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

as he took a step back. "Don't shoot the messenger."

"Oh, you are much more than that, Mr. Muldoon," she saidquietly, her eyes glassy as she reviewed the video. Her jaw clenched andunclenched with fury of the bridled variety. "Voyeur scum is what you are.Private eye, dick for hire? More like a low-life bottom-feeder."

He'd been called worse. "Pays the rent."

"Destroying lives?" she grated out. "How did youget this? When was it taken?" A brief pause before she answered her ownquestion, "Three days ago. You waited three days to contact me. Why?"

"Your husband—"

"When did he hire you to do this? Before he came to youroffice?" A sinister smile crept across her lips as her eyes focused onhim. "Doubtful. I have no record of him contacting you prior to thatface-to-face. And that was only yesterday. So why would you have been spying onme before then?"

Muldoon had no comeback lined up for this.

She laughed. "You look surprised! Why would I not keep tabson my dear, devoted husband? I trust him only as far as his credits cover mycomfortable lifestyle. Of course I know when he met you. He so seldom leavesthe house!"

Muldoon needed to leave. He'd screwed up, should have altered thevideo's timestamp. No excuse for such a rookie mistake. Time tovamoose before things got even more awkward.

"How long have you been following me? Who are you reallyworking for?"

"Sign the papers, ma'am. It'll be better for everybodyinvolved."

Muldoon reached for his plug to disengage from the Link portal. Ashe faded from Elizabeth Lewiston's virtual sight, he heard her scream afterhim,

"How did you record this? How?"

Hewould have to do better next time.

ONE

 

Twenty Years Ago:2156

Nobody came to this side of HellTown after dark. Under the sun,factories rumbled with life, machines cranking out machines while humanssupervised, directing cargo marked for shipment. But now, after midnight, theassembly lines rested from their labor, and a cemetery of vacant warehousesloomed over intermittent streetlights, many of which had long ago flickered outof commission.

Someone else might have preferred the Link and a virtualface-to-face, but Muldoon liked the flesh and blood variety, particularly whenthere was merchandise to be exchanged. He didn't trust the Link entirely. Toomany hackjobs, even with the pass-image protocols. Amateurs playing detective,sticking their noses where they didn't belong

The Peddler had come highly recommended and agreed on thismeeting—two marks in his favor. Now, if only he had the item.

The plug behind Muldoon's ear vibrated—an incoming call. Heglanced up the alley, then back down beyond the misty glow of the streetlamp. Other thanthe brimming dumpsters and discarded pallets, he was alone.

The plug pulsed again. He released a quiet curse and watched thevapor of his breath dissipate as he made up his mind.

He tapped behind his left ear, and his vision fogged with theLink's white entry portal. He entered his log-in and set his pass-images toshuffle randomly.

"Thank you for using LinkCom," the larger-than-life,disembodied face of the virtual operator greeted him, her features perfect,proportionate, designed to be lovely. She wore an antiqueheadset and smiled. "How may I assist you this evening?"

"Receive call," he muttered.

"Of course. Only audio is being transmitted. Would you liketo proceed?"

"Yes." Not really. But what choice did he have?

There was a short pause. The operator's face dissolved into one ofhis pass-images: pounding surf on a tropical island seascape. Then the Peddler'sintentionally distorted voice came through.

"Change of plans." Deep-throated, garbled. Impossible toidentify.

"I'm here, like we agreed." Muldoon thrust his handsdeep into the pockets of his overcoat and blew out a sigh that hovered in thefrigid air. He didn't see it. His eyes were occupied by another pass-imagenow—some kind of furry jungle animal crawling along a moss-covered bough.

"Appreciated. However, this will have to be a deaddrop."

"Fine. Tell me where." Waiting around for nothing.

"NewCity Central."

"A little crowded there, don't you think?" From oneextreme to the other.

"Locker #316. The key is on your vehicle's front tire. Youwill be contacted regarding payment once you have retrieved the item."

The operator's cheerful face reappeared.

"Call terminated. Would you like to review yourcharges?"

"No." Muldoon tapped his plug to disengage from the Linkand strode up the dark alley.

Someone had been there, but he hadn't stuck around for a meet andgreet. Muldoon cursed. He hated games. It should have been a simple exchange ofcredits and product: he was the buyer; the Peddler had the item. But now?

He crouched beside the hood of his vehicle, a sleek two-seaterbuilt for speed and fuel efficiency. His hand brushed along the rubber treadbeneath the fender until his fingers stumbled across the plastic keycard. Itwas there, just as the Peddler said it would be.

He palmed the driver's side door, and the pad glowed beneath hisfingers, recognizing his print. The door rotated upward. He dropped into thebucket seat behind the steering grips, leaving the door to drift back and lockitself into place.

"NewCity Central," he said, buckling the safety harnessacross his chest.

"Clarify," droned the impassive voice of the dashboardcomputer's AI.

"The train—NewCity Central Station."

"Confirmed. Estimated time of arrival: ten minutes."

The car pulled away from the curb on automatic drive andaccelerated, steering grips tilting side to side with every turn.

Muldoon dropped his head back and closed his eyes. Was he beingset up? Possibly. Part of the territory. But the credits he earned onthese side jobs always made it worth the risk—even if the train station wasswarming with cops in plainclothes waiting for him to trip up.

He was no dummy. He'd buy a ticket, play it cool, maybe take a napon one of the benches. When it looked safe, he'd find the dead-drop locker andpick up the item. Then he'd beat it—as nonchalantly as possible.

A nap was the best idea he'd had all day. He was already noddingoff by the time the car reported, "Destination," and eased to thecurb beside a wide expanse of concrete steps, stark white in the hazymoonlight. "Park or idle?" The door swung upward.

"Park."

He stepped out onto the curb, and the car door dropped shut behindhim. The steering grips tilted automatically as the engine accelerated toward avacant parking structure across the street.

He faced the imposing edifice with its thick marble pillarssupporting a neoclassical façade. NEWCITY CENTRAL TRAIN