The Quiet Edge

by Rob Cornell

Kamille grabbed the guy under one of his arms. He had to have six inches on her at least, but she somehow pulled him to his feet. She held his own gun on him and tilted her head toward the large trash bin.

  He got the message and went along quietly ahead of her. All three of them gathered behind the bin where Kamille then instructed their captive to face the bin and plant both hands against its side, holding the gun on him the whole time.

  TRASHMATIC, INC. was stenciled across the metal bin’s flank in chipped white paint. The stink of sun-cooked garbage hung thick in the air.

  Harrison patted the guy down, didn’t find any other weapons. He pulled the guy’s wallet and flipped it open to check his ID. “Arlie Eckman,” Harrison read aloud. “Tell me, Mr. Eckman, why are you following me around? Better yet, why did you trash my house for a handful of thumb drives?”

  Eckman kept his head down, didn’t say a word.

  Kamille poked Eckman in the ribs with the barrel of his gun. “My friend asked you a question. Politely, I might add. I wouldn’t be so cool, since it was my house.”

  Eckman laughed and shook his head. “Forget it. Shoot me.”

  Kamille wrinkled her brow and looked at Harrison. “Does he think I won’t?”

  “I don’t think he was properly introduced.”

  A wide smile broke across her face. “Gotcha.” She flipped the Glock into the air and caught it by the barrel, then swung it like a hammer, clipping Eckman behind the ear. The butt of the gun tore a gouge through his scalp and drew blood.

  He grunted, slipped down to one knee. Otherwise, took the blow in stride.

  “What’s the deal?” Harrison asked. “What are you looking for?”

  Eckman got back onto both feet. Said nothing.

  Harrison exchanged a look with Kamille.

  She shrugged. “We could relocate him. Give him the full treatment.”

  Eckman laughed. “She’s a piece of work. She Al-Qaeda or something?”

  “Oh, no, you did not just say that.” Kamille swung the gun again, this time nailing him in a kidney.

  He fell to both knees and howled, his voice reverberating off the metal doors behind them.

  This wasn’t going to work here. The little cover they had wouldn’t last if Kamille had to keep hitting him. Besides, Harrison didn’t want to torture the man. Not over a messy house and some worthless thumb drives. (Though he didn’t feel too bad for him, considering how the break-in had triggered Dylan’s mania.)

  There were other ways to get answers.

  Harrison slipped Eckman’s driver’s license out of his wallet and tucked it into his own back pocket. He tossed the wallet on the ground beside Eckman. “Forget it. I know where to find him now.”

  “Whatev.” Kamille stuck the Glock in the waistband of her shorts. It disappeared from sight under her big unicorn tee. She patted Eckman on the top of his head. “See ya later, big guy.”

  He was in too much pain to retort.

  Eleven

  Jake tried not to giggle when the Korean woman touched his feet. He must have had the most ticklish feet on either side of the Mississippi. Pedicures were always a struggle for him. But Jen preferred he keep his fingers and toes well manicured. The one time he had skipped his regular mani-pedi, Jen had withheld sex until after his next appointment.

  He supposed most men wouldn’t tolerate such a quirk. Most men didn’t know the true meaning of love and commitment.

  He settled back in his seat and concentrated on other things while the woman put cotton balls between his toes. Mostly, he thought of Arlie. He thought of the handful of flash drives the old man had brought him last night. A quick glance told Jake none of them was the one he was looking for. He supposed he could have given Arlie a detailed description, but he worried Arlie might have seen it before, recognize it, realize just what the hell Jake and Jen had gotten themselves into.

  If that happened, not even threats about Sabrina would keep Arlie contained.

  Another Korean woman entered Jake’s private spa room with a steaming towel on a silver tray. “Hot towel, Mr. Seelenberger?”

  “That would be lovely.” He tilted his head back and allowed her to drape the towel over his eyes. The warmth almost instantly relaxed tension in his face he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Unlike the knot at the base of his neck that had pained him since Jen had hatched this whole business with Mother’s special files.

  He should have been more firm, shot the idea down the second Jen uttered it. But she had done a wonderful job selling the plan. A chance to be free from Ona’s control, she’d said. Out from his dead brother’s shadow, a life of their very own, a new beginning, a chance at true happiness.

  How could he argue with such a proposition?

  But, over time, reality had crept in from all sides. Stealing his mother’s precious files would only lead to disaster. To death. Jake had no taste for that kind of freedom.

  Dissuading Jen was impossible. He didn’t even try. She would have accused him of being weak. Might have questioned his love and loyalty. Thus, he had hired Ken Jankowski to do a simple thing. Steal her purse with the drive in it. Return the purse to Jake. Jake could then replace the drive in Mother’s safe—which Jen had managed to uncover the combination to through some kind of trickery she had yet to explain.

  It would be like none of it had ever happened.

  Then Ken had let some fool ruin everything.

  The knot at the base of Jake’s neck tightened and began sending waves of pain over the top of his scalp. The warm towel’s initial soothing deteriorated. The muscles in his cheeks and around his eyes tightened up again.

  At least he wasn’t feeling ticklish any longer.

  He hoped the deep tissue massage he had scheduled after his pedicure could untie that knot.

  Arlie is on it, he reminded himself. Relax and enjoy—

  Shouting from outside the private room broke Jake’s train of thought. A man’s voice. One he thought he recognized.

  “Where is he?” the voice growled.

  Jake pulled the towel off his face in time to see Arlie barge into the room.

  The woman who had brought him the towel was gone, but the one working on his feet stood with a startled cry. “This is private room. You have to—”

  “Get out,” Arlie demanded.

  The woman glanced at Jake as if waiting for his direction.

  Arlie didn’t give Jake the chance. He grabbed the poor woman by the arm and swung her toward the door.

  She dropped a handful of cotton balls as she staggered to stay on her feet. As if the momentum from Arlie’s swing carried her, she kept on going right out the door.

  Jake sat up straight. “What the hell, Arlie?”

  Arlie twisted his neck to one side and pointed at a blood-crusted gash behind his ear. More blood had dribbled down the side of his neck, mostly dried now. “See that?”

  “Y-yes?”

  Arlie squared his gaze on Jake and shook a finger at him. “That private dick friend of yours and some Arab woman jumped me.”

  Jake wasn’t sure what to say to that, but Arlie stood there huffing, nostrils flaring, staring at Jake expectantly. He clearly needed to say something. “He isn’t my friend,” was what ended up coming out, sounding utterly stupid the moment the words hit the air.

  “You need to tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “I already told you all you need to know.”

  Arlie skirted the foot bath in front of Jake’s chair and moved in close. He leaned down, put his face in Jake’s, and grabbed a handful of the fluffy white robe Jake wore into one of his big fists. His breath smelled bitter, like the dregs of tea left in a cup overnight.

  “You come straight with me or I’m going to—”

  “What?” Jake asked. “Beat me up? Do you want every dangerous criminal in the Metro Detroit area to know where to find your daughter?”

  Arlie jabbed Jake in the eye. The punch was so quick and unexpected, Jake barely saw it. But he su
re felt it. Whatever bit of pain the knot in his neck had given him seemed like a delight compared to the spikes through his eyeball and the following throb throughout his entire skull.

  Jake cried out and slapped a hand over his eye. “Jesus, are you insane?”

  “You ever bring up Sabrina again, I will fucking pull you apart. I don’t care about your threats. You do not scare me. Understand?”

  Jake nodded quickly.

  Arlie tugged on Jake’s robe, pulling Jake up until their noses nearly touched. “Who is this guy and what did he take?”

  You can’t tell him. You can’t! Jake’s stomach twisted and gurgled. The taste of basil from the Caprese Crepe he’d had for lunch at the Hudson Cafe rose up the back of his throat.

  “I don’t know who he is,” Jake said, and the protester inside of him faded into the darkness at the bottom of his weak soul. “Some PI who stuck his nose in business where he doesn’t belong.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Jen. It was Jen’s idea.”

  Arlie’s face scrunched up as if he smelled something foul. “You gonna blame your wife for this?”

  “I’m just… I’m just saying. She somehow got hold of the combination to Mother’s safe. Mother has a small USB drive with very particular files on it, and the only copies she owns, she keeps on that drive. And she keeps the drive in her safe.”

  Arlie let go of Jake’s robe and took a couple steps back. All at once, his posture sagged. The lines in his ruddy face drooped and deepened. He hung his head. “You are a complete idiot.”

  “You can’t tell Mother. She’ll murder Jen for sure. Possibly even me as well.”

  “You’re right. I can’t tell her, because you dragged me into this fucking mess. She’ll have me killed for not telling her about it in the first place.”

  Pain continued to pound through Jake’s eye and into his head. He’d have a hell of a shiner by tomorrow morning. He gingerly prodded the flesh below the eye and winced at the sting. “Then you’ll continue to help me retrieve the drive?”

  Arlie balled his hands into fists at his sides and slowly lifted his gaze to Jake. He stared for what felt like an eternity. Each silent second that passed quickened Jake’s pulse.

  The smile that slowly grew across Arlie’s face frightened Jake more than the angry glare.

  “And you wonder why I don’t like you anymore.”

  With that, Arlie turned and left.

  Jake leaned back in his chair, heart racing. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  Twelve

  Harrison leaned back from the computer and waggled his eyebrows at Kamille, who sat on the other side of his desk at the agency. “Mr. Eckman has quite the record.”

  “You’re surprised?”

  “Not really. He can pick locks. He’s pretty good at tossing a place in a short time. And his name is Arlie. That just sounds like a criminal’s name.”

  Kamille smirked. She had taken off her Tigers cap and pulled her hair loose from the ponytail. It hung well past her shoulders, dark, straight, and a little shiny. The kind of hair you’d find in a shampoo ad. “It’s that ability to sense a criminal record on the sound of a name alone that finally convinced me to hire you.”

  “And here I thought it was my snazzy fashion sense.”

  “No. It was definitely not that.”

  Harrison picked up Eckman’s driver’s license from where he’d set it beside his keyboard. He studied the picture, amused to see Eckman had smiled for the photo. He didn’t look like a thug, at least not in the small pic on the license. You couldn’t see his massive hands, though. Those alone made him look tougher in person. Hardened.

  “What are we looking at?” Kamille asked.

  Harrison tossed the license back onto the desk and leaned toward his monitor again. “Lots of assault. A little extortion. Impersonating a police officer. He’s done a fair amount of time, but not as much as he probably should.”

  “Must have good lawyers.”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Kamille crossed her legs at the ankles, her combat boots thumping on the carpeted floor. “You do something to piss off the mob, Harrison?”

  His stomach clenched at the thought. “Arlie doesn’t look Italian.”

  Kamille rolled her eyes. “Are you sure you really worked for the feebs?”

  “I assume you spoke to my references before taking me on.”

  “Because you know not all crime families are Italian, right?”

  “He doesn’t strike me as Japanese, Korean, or Russian either.”

  “The Motor City has a plethora of organized criminals coming in all shapes, sizes, and ethnic backgrounds.”

  “I was practically still a kid last time I lived in the area. I wasn’t doing much racketeering or bootlegging back then.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Bootlegging? Really?”

  “Are you this hard on your husband?”

  “Way harder.”

  “Poor guy.”

  “I would say I make up for it in the bedroom, but you know how that’s going lately.” She popped to her feet. “I have a friend at the DPD who knows all the major players in the area. Let me give him a call and see if he can get you up to speed.”

  “You haven’t talked to Matt yet, have you?”

  “What?”

  Harrison laughed. “Feigning innocence is not in your skillset.”

  “You want to talk to my guy or not?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just turned on her heel and left his office. “I’ll transfer the call to your phone,” she said on her way out.

  Ten minutes later, the phone on his desk trilled. He snatched up the receiver. “Harrison Hart.”

  “Hey, there. This is Jim Poole. My pal Kamille tells me you need an education on the biggest losers in Southeast Michigan.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got this guy’s been harassing me and I suspect he’s at least semi-pro.”

  “Harassing you, huh? What’s that about?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “You got a name?”

  Harrison looked down at the driver’s license even though he had the name memorized. “Arlie Eckman. You need me to spell that?”

  Jim chuckled as if he’d heard one of his favorite jokes—not a gut buster, but filled with a sort of devious joy. “Nope. I know exactly who you’re talking about. He’s Ona Seelenberger’s top lieutenant, for lack of a better term. The Seelenbergers aren’t quite that organized.”

  “Do I need to worry about him?”

  “It depends. You really got no idea what he’s after?”

  “Near as I can tell, he thinks I have something he’s looking for. But I’ve never seen him before in my life. And this Ona Seelieburger?”

  “Seelenberger,” Jim corrected. “She claims her family are descendants of the old Purple Gang, the Jewish mafia from Detroit’s more mobbed up days. Personally, I think it’s bullshit, but I haven’t wasted my time drawing her family tree.”

  “Well, whoever she is, I don’t know her either.”

  “That’s a good thing. She’s not really someone you want to know. If the rumors are true about her, the woman has no soul.”

  “What’s she into?”

  “Technically? Nothing. She’s clean as far as her record goes. Her reputation, on the other hand, is the worst kind of dirty. Which is a good way to put it, come to think of it, because she supposedly has dirt on anyone who’s anyone in Wayne, Oakland, and Macomb County. Maybe even parts of Washtenaw.”

  “Damn.”

  “Does any of this help?”

  Harrison’s stomach grunted. He put his hand on his belly. “It’s giving me some indigestion.”

  “Glad I could be of service.”

  “One last thing,” Harrison said. “This is a long shot, but could this business with Eckman have anything to do with a purse snatching?”

  “Well, that’s random. You stealing purses?”

  “Not me. I s
topped one from getting stolen, but the woman didn’t seem all that pleased to have it back. She acted like I had taken something from it.”

  “It wasn’t a large Jewish woman in her early seventies, was it? Because that’s Ona.”

  “No. She was this short woman in her early thirties. Lot of attitude for her size. Kind of made me think of a bull with a pixie cut.”

  “Dark hair? And when you say short, you’re talking about five four?”

  “If that.” Harrison sat up straight. “Do you actually know her?”

  “It sounds like you’re describing Ona’s daughter-in-law.”

  The room seemed to tilt to the left. “You have got to be shitting me.”

  Jim whistled. “Looks like you put yourself smack in the middle of the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Harrison thanked Jim for his time and hung up. He swiveled his chair to face the framed Nirvana poster he’d hung on the wall. It was the only decorative thing he had brought to his office when Kamille first hired him. He’d planned on bringing in a Pearl Jam and a Smashing Pumpkins poster to flank Nirvana, but he kept forgetting to get them framed. Unframed posters were fine for his dorm room—which had sported thirty some different grunge bands plastered like wallpaper beside his bed and over part of the ceiling—but he needed to look professional in his office.

  “What was I thinking, Kurt?” he asked the poster. “Why did I have to go and be the good Samaritan?”

  He should have known better.

  Thirteen

  When you have a complaint, you take it to management. That’s what Harrison decided to do about this nonsense with Eckman.

  It didn’t take a whole lot of research to get a grasp of Ona Seelenberger’s operations. Like all good mob bosses, she hid her less legal activities behind a legit business, if you could call a “boutique investment banking firm” legit. That was what her company, Talon Group Inc., claimed to be on their website. Harrison read the description of their services twice and still didn’t quite grasp what they did. “Consulting” was the buzzword throughout. As near as he could tell, the Talon Group made businesses pay them money in order to manage how those businesses made money. Or something.