BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

Emotion didn't enter into the equation, as far as Muldoon wasconcerned. He was determined to find Horton, not due to any bond the two ofthem shared, but because they were both tied to the same woman. It tore Irena apartnot to know what had become of her father. Even if the truth turned out to begruesome, it would be better than not knowing at all, wondering if he wouldever return someday. She tried to hide it, putting on a brave face, but Muldoonwouldn't have been much of a detective if he couldn't see through the façade.He knew her heart. It's why he loved her.

So he put on his own mask, one that half-smiled and exuded anonchalant bravado. "I'll get my shoes on."

Armstrong chuckled. "You do that."

The operator's face reappeared. "Call terminated. Would youlike to review your charges?" She smiled, waiting expectantly.

"No." He tapped his plug to disengage from the Link andstood.

There was his hat, his coat, his holstered weapon—right where he'dleft them last night. Minutes ago? Four or five hours was more like, but itdidn't seem so. He was still exhausted, despite whatever sleep he'd bagged.

Stifling a yawn, he pulled on his shoulder holster and paused tosniff at his underarm. Ripening. And his mouth tasted bad. Not the best way tostart the day. But he wasn't on his way to impress anybody special. Armstrongand his uniforms had always used stale coffee as mouthwash, as far as he knew.

He slipped into his coat and ran a hand through his hair beforesetting his hat in place and tugging down the brim mid-stride. He stopped atthe door. No shoes. He looked back toward the silent bedroom.

He wanted to call out to her, let her know he'd be back, that hewas just stepping out for a few minutes. But this desire was quenched by oneeven stronger, a self-imposed imperative not to disturb her sleep. Peace was inshort supply for Irena Muldoon, and he'd be damned before he caused any moredisruptions in her life.

So he retrieved his shoes, tied them on and left without a word,leaving the front door to slide behind him and lock itself as his footfallsreceded down the hallway outside.

Irena had been awake from the moment he'd so carefully climbedout of bed to answer the incoming call. She'd listened with eyes open, hearingevery word on Harry's side of the conversation. She was able to gather thathe'd be meeting the caller and they would be opening some sort of unidentifiedobject.

She wondered if it had something to do with the case he wasworking on, the one that kept him late at the office trying to put the piecestogether, a puzzle where nothing fit the way it should. Something to do withher father's disappearance? She had a feeling it did. Woman's intuition, maybe.

But what could explain why she'd shut her eyes and pretended to besound asleep when he came back for his shoes? Why had she lain there as he tiedthem on and left without a word? She could have stirred, invited him into awarm embrace, but she hadn't. She told herself she didn't want tointerrupt him, that she knew how important it was for him to solve this caseand that she'd be damned before she slowed him down. But then her mind wouldreturn to one question: Why had he left without even a whisper or a kissgoodbye?

She sat up. He probably hadn't wanted to wake her. A good excuse.

So what's mine? She shook her head,squeezed her temples. Am I playing games? Passive aggression had neverbeen her emotional default position.

If one of her clients were in the same situation, she would havebeen able to see things clearly and to articulate the counsel they paid herfor: You're not being petty. You've lost your father, and nowyour husband seems to be drifting out of reach. You feel alone, and you're notsure that you're strong enough to make it on your own.

But of course her clients were strong enough. They always were.She just had to help them see it for themselves.

If only the physician could heal herself.

Harry Muldoon headed down the empty hallways of Tenement 3166'seighth floor. Despite his best efforts at not distracting himself, he wonderedwhich door held that little girl's Link-addicted parents. Was she all right?

None of his business. Not yet. Not until tragedy struck. That'show it worked. More often than not, anyway.

He kept his gaze on the steps as he descended the stairwell oneflight at a time, kept his mind focused on the task at hand: a package left forhim, like in the old days when information passed from sender to receiver byway of ink printed on paper. Quaint, but that wasn't what held his attention.Even as he tried todebunk the idea,coming up with plenty of alternative explanations that were more plausible—somekind of hoax or practical joke, just some jackass hoping for a few fleetingmoments of LinkFame—he couldn't help but wonder if this item had actually beensent by Cyrus Horton himself. Proof that he was, without a doubt, still aliveand eager to make contact with the land of the living.

After so many years of silence, this was a strange way to announcehis re-entry into the world. But strangeness was the old inventor'smodus operandi. He'd never really followed any code of conduct that could beconsidered normal. Not even with his own family.

Muldoon tapped hisplug as he stepped out of the foyer and into thewarming cool of the grey morning. "Pickup," he vocalized.

He remembered the night he'd asked for his wife's hand inmarriage. An old-fashioned thing to do, but he always remembered his parents'story, the one he'd heard as a kid, and it left an impression. Asking thefather's permission, requesting his blessing, had to be part of thepreliminaries when he was ready to take the plunge. He'd known Irena Hortonwas the one, his last stop so to speak, after their third date. Therewas no way around it. He was whipped.

"Do you love her?" Cyrus Horton had appeared out ofnowhere one night when Muldoon brought Irena home and was turning to leave—after a fairly passionatelip-lock.

Muldoon's response,