybe.

  Life as a petty criminal sure looked glamourous. Harrison was so very jealous.

  The fly in Jankowski’s eye took flight again and lazily swerved toward Harrison. It was a fat sucker, most likely near the end of its short lifespan. Harrison probably could have swatted it in mid-air, as slow as it was going. But he didn’t want to touch the thing. Not even for a second.

  He ducked, and the fly buzzed on by overhead.

  Hunched over, Harrison glimpsed a flat rectangular shape hidden under the coffee table. The TV didn’t offer much light to clear the shadows under there. Still, Harrison thought he knew what he’d found. With his hands in fists and pressed at his sides to keep from touching anything, he crept toward the coffee table, then got down on his knees.

  Closer now, he could make out the chrome casing of a laptop.

  He paused a moment to consider what he was dealing with here…and what to do about it. Someone had murdered his only lead. But that, in itself, could be a lead of its own. It upped the odds that Jankowski had the blackmail files. He might have even tried to use them. And whoever he’d targeted had decided on a better way to secure old Ken’s silence.

  All speculation, of course. The kind of lifestyle Ken Jankowski had adopted—semi-pro lowlife—didn’t win you many friends. Loyalty of any kind was even harder to come by. And while Roseville, Michigan wasn’t exactly the crime capital of the state, Jankowski did (had) lived on its seedier side.

  Nevertheless, this crime scene didn’t scream random act of violence. Nor did it look like Jankowski had much to steal, except for the laptop, which had not been taken, and hadn’t been hard to find.

  No, the whole thing looked personal. Deliberate.

  Harrison hunkered down a little closer to the coffee table to get a better look at the computer. No thumb drive sticking out the side. That would have been too easy. But if Jankowski had the files, maybe he’d copied them.