They call Fillydelphia the City of Filial Love. Whoever came up with that had a twisted sense of humor. Maybe it was a great place to live way back when, but that was before the poverty, the criminals, and the layer of grime covering every inch of the place. Back before the windows of most shops were boarded over; back when you could walk down the street without seeing a couple of young fillies trading tricks for salt, or a gang of hulking stallions looking for someone to shake down, or a group of dumb colts huddled together in an alley, keeping an eye out for the cops.

The City of Filial Love? More like the Cesspit of Equestria. But like it or not, it's my city. I know it like the back of my hoof; I can feel its pulse, sense its moods. I'm a private eye. Call me Glass.

It was a slow day when she walked into my office. I was leaned back in my chair, hooves kicked up on the desk, staring at a half-finished bottle of apple brandy and the pile of unpaid bills it was keeping company. My ceiling fan creaked steadily as the two remaining blades spun through their wobbling orbit like a couple of bellacose drunks who weren't quite willing to throw the first punch. I was about to reach for the bottle when I heard the groan of a hoof sinking into the half-rotten floorboards outside my door, and a moment later, she walked in.

She was a looker. Either a rich girl or a high-class escort, with a cherry coat and a slightly darker mane. She was young, though probably not too young to be thinking bad thoughts about, and she moved with the unconscious grace of a dancer. She looked nervous, her violet eyes wide and flicking left and right, as she paused halfway through the doorway to take everything in.

"Um," she said, "this is the office of Mr. Glass, yes?"

"Sure is," I said. I swung my hooves down from the desk and rested my elbows on it instead, trying to look a little more businesslike. "How can I help you, miss?"

"Well," she said, still looking unsure, "it's just that I had heard some marvelous things about your work, and I rather expected..."

I self-consciously took the bottle of brandy and stuck it in a drawer. "It's not a glamorous life, miss, but it generally pays the bills. How can I help you?"

"Ah, yes." She cleared her throat and stepped fully into my office, butting the door gently closed behind her. She trotted the few feet to my desk, inspected the ancient wooden chair I reserved for my guests, and wisely decided to remain standing. "I am given to understand that you specialize in missing pony cases."

That wasn't strictly true, but my biggest breaks came from them. I nodded. "That's right, miss. Is somepony missing?"

"Well...yes," she said, staring at a blank spot on my desk. Her face was twisted a bit, and I could clearly see her trying to fight back tears. "It's my fiance, Mr. Glass. He is missing."

A lonely little part of my brain sighed and retreated to the depths at the word "fiance," but I nodded. "Just Glass, miss, if you'd prefer. Have you already contacted the police?"

"Well...no," she said, still refusing to look away from the spot on my desk. Her hoof scratched the floorboards nervously. "I mean, it's just, he is a very important pony, you see, and it simply wouldn't do to have a common policepony searching the city for him."

That was a new one. These Manehattan-wannabe types tended to indulge in their classism, but this was ridiculous. "Miss, the F.P.D. is very good at what they do, and I'm sure they could keep an investigation low-profile..."

She looked up at me in surprise. "Are you saying that you will not take the case?"

My own eyes widened. My conscience had run away with my mouth before anypony checked with my brain. "No, no, I absolutely will, but I'm only one pony; having the cops looking out for your fiance too can't hurt."

"Absolutely not. No police."

Something wasn't right here, but I had just enough business savvy to know when I was close to losing a customer. Now wasn't the time to press the issue. "Fine, no police. May I ask you a few questions?"

"Certainly." Now that she'd gotten her stallion's disappearance of her chest, her nervousness was fading and being replaced by the kind of emotionless mask that upper-crust ponies loved to wear around us mooks. I hated it, but at the same time, I couldn't help finding it a bit alluring.

I shoved those thoughts back into the void as well, and dug into my desk's top drawer for a notepad and pencil. "When waf fa laft time oo haw oor fiance?"

"Pardon?"

Dammit. I spit the pencil out. "When was the last time you saw your fiance?"

"Two nights ago, at supper. After we dined, he told me that he was going to the Horn and Feather for a nip. He did not return."

"Does he go there often?"

"Yes, he occasionally meets some of his acquaintences there."

"Did he say he was meeting anyone?"

"No."

"Does he have any enemies? Old rivals? Debts owed?"

"He is a pony of means, and has succeeded in a capitalistic system," she said with her nose in the air. "But I can think of no pony who would want to kill him."

I picked the pencil back up and scribbled down some notes. "How is your relationship with your fiance?"

She looked a bit offended. "I beg your pardon?" Sounded it, too.

"I'm not trying to be too intrusive, but this sort of information can help in an investigation," I explained as pacifyingly as I could. "You two are living together?"

"Yes." She didn't look quite settled.

"Have you been living together long?"

"Since shortly after we were engaged."

"How long ago was that?"

"Six months."

I nodded and scribbled down some more notes. "Has there been any trouble in your relationship recently? Any fights, arguments? Maybe suspicions of diloyalty?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Glass," she said, like an glacier about to crack, "but are you implying that Silver is cheating on me?"

"Inferring, actually," I said, before I could snap my big mouth shut. Her face turned red - well, redder - and she was biting her lip, clearly trying to hold back her outrage, at least until she could structure it into a properly civilized diatribe. I wasn't going to give her that chance. "Sorry, miss, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but we have to explore every possibility here. Could you give me a description of Silver?"

That stopped her; she hadn't realized she'd let his name slip. She swallowed her anger with a visible gulp. "Silver Coin. Perhaps you have heard of him?"

"Sorry, miss, but I don't often get to brush shoulders with the Fillydelphia elite."

She made a delicate sound that communicated how obvious that should be. "He is a large stallion, four and a half hands tall, with a gray coat and a silver mane. His eyes are gold. His cutie mark is three stacks of silver coins, the central one tallest."

I scribbled the information down. Silver Coin. Horn and Feather. Potential enemies, but probably just ran off with some filly. "I'll start looking into this right away, miss. You're aware of my rates?"

"I was told they are quite reasonable."

I nodded. "One hundred bits a day, plus expenses. I'll log my hours and give them to you along with the bill. How should I contact you?"

"We reside at 3803 High Canter Boulevard. Ask the doorman for Miss Calla."

I wrote that down as well, and then trotted around the desk to place my hood reassuringly on her shoulder. It was one of those "closing-the-sale" moves my mentor drilled in me. "Don't worry, miss. I'll find your fiance as soon as I can. Should I call you a carriage?"

The simple gesture looked like it had almost brought her to tears, but she swallowed them and shook her mane. "I will be fine. Thank you, Mr. Glass."

I offered her my best smile, and leaned on the desk as I watched her leave. I won't lie; there are worse ways to spend time. I gave her a few minutes to get out of the building; my office is on the fifth floor of a run-down complex in one of the less-great parts of town, and the elevator's as reliable and slow as a garbage mule team. Then, I threw on my coat, grabbed my hat, stuffed my notepad and pencil into the pocket, and set out to find where Silver Coin was spending his time.