Page 116 of Fire and Bones
Deery’s face never changed.
“I’m a detective with the—”
“Yes, sir. We saw your badge.”
“Am I speaking to Roy Stoll?”
“You are, indeed. And this is my brother—”
“—Ronan Stoll.” Hawaiian shirt.
“What in hell could the police possibly want—”
“—with us?”
They were twins. I got it. But their manner of finishing each other’s sentences was somewhat disconcerting.
“Perhaps this matter is best handled inside,” Deery suggested, sotto voce.
“My brother and I have nothing—”
“—to hide.”
“Your neighbors. Your choice.”
A quick sideways glance, then Roy stepped back. Brushing past Ronan, my nose took in a tsunami of something relying heavily on sage.
The brothers led us down a short hall, then left into a somewhat feminine version of a man cave. Faux cowhide rug. Faux maroon leather sofa. Dual recliners facing a billion-inch flat-screen TV.
A laminate bar ran the room’s rear wall, looking like a piece straight off an Amazon truck. A Bud Light sign hung above it, buzzing softly. A mini fridge sat behind it. Four matching stools bellied up to its front, each outfitted with a lavender vinyl seat.
“Por favor.” Roy arced a hand toward the couch.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Ronan added.
Deery and I circled a coffee table—a hippo supporting a tinted glass oval on its back—to sit where directed.
Ronan settled into a recliner and tucked one scarecrow leg under his bum.
“Nice place,” I lied.
“It’s home.” Ronan smiled broadly. Same undersized dentition.
Deery’s eyes met mine, narrowed in warning.
I nodded, acknowledging my earlier commitment to total silence.
Roy remained standing, arms crossed on his chest.
“Please sit down, sir,” Deery said.
“I’m happ—”
“Sit. Down.” Steely.
“Do you have a warrant, Detective Deery?”
“Do I need a warrant, Mr. Stoll?”
