The Man Who Killed His Brother by Stephen R. Donaldson Page A

grinning. “Come on, Brew. Let’s get out of here.”
    We turned to go, but the door was already in use. A short dried-up little man practically ran into the office. He had thin gray-and-black hair sticking up in all directions, a stiff mustache covering his mouth, and a face that looked like it’d been redesigned by a pair of cleats long ago. His eyes bulged as if they were about to fall out. He didn’t react to us—I don’t think he even saw us—but I knew who he was. One of Ginny’s less-successful competitors, a private investigator named Ted Hangst. Mostly because he didn’t have any choice about it, he worked in the grubby world of “domestic relations,” spying for people who were jealous, greedy, or malicious enough to pay him. I seemed to remember hearing somewhere that his wife had run off and left him a few years back.
    He almost jumped the counter to confront Sergeant Encino as he thrust half a sheet of paper onto the counter. His hands shook. “See! I told you she didn’t run away.”
    Ginny and I froze.
    There was no triumph in his voice—just urgency and fear. “Read it!”
    Encino scanned the paper, then turned his sad eyes back to Ted. “It says that she has run away, Mr. Hangst.”
    “She didn’t run away!” he insisted. “This proves it. Listen.” He held the note trembling in front of his face.
    “‘Dear Dad, I won’t be coming home for a while—maybe for a long time. Don’t worry about me. There’s something I have to work out. Love, Mittie.’” He slapped the paper down on the counter. “See?”

    Without inflection, Encino repeated, “It says that she has run away.”
    “No!” His whole body twitched with frustration. “Mittie didn’t write this. It says, ‘Dear Dad.’ She never called me Dad. She always called me Pop. That proves she didn’t write this. She didn’t run away. She was kidnapped!”
    “For what purpose?” the sergeant asked. “Not for ransom. So why?”
    “I don’t know.” He was close to crying. “It doesn’t make sense.” Then he recovered his determination. “You’ve got to help me. I can’t get anywhere alone. There are too many things that could’ve happened. I can’t do it alone.”
    Encino leaned closer to Ted. “Mr. Hangst, I sympathize. We will look for your daughter. We understand the importance. But truthfully there is little we can do.” He stopped Ted’s response with a short gesture. “For now, you should perhaps speak to Mr. Axbrewder.”
    “Axbrewder?” Ted turned, saw Ginny and me. “Oh.” He nodded at us, swallowing hard. “Brew. Ginny.”
    At once Ginny said, “We’re working on a case that sounds a lot like what happened to your daughter. We’d like to talk to you about it.”
    Ted said, “Oh,” again, weakly. He looked back at Encino. But before he could add anything, Ginny took his arm and started him toward the door. “Sergeant Encino understands the situation,” she said reassuringly. “I’m sure he’ll do everything he can.”
    Policewoman Rand was taking in all of this, so I didn’t try to thank Encino. I just followed Ginny and Ted out into the corridor and closed the door behind me.
    “Where shall we go?” she asked me over the top of his head.
    “Somewhere we can eat.” I hadn’t had any food for close to fourteen hours, and I was feeling it.
    Ted didn’t resist. He looked like he’d used up all his energy or resolution just going to see Encino. Now he mumbled along beside Ginny like an empty shell. We took him out of the Municipal Building into the night.
    The streetlights are bright in that part of town, and you
don’t see many stars. But streetlights don’t fool anybody. They just make the shadows look more dangerous. The people on the streets—there’re always a few—moved as if they had secrets they were trying to hide. The cars that went by were going either too slow or too fast.
    Night is the only time when I feel like I understand the city.
    We went to a