A sheet of paper was laminated to the back of the cash register with strips of once clear, but now severely yellowed, packing tape. Judging from the fuzzy edges and lack of clarity, it was obviously a photocopy of a photocopy to the power of ten at least. But it was still readable, and posted in plain sight it boasted: These Premises Protected by Smith and Wesson.

It took only a quick survey of the scene to spot my friend in a booth at the back corner. Of course, it would have been hard to miss him, considering that he was most likely the tallest individual in the room with the possible exception of the cook manning the grill. At the moment, however, he was certainly the only full-blooded Native American present. Shrugging off my jacket, I made my way toward him, my progress impeded for a short time as I did a quick box step in the narrow aisle with a young coffeepot-wielding waitress. With the dance and a quick apology out of the way, I hooked around the end of the counter and traversed the scuffed tile floor to the corner booth.

“Heya, Kemosabe,” Detective Benjamin Storm greeted me as I slid into the seat opposite him.

“Yo, Tonto,” I returned before stifling yet another yawn.

“Long night? Ain’t you usually the early bird.”

“Yeah, usually.” I nodded then explained. “I picked up a new client, so I had quite a bit of customizing and data conversion to do for them, so I was up pretty late.”

I wasn’t about to tell him that the project was something I could have easily done during regular business hours. He had a tendency to worry about me just as much as my wife, and if I told him what had been happening lately, I would end up having both of them to deal with. Besides, something told me that it was all going to come to the surface soon enough, so I was going to make the best of what peace I had left.