Rain hit the window. My office was small, dark. The neon sign outside pulsed red: “Jax Kincaid. Private Eye.” I sat at my desk. Empty coffee cup. Cheap whiskey bottle. The city outside was a wet, mean dog. The phone did not ring. The door opened instead.
She stood in the doorway. Rain on her coat. Her eyes were wide, scared. “Mr. Kincaid?” she said. Her voice was soft, like a whisper.
“That’s me,” I said. “Come in. Close the door. It’s wet out there.”
She stepped in. Her name was Dahlia Thorne. She looked lost. “My brother, Mick. He’s gone.”
“Gone where?” I asked.
“Missing. Two days. He’s not like that. He always calls.”
I looked at her. “Mick Thorne. What’s he do?”
“He works. Small jobs. He’s a good man, Mr. Kincaid. But… he got into trouble sometimes.”
“What kind of trouble?”
She looked down. “He owed money. To bad people.”
I knew the bad people. This city had many. “Who?”
“Jasper Blackwood. Everyone knows him.”
Yeah, everyone knew Jasper. He ran the back alleys, the shadows. “What do you want me to do?”
“Find him. Please.” She put a small stack of bills on my desk. Not much, but enough to start.
I took the money. Rain still fell. I went out. First stop: Louie’s Bar. A smoky box. Louie wiped the counter. He saw me, just nodded.
“Mick Thorne,” I said.
Louie shook his head. “Not here. Not for days.”
“Any talk?”
He looked around. “Talk of a debt. Talk of Jasper’s men.” Louie looked worried. “Mick was in deep.”
I left Louie’s. The streets were wet. Headlights cut through the dark. I went to Mick’s small apartment. Door was unlocked. Not good.
Inside, it was a mess. Furniture broken. Drawers pulled out. Someone had looked for something. Or someone.
On the floor, under a broken table, I saw a photo. Mick. A girl. Not Dahlia. And on the back, a name: “Bella.” A place: “Old Warehouse 7.”
Warehouse 7. By the docks. Water smelled bad. Wind howled. Dark as pitch. I used my flashlight. Dust. Empty crates.
Then I saw him. Mick Thorne. Lying on the cold floor. He was alive, barely. Face bruised. His breath was shallow.
“Mick,” I said softly.
His eyes opened a little. “Jax?” he whispered. “The papers… Jasper…”
“What papers?”
He coughed. “Loan shark records. Jasper’s ledger. I took them.”
A sudden noise. Boots on concrete. Two big men came out of the shadows. Jasper’s men. They saw me.
“Well, well,” one said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
I didn’t smile. “He’s hurt bad.”
“He stole from Mr. Jasper,” the other one said. “That’s a bad thing to do.”
I looked at Mick. He had stolen Jasper’s dirty money book. That wasn’t just a debt. That was war.
The two men moved closer. I saw a piece of paper sticking out of Mick’s torn jacket. A folded page. Probably the ledger.
If I grabbed it, I’d have Jasper’s whole operation. It would make a lot of noise. Maybe too much. And Mick would still be here.
“What’s it going to be, detective?” one of the men asked. His hand went to his pocket.
I looked at Mick. He was dying. He took the ledger, not just because he was in trouble, but to bring Jasper down. A good man, Dahlia said. But he put himself, and now me, in this spot.
The city was a tangled web. Some threads you cut, some you just left. This one felt like both.
I looked at the men. Looked at Mick. Then at the paper.
“He’s done,” I said, my voice low. “Leave him. No one saw anything.”
The men looked at each other. They nodded. They didn’t want trouble with the law, not for a dead man.
I walked away. The paper stayed in Mick’s jacket. The city remained dark. Some things were best left in the shadows. The rain kept falling.
The End