We didn't say anything. We didn't have to. We both knew what to do next. Ginny started up the Olds, and we headed back into the city. Hurrying. We wanted to get to Lona.

It was after four o'clock when we reached her house, so we didn't waste any time. Ginny was better at this kind of thing than I was. I waited in the car while she went to talk to Lona.

Even that way, it took a while. Lona didn't want to let go of her note. It was the last tangible thing she had from Alathea. But we needed the original-a copy wouldn't do us any good. I was relieved to see it in Ginny's hand when she came back to the Olds.

With her sitting beside me, we compared the notes. The similarity of the wording made my stomach ache, but Ginny was looking at other things. She compared the writing quickly, pointed out that the ink and scripts were different, then started to examine the paper.

Lona's note was written on half a sheet of twenty-pound bond.

Both sheets had been neatly torn-not cut-along one edge.

When Ginny held them up to the sun, we could see that they both had the same watermark.

I said, "Sonofabitch." Something deep in my chest was trembling. I was overdue for another withdrawal crisis.

"This doesn't prove anything," Ginny said stiffly. "There's a lot of this kind of paper around. It's a big company. It doesn't prove anything unless these notes came from the same sheet." She put the notes up against the sun again, then said, "No chance. Look what happens when I put the torn edges together."

I looked. The watermarks were facing in opposite directions. The top third of the mark on Lena's note was cut off-and it wasn't completed anywhere on the other sheet.

"Terrific." I could taste bile in my mouth. The lining of my stomach wanted alcohol. Wanted to be numb. "Two thirteen-year-olds run away from home and write notes that say almost exactly the same thing on the same kind of paper, with the same kind of bad handwriting. Of course it's just a coincidence. Why didn't I think of that?"

"I didn't say it was a coincidence," she replied with elaborate patience. Just letting Axbrewder know she wasn't senile yet. "I said it wasn't proof." Then she grinned-a shark's grin, eager and dangerous. "That's the difference between us and the police. We don't need proof." She threw the Olds into gear. "Let's go talk to Encino."

We were on the trail now-I could see it in her eyes.

I left it to her. I was thinking about the Christies. They were scared about something-and anything that could worry John Christie would probably frighten Lona to death.

We went down Mission, then crossed over on Gypsum until we hit Paseo Grande and turned right. A couple of miles down Paseo Grande we came to the new Municipal Building-the pride of the mayor, the joy of half a dozen construction companies, the flower of a couple architects, and the treasure of the bank that floated the loan. I didn't know anyone else who liked it.

From the outside, it looks like a country club for millionaires. An ordinary citizen can no more walk in there and feel comfortable than fly to the moon. All those fountains and flower beds might've been a good idea, but unfortunately the main part of the building hangs over the fountains and flowers and walkways. A square mountain of white concrete leans on the back of your neck-from some angles you can't even see what holds it up-so by the time you get to the doors and start climbing to wherever you have to go, you already feel intimidated. And of course there's no parking. Official cars have a private garage-ordinary citizens have to scramble for what they can get.

We were lucky-we only had to walk a couple of blocks.

Inside, there isn't a scrap of carpet or one warm soft color in the whole place. It looks like a brand-new abattoir. Since there aren't any windows, and the blank fluorescent lighting is always the same, you can't tell whether it's day or night.

I suppose I should've been used to it. I'd been in the city jail, up on the top floor of the police department wing, at least a couple of times. But I was always at a disadvantage here. I could never remember the names of the cops who rousted me when I was drunk. I couldn't remember anything about them, except they always looked short. But they knew who I was. The whole situation gave me a definite paranoid feeling.

But I figured I should be pretty safe in Missing Persons. They didn't have any reason to know me. So I just kept my coat buttoned and my hands at my sides, hiding the .45 under my left arm, and followed Ginny, trying to ignore the fact I could feel another withdrawal attack coming on.

The sergeant at the front desk issued us passes and told us where to go in the dull mumble of a man who'd spent too many years repressing a secret yen to really tell people where to go. We did what he told us, and a couple of corridors later we were at a glass door. The glass was safety plate with steel mesh sandwiched into it, and it said missing persons across the top. We went in.

A Formica counter stood so close to the entrance that the door almost hit it when it opened. Behind the counter, there were four desks and a row of file cabinets. That was all. Missing Persons wasn't a very big item in the police budget.

Three cops sat at the desks, two women and a man. The man was a sergeant, so he outranked the women. Of course, they made us wait. Cops always make you wait as long as they can. It's in the Officer's Handbook. Eventually, however, one of the women, Policewoman Rand, asked us what we wanted. Ginny asked for Sergeant Encino, using her I'm-an-important-citizen-don't-mess-with-me voice. The man found himself off his butt and standing in front of us faster than he wanted to.

He was short, barely tall enough to stare at Ginny's clavicles. He had dark olive skin that complemented his dark blue uniform, and his close-cut black hair was so tidy that you would think he trained it with a whip. His mustache was assertive but not aggressive. And he had Chicano eyes-sad, world-weary, and arrogant. Sure enough, both the name tag pinned over his left shirt pocket and the ID clipped to his right shirt pocket said, "Sgt. Raul Encino, Missing Persons."

Ginny introduced herself, flashed her license, mentioned my name. Encino looked back at her with his face blank. That's also in the Handbook-treat everyone like two of them and a sandwich would be just about right for lunch. "What can I do for you?" He had just enough accent to make what he said sound more interesting than it really was.

"Information," Ginny said crisply. "We're trying to find a young girl named Alathea Axbrewder. Her mother reported her missing eight days ago."

Encino's expression was perfect, as noncommittal as a rock. "Mrs. Axbrewder chose to make no complaint. We look for her daughter, of course. Each patrol officer has a description. But without a complaint-" He gave us a delicate Chicano shrug. "You understand, it is not against the law to run away from home. The girl is a minor, so we have our eyes open for her. But in a city so big as Puerta del Sol, we are unlikely to find her. Also she has possibly left the city. The sheriff's office has been informed. What more do you want?"

With just a hint of sarcasm, Ginny said, "You assume she ran away."

"Why not? As I have said, the city is big. Girls disappear each week. Do you think she has been kidnapped? That is doubtful. For what purpose? There has been no demand for ransom."

That was true enough. Any hint of kidnapping, any hint at all, and this whole situation would've been different. For one thing, Lona would've had the FBI camped in her living room. But that didn't faze Ginny. In the same light-acid tone, she said, "I don't know whether I'm talking about kidnapping or not. I haven't gotten that far yet. What I'm interested in right now is thirteen-year-old girls who disappear and then turn up dead." She was trying to irritate Encino, nag him into defending himself. Maybe spring loose some spontaneous information.

I could see the muscles along his jaw tighten, but he didn't change his ground. "Is Alathea Axbrewder dead?"

"Carol Christie is."

He blinked. As far as the rest of his face was concerned, he was sound asleep. "Of what interest is Carol Christie to you?"

"There's a connection between her and Alathea."

"Are the parents of Carol Christie your clients?"

Ginny could've refused to answer that. She had a right to protect her client. But I guess she didn't see any point to it. She said, "I've been retained by Lona Axbrewder."

"Then the death of Carol Christie is of no concern to you."

"I said there's a connection." Ginny let herself start to sound angry. She took out the notes and put them down on the counter in front of Encino. "Both Alathea and Carol wrote to their parents after disappearing. If you look at them, you'll see that they were written on the same kind of paper. The sheets were torn in half the same way. What they say is almost identical, and the handwriting is similar."

"That's most ingenious." Encino didn't even glance at the notes. "Unfortunately the truth remains. Carol Christie's death can be of no concern to you, The rights of your client do not include her. Mr. Christie and his wife desire privacy."

"Says who?"

"Their wishes were made known to the investigating officer, Detective-Lieutenant Acton."

Investigating officer, huh? Ginny was getting somewhere. Now we knew there was enough wrong with Carol Christie's death to interest the cops.

But she didn't stop to chew it over. She had Encino backing up, and she kept at him.

"That's wonderful. The Christies don't want people to know what really happened to their daughter, so the cops clamp a lid on it. Having money is good for something after all. I just wonder what you and Acton are getting out of it."

Encino's composure split for a second. "Hija de la puta." Before he could get it back, I reached for him. I was going to knot my fist in the front of his nice blue uniform and shake him up good. But Ginny stopped me with an elbow that almost caved in my ribs. I could feel blood pounding in my face.

The sergeant had his blankness back in place, but he couldn't keep the rasp out of his voice. "Go away. You Anglos, you're all the same. A girl runs away and is later found dead. There's an investigation, and everything is kept with great propriety, even from the papers, to avoid distress for the family. But someone hires private investigators, and because they can't do their jobs they accuse the police. It's like that everywhere. And why? Because the girl is white. Anglo. If a Chicano girl runs away, and the mother asks for help, you Anglos say, 'What do you expect? Look for her in the brothels.' And if that Chicano girl is found dead, then the papers print every rumor they hear about her, true or false." His sneer twisted his whole face. "Go away. You interfere with my work."

My pulse was still racing, but I heard him. I picked up the notes, pulled open the door, said to Ginny, "Come on." But she was really mad now. Leaning over the counter, she thrust her face at Encino. "I work for whoever asks me," she said very softly. "I don't have any control over who asks. I just take whatever they ask and give it my best shot. That's my work."

Encino jerked his head contemptuously. "Muy bravo."

I took Ginny's arm, dragged her out into the corridor, and shut the door behind us. She threw off my hand. Stalked along for a minute in silence. Then she said, "That sonofabitch."

I said, "He has a point."

"He has orders. Somebody told him to put a lid on Carol Christie. It's not my fault he doesn't like it." Then she asked, "How come you're so sympathetic all of a sudden? Two minutes ago you wanted to take his head off for him."

I didn't have a good answer to that, so I just said, "I spend a lot of time in the old part of town. Probably he's a good cop."

"A good cop," she snorted. She didn't say anything more until we got into the elevator. Then she muttered, "You big ape, you've got to learn to keep your temper."

"Dear God," I said. "Did I lose my temper? I'm pitifully sorry. It's never happened to me before."

She said, "Aw, shut up." But she didn't sound so angry anymore. After a minute, she asked, "What was that he called me?"

" 'Hija de la puta.' Daughter of a whore."

She considered that briefly, then grinned. "It sounds nastier in Spanish." When the elevator doors opened, she led the way out.

Following her toward the exit, I had a wild urge to put my arms around her and kiss the back of her neck. But when we walked out into the late afternoon, the sun hit me in the eyes like a hammer. Suddenly my head was reeling for a drink. It was coming, and there was nothing I could do about it. Except get a drink. My nerves pleaded for the stuff. Get a drink get a drink get a drink. Feel the alcohol flow like bliss through the sore lining of my stomach straight into my blood.

Usually when I go sober, I have three big withdrawal crises-along with half a dozen or so smaller ones-before my body gives up on pain and starts looking for other arguments. So far this time I'd only had one. One coming on, and after that at least one more to go. With the sun in my eyes, and my brain aching, I didn't think I was going to make it.

I didn't realize I was just standing there with my fingers clamped over my face until Ginny came back for me. She put her hands on my arm. "It's that bad?"

"All of a sudden. Doesn't usually come on this fast."

She said, "Is there anything I can do?" But she knew there wasn't. She'd done everything anybody could do when she came looking for me in the first place.

I said, "Take me home."

She shook my arm. "No chance. We've got all those friends of Alathea's to go see, remember? We're late already."

I said it again. "Take me home."

"Brew," she whispered, "I don't want to leave you alone."

With an effort, I pulled my hands off my face. I must've looked pretty fierce, because she winced. "I want to be alone. It's bad enough when I'm alone. This morning was easy. It's going to get worse. Do you think I like having you watch me fall apart?"

That reached her. It didn't ease the tight worry in her face, but it got me what I wanted. She took me home.

By the time she got me up to my apartment, the pressure in my skull was squeezing sweat out of my face like beads of thirst. I shook like a cripple. It was all I could do to get across the room and sit down on the convertible couch I use for a bed.

This one was going to be a sonofabitch.

Had it ever been this bad before? I couldn't remember. Probably not. Every time is always the worst.

Ginny sat down beside me for a while. She looked like she wanted to hold my hand. "Are you going to be all right?"

From somewhere, I dredged up the energy to say, "There's nothing here. I never keep the stuff in my apartment."

"That isn't what I asked. I asked you if you're going to be all right."

I said, "You go on." If she didn't leave soon I was going to scream. "Talk to Alathea's friends. I'm going to sit here. As long as I have to. Then I'll get something to eat. Then I'll go to bed. Pick me up in the morning."

"All right." She didn't like it, but she swallowed it. "I'll make sure the answering service knows where I am." A minute later she was gone.

A minute after that, I wanted to cry out, Ginny!

But this mess was one I'd made for myself, and I was going to have to live with it. So I just sat where I was and watched the sunlight in the room get dimmer.

Soon there were red-hot bugs crawling along my nerves, ticks and chiggers and cockroaches of need, and at one point I thought I could hear high-pitched mewling sounds coming from somewhere in the vicinity of my face. But I just sat where I was and waited. Waited for the sun to set. Waited for night. There was a cure for this, and I was going to go get it. Never mind what I'd told Ginny. I was going to go as soon as it was dark. As soon as I recovered enough control over myself to move.

I hung on for the sake of the dark. After a while there was no more light in the room, and the pressure eased a bit. Not much-this wag going to be a long one-but enough so that I could tell my arms and legs what to do with some hope of having them listen to me.

I lurched into the kitchen and drank what felt like about a gallon of water. Then I left my apartment, struggled down the long stairs to the street, and went shambling in the direction of the old part of town.

Looking for that cure.