And that was it. The entire room, the entire building in fact, and he’d found nothing out of order. Damn.

A movement caught his eye. It was very smooth, very subtle, and would have gone unnoticed had he not been looking for it. A shadow seemed to step away from the side of the bookcase. It took form and substance, glided laterally, and sat down in the La-Z-Boy and crossed its legs. A low whispery voice sounded, barely audible over the clamor of the studio audience. “You’re getting dull, Hoss,” it said. “If I’d been a robber I could’ve killed you.”

Stiles’s expression remained unchanged. “If you’d been a robber,” he said, raising his arm and letting the sheet slip away to reveal the Smith & Wesson 9mm in his hand, “you could’ve tried.” Across the room the shadowy figure gave a weak laugh in reply.

At least it sounded like a laugh. Chris Stiles could never be sure where his brother was concerned.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Alex?” He lowered the stubby pistol and laid it on the orange-crate nightstand next to his Maalox and his reading glasses and a dog-eared Harlequin Romance.

Alex “laughed” again. “I don’t know. Has it?”

Stiles remained humorless. “Only three years. S’funny, I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”

“You mean hoping, don’t you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

The man in the shadows kept his same dull tone. “You didn’t have to, Hoss.”

Stiles frowned and shrugged off the other’s words. “Do me a favor, Alex. Don’t be screwin’ with my mind tonight. I’m not in the mood.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and groaned, stretching his stocky frame and wincing at the chorus of creaks and pops that greeted his ears. His muscular physique was still solid and impressive, but the years had been hard and the wear was beginning to show. He was constantly reminded of this by the roadmap of scars across his bare torso and thighs. Some he’d carried out of the jungles of Southeast Asia. Most he had acquired since.

“So . . .” Alex sighed. “How are you doing these days?”