Old Money and New Crime

Zayn has been doing this long enough to know when he's being followed.

He can hear the footsteps behind him, can tell when his possible attacker is speeding up or slowing down by the sound of his shoes on the pavement. It's not altogether impossible that this is just another campus student heading back to his dorm, but, at half past three in the morning on a Tuesday, Zayn feels he has reason to take caution.

Some might call him paranoid, he prefers "smart". And he is smart, undeniably so. That's why he does what he does. No one wants to hire a private investigator who's an idiot.

The footsteps are getting closer. Zayn doesn't turn around, and he doesn't start walking faster. The worst thing you can do when you're being followed is let your stalker know that you realize they're there. He takes a deep breath, instead. The second worst thing you can do when you're being followed is to panic.

He has a $1500 camera in his backpack with pictures of a girl's cheating boyfriend that he's getting paid $250 to show to her, and there is no fucking way he's getting mugged.

Suddenly, there's quick footsteps, and then there's a hand on Zayn's shoulder. Zayn spins around, jabs his stalker in the chest with the stun gun he keeps in his backpack solely for occasions like this, and watches as the man falls to the ground.

"Jesus Christ," his stalker huffs, a bit twitchy on the grass. "Of course you would have a taser. I was trying to ask you for help," he says, massaging his chest and stomach. The man (or boy, really, he doesn't look much older than Zayn, if older at all) has a pleasant, lethargically slow voice, and his hair is a mess of dark curls. He doesn't seem threatening, but Zayn knows better than to let his guard down too quickly.

"Why were you following me?" Zayn demands, pointing his taser accusingly towards the curly-haired boy.

"I was nervous," the boy admits. "Working up the nerve to approach you, I guess--"

"Working up the nerve," Zayn deadpans. "Working up the nerve at 3 in the fucking morning on a Tuesday night--"

"Yes! Fucking hell, I was working up the nerve, and apparently with good reason, since you stuck me in the stomach with a taser--"

"You said you needed my help," Zayn snaps, tired and annoyed. "What for?"

"Yeah, I... I do. Listen, my best friend was raped a few weeks ago," the boy says, sitting up. Zayn watches his Adam's apple bob nervously as he swallows. He takes in his wide green eyes and goes completely rigid. "At a fraternity party."

"Which fraternity?" Zayn asks.

"Alpha Delta Phi," the boy says, pulling a hand through his curls. "Campus police isn't doing shit, and we have a New York detective interested, kind of, but. Nothing's fucking getting done, and it's my best friend, you know? My best fucking friend, and no one's helping him. It's like everyone's too fucking scared to piss off anyone else in this, and they're just not doing anything. That's...why I came to you. You offend everyone on this campus all the time. And you don't care."

"I don't have time to work another case right now," Zayn says, but it's there, the familiar rage buzzing under his skin, right below the surface. He hates it more than anything, and, even further, he hates hating it. He wants it gone, but it's been festering since his freshman year.

"Just... meet my friend. Please, just talk to him," he says, his voice breaking a bit with the force of his pleading; the emotion and sadness on behalf of his friend. "He won't talk to me. He hardly even meets my eyes."

Zayn wasn't lying when he said he didn't have the time. He has a perfect academic record in his double major of computer science and applied mathematics, and he's already taking on three cases right now. Admittedly, they're all dull (he is so sick of finding peoples' stolen bikes or following around cheating boyfriends), but that doesn't mean they're not worthy of his time.

This is more than worthy of his time. But it's not his place. It shouldn't be. Still, the feeling remains, that out-of-body discomfort that drives him, makes him tetchy and on edge, skittish and disjointed. He feels like someone peeled off his skin and reattached it just a touch too tight. He feels like he's on uppers. He hasn't slept in exactly 43 hours.

"My name is Harry Styles," the boy tells him, standing up finally and fixing Zayn with another one of those horrible pleading gazes. "My father has his own law firm that is...very successful, to say the least. I'm willing to offer you $25,000 to find who did this."

"You're mad," Zayn says, blinking. "You're going to pay me $25,000 to investigate a rape."

"It's my best friend," Harry says, shrugging. "I'll write you the check right now if you want."

"That won't be necessary," Zayn sighs. "I'm in. You can pay me when I find something out. I'll meet your friend in the morning. 10 am sharp. I like punctuality. You're in a fraternity, correct?"

Harry looks confused. "Yes? I didn't tell you--"

"Obviously I assumed. Which fraternity are you in? I'll meet you there."

"Alpha Epsilon Pi," Harry answers. Zayn likes that he doesn't question him. Their partnership will work much better if Harry just does what he says. Otherwise, he'll just have to find someone else to do his bidding.

"Perfect. I'll meet you outside in the morning." Zayn puts his taser back in his backpack, and fires off a quick text to Niall and Liam, who are presumably back at Zayn and Niall's suite. Home soon. Have a new job. "And then, you can tell me everything."

Harry just looks at him. His gaze is more than blank, but less than appraising. "Okay," he says. "I can do that."
--

Zayn walks the rest of the way home briskly. He doesn't live off campus, but his suite is close to the edge of it. Of course, Upper Manhattan is fairly safe, especially Morningside Heights where Columbia resides, but Zayn is essentially public enemy number one to an entire fraternity after the drug bust he pulled out against Alpha Phi Alpha in the spring semester of his sophomore year, and of course, he conveniently lives right next to fraternity row.

He's only a junior now, and it's only October, so everything is still pretty fresh. He always makes sure to watch his back. Usually, he's accompanied by one of his friends-- Niall or Liam or even Perrie or Leigh-Anne, who are surprisingly scrappy for 5'4'' college girls. He knows it seems overly cautious, but he doesn't like to leave anything up to chance, especially after getting jumped in the spring by a few of the lacrosse guys in APhiA.

As his residence hall approaches, he digs his student ID out of his wallet and swipes it for entry the second he gets to the building. That's another rule. Don't hesitate, and plan ahead.

The common area of Ruggles residence hall is entirely empty, which makes sense, because when Zayn glances down at his watch, it's nearly 5 am.

Zayn has kept bad sleeping hours for nearly his entire time in college. He stays awake for days on end, consumed by schoolwork and cases and a bone-deep insomnia, before going dead to the world for 13 or 14 hours. He's tried to get medication, but it makes him nervous to not be in control of himself, so he prefers to just wait it out. Exhaustion is easy to handle. It makes him sharp and snappish, gives him deep dark circles under his eyes, but it is not a real concern.

He trudges up the set of stairs to his suite, using his ID again to get into his room, and immediately sits down to his laptop in their suite's common area.

"Where have you been?" Niall says softly from the doorway of his and Liam's room. Zayn is supposed to have a roommate, but he doesn't. He's never been sure if that was just chance, or if no one wanted to stay with him. He doesn't really care either way. He lives (and works) much better alone.

"Working," Zayn says. "I have news. It's big."

"Big enough to keep you out until 5 am. Yeah, pretty fucking big, I'd say," Liam mutters, annoyed.

"Harry Styles followed me home tonight," Zayn blurts.

"What the hell--"

"Shut up, Liam, he has a job for me," Zayn says. "He's paying me to investigate a rape case at ADPhi."

Liam curses under his breath. Niall just frowns. "It's a little fast, yeah? To get involved in a big case against a fraternity again? This is bigger than the drugs," Niall reminds him. His soft voice is a familiar comfort, more than usual, for some reason, and Zayn wills his tired mind not to get lost in it.

"I know this is bigger than the drugs," Zayn says, annoyed. He types Harry Styles into Facebook's search engine. It's not the most effective way to find things out about someone, but it's all he has for now, so he runs with it. "He's paying me 25 grand, of course I know it's a big fucking deal."

Liam glares. "Harry Styles is paying you $25,000 to investigate a rape case."

Zayn nods. "The rape case of his best friend. Louis Tomlinson, presumably. 21 years old, education major. Friends with Harry since high school. Harry followed him to college. They're in the same fraternity, I believe. AEPi. Funny that they're both in the Jewish fraternity when neither of them are Jewish. Regardless, I like AEPi. I'm willing to give this a shot."

"You're getting all this from his Facebook?"

"You could too, if you'd look at it, Liam," Zayn rolls his eyes. "I'm not turning down this case."

He isn't. The money would be amazing, because Zayn's parents are already paying more than they can afford to send him to Columbia, and $25,000 could more than half a year's tuition for Walihya or Safaa. They need it.

"I have news, too," Niall says, suddenly. "I'm a pledge. For, uh, Alpha Delta Phi."

No you're not, Zayn thinks, irrationally. No, you're not, you're my friend, they can't have you. "Good," he says instead. "Good. I'm investigating ADPhi, and you're going to help me do it."