You Can Run Read Online Free Page A

too, which makes him the landlord for a gourmet restaurant on the ground floor and half a dozen apartments on the second floor. He could easily live on what he makes from rent, but my father isn’t the kind of guy who could ever be happy sitting around cashing rent checks.
    â€œGet that for me, would you, Robbie?” he said. “It’s probably Vern.”
    I pressed the button on the wall and said hello into the speaker, expecting that the answering voice would be that of Vernon Deloitte, another ex-cop and my father’s business partner. Instead, I heard a voice that I didn’t recognize.
    â€œHello?” it said. “My name is Carl Hanover. I’m looking for MacKenzie Hunter.”
    That got my father’s attention in a way that I hadn’t managed to. He set aside the file folder he had been holding and strode across an expanse of hardwood floor to the door.
    â€œCarl, is that really you?” he said into the speaker.
    â€œMac? Thank goodness,” the voice said. “I need to talk to you.”
    â€œCome on up. I’m on the third floor,” my father said. He pressed the red button that releases the lock down on the first floor. Then he stepped out into the hall to wait. A few moments later, I heard footsteps on the concrete steps that led up to the third floor.
    I stood in the doorway, wondering who Carl was and why Dad had sounded so surprised to hear his voice. I watched my father step back a pace from the top of the stairs as his visitor came into the hall.When he said Carl’s name again, the surprise in his voice was still there. He and Carl hugged each other. It was quite a sight, two big men embracing like long-lost brothers.
    â€œMy God, how long has it been?” my father said, pulling back to look at his old friend. “Ten years?”
    â€œMore like thirteen or fourteen,” Carl said. He was a good-looking man who either spent a lot of time in the sun or was completely oblivious to the hazards of tanning machines. He had a deep, rich tan. “As I recall, the last time I saw you, you were singing the blues about the terrible twos.” He looked around my father at me. “This must be Robyn.”
    My father turned and beamed at me. “She’s a real chip off the old block,” he said. “Robbie, this is Carl Hanover. We’ve known each other since. . . .”
    â€œSince forever,” Carl said. He slapped my father on the back. “We went to school together.”
    My father offered Carl something to drink—beer, coffee, bottled water. Carl said thanks but he was fine. They sat in the living room area while I retreated to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. Then I perched on a stool at the counter that divides the kitchen from the dining room. I had a newspaper open in front of me, but because my father’s loft is almost entirely open (the only completely private spaces are the bathrooms, the two bedrooms, and a room that my father calls his office), I could see my father and Carl Hanover. And hear every word they were saying.
    At first, it was catch-up stuff. My father asked about the ten years Carl had spent out west. Different pace out there, Carl said. Slower. Then Carl wanted to know how my mom was. “Great,” my father said. “By the way, we’re divorced.” Carl said that was too bad.
    â€œI heard you have your own business now,” Carl added. “I’ve been hearing all about you and your dirty tricks.”
    I glanced at my father, who shook his head and said he didn’t think he would go so far as to call them dirty.
    â€œBut they are tricks,” Carl said. “I heard one story about a woman who hired you to find her ex-husband and her kids. You tracked the guy to Mexico, right?”
    â€œRight,” my father said.
    â€œThe way I heard it, you sent someone into his house, supposedly to work as a maid, and she kidnapped the kids from him and you