Shadow of a Broken Man Read Online Free PDF

scattered all over the globe. I thanked Patern for his time, pocketed the program copies, and rose to leave.
    "The sketch," Patern said, his voice strained. "Do you think Victor Rafferty made it?"
    "Somebody made it." I had an urge to leave him with something. "But the building is yours. Don't worry about it. I doubt there are more than five architects in the world who could have accomplished what you did from only that sketch."
    He smiled and leaned back in his chair like a man whose troubles were over. I had the feeling mine were just beginning.

    4
    It was time to shake the local branch of the family tree and see what might fall out. I caught a cab, which wallowed slowly crosstown through the rush-hour traffic. As I sat in the nearly motionless cab, somewhat out of joint from my talk with Patern, my own past suddenly reared up from behind an idle thought and leered at me.

    The time I'd spent with the circus had been nightmare years, notwithstanding the fact that the man who was my boss is one of the finest human beings in the world. Phil Statler had saved my life by helping me up off a series of psychiatrists' couches where I'd been trying to discover just what the hell I was supposed to do in a world of giants.
    Born into a perfectly normal Nebraska family, I was the product of a pairing of recessive genes. Nature had compounded her bad joke by endowing me with a fairly well-muscled intellect, and considerable gymnastic skills which I'd parlayed into a black belt in karate. By the time I reached my early twenties, I was in the circus and earning a living. It was Phil Statler who'd discovered the control I had over my body, and who'd groomed me into a headliner, away from the clowns and freaks. The man had given me dignity.
    But simple dignity hadn't been enough. Perhaps because I was a physical deviate, I was drawn to the problems of other kinds of deviates. I earned a B.S. in sociology, then used my money and time off from the circus to finance my doctorate in criminology. Somewhat to my surprise, I'd been offered a teaching position at the university. There was probably a certain irony in my choice of New York City as a base of operations; my brother, Garth, was a detective on the New York City police force. All disgustingly normal six feet of him.
    Garth always maintained that I had a tendency to over- compensate; that was how he explained my private investigator's license. I'd lucked out more than a few times in my life. I wasn't rich, as they say, but I was reasonably happy.
    I caught Garth just as he was leaving the station house. He was almost an exact replica of our father: big, rawboned, a wheat-colored thatch of hair atop a head that despite his considerable size seemed too big for the rest of his body. After all his tough years in a city of cold stone, steel, and glass, he still walked with the ambling gait of a farmer. I loved the man; he'd carried me on his broad shoulders through a tortured childhood brimming with jeers and cruel jokes.
    Despite his bellowing protests, I managed to maneuver Garth back into the tiny broom closet he called an office. There were dark rings under his blue eyes. Garth always looked tired; maybe it had something to do with being an honest cop who felt a personal responsibility toward eight million people.
    "Hello, brother." I flashed my largest grin.
    "Don't give me that 'brother' crap, brother," he growled. "You always say that when you want something."
    "One reason you're such a good cop is your uncanny perceptiveness."
    Garth grunted. "Perceptive? I read you like a book; make that a cheap pulp thriller." "Tut-tut. Compliments won't get you anywhere. I would like to find out a few things."
    "This isn't the public library, Mongo. You're a private snoop; you can't just walk in off the street and pump me for information"—he allowed himself a thin smile—"like you always do."
    "Now, don't get righteous on me. A retired cop working private could come in here anytime and get