He had just come downstairs when he heard it -- a soft knock on the door. Fishing in a suitcase, Murphy pulled out a plaid shirt, but decided not to bother putting it on. It was the weekend – maybe the last one – but still the weekend, even if the office seemed to trail after him lately like a dog on a leash.

Murphy opened the door and there he stood – the last person he ever expected to see. Steele was dressed entirely in black: ribbed turtleneck sweater, black slacks, soft-soled black shoes – as if he'd just wandered in from the scene of a jewel heist. The odds were probably even. Who really knew how the unrepentant louse spent his off hours? Murphy had tried to find out one moonlit evening but had been given the slip so effortlessly he knew the cause was lost. Their eyes met and he stepped back warily. Steele in black always set off his danger sense.

Steele poised at the threshold, a faint smile on his lips, as if even he couldn't believe he'd turned up here. "Well, are you just going to stand there and drip dry, Murphy, or are you going to let me in?"

Murphy moved aside, suddenly reminded of his bare feet and jeans. "I was in the shower." He raked a hand through his still wet hair.

"Ah, well that's good." Steele gaze flicked past Murphy's shoulder. "For a moment I thought I was interrupting something."

"So did I." He looked Steele up and down and quipped, "Like a daylight theft of the Koh-i-Noor diamond."

Steele stared back at him with perfect equanimity. Even the cat burglar version of Steele had a sheen about him, as if he'd just stepped out of the pages of some glossy magazine.

"What an imagination you have, Murphy! I was invited to the opening of a fashionable art gallery. Isn't it de rigueur to wear black?" He strode past into the living room. "As for that famous jewel, it's in the Tower of London last time I checked."

"And when was that?"

There was the merest pause, no more than the beat of a second. Steele raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Do you ever get the feeling that your life is no longer your own?"

He didn't feel sympathy -- that was unthinkable where Steele was concerned -- but he did feel a distinct pang of recognition. "Yeah, that's happening a lot lately."

"When you came to the door half dressed I thought perhaps you and the lovely Ms. Webster . . ." Steele waved a hand. "Déjà vu and all that, with everyone barging in."

"Sherry?" Murphy tried to make his face impenetrable. "No, that chapter's over."

His hopes were dashed the man would ever take a hint; Steele's eyes were alight with curiosity. "I take it she could read you like a book," he replied with that decisive air that fooled clients into thinking he'd favored them, not with some wild guess, as per usual, but with some bold flash of insight.

Steele's observation was closer to the truth than he liked to admit, but it was only half the story. Sherry was a great girl, in bed and out, but she reminded him painfully of someone else, someone whose mental gears were always turning, someone who, with enviable timing, could dust off an uncommon skill. The movie quotes thing was where it started to get eerie. He knew it was crazy, but the combo made him want to run like hell.

He pointedly remained on his feet as Steele commandeered the sofa and stretched out his long legs in front of him. No need to let Steele think he wasn't ready to toss him out on his ear at the first opportunity.

"You're a damnably poor host, Murphy. Won't you at least offer me a drink?"

"There's beer in the fridge." He waited for the snobbish remark, inevitable as the sunrise, the sort that Steele had refined to such an art that he could have trademarked it, but his uninvited guest merely padded to the kitchen, retrieved a long-neck and popped it open with the bottle opener. Steele returned to the territory he'd staked out on the couch, casually tipping back the beverage and taking a long swig.

"Coaster?" Steele queried, excruciatingly polite.

Murphy handed him one that he'd picked up at a neighborhood bar. He felt a sensation like tiny pin pricks run up his bare arms. Steele rarely missed a target of opportunity, so he had to be softening him up. The trouble was, he couldn't imagine why he'd bother, at this late date. Laura and Bernice had done their vigil, first one, then the other, camped out along with the moving boxes, trying to talk him down from the proverbial ledge like he was Alfred R. Hollis, the suicidal bank clerk. But his mind was made up – all sales final -- and he had a new set of luggage and a plane ticket to Denver to prove it.

He might as well get the charade over with. "Did Laura send you?"

Steele laughed softly, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "God, no. Reminding you that I'm still around would be the inverse of her strategy."

"Then why are you here?" He waited, knowing that any disclosure would come by the most circuitous route.

Steele set down his beer and sat up, feet apart on the floor, hands resting loosely on his knees. There was an unaccustomed line to his posture, more open, less guarded, as if some of his emotional caution had worn slightly thin.

Murphy's eyes narrowed. Maybe it was another Steele gambit, as finely tailored as one of his suits, but the gaze that lifted to meet his own was almost uncomfortably clear and direct. "I've always respected the art of making a graceful exit," he began.

"I guess you would, in your line of work."

Steele looked mildly chagrined, and on somewhat closer inspection, visibly frayed around the edges. "On the other hand, these past few days have been purgatory. If you're trying to step aside and do the noble thing, well, it's not exactly working."

He couldn't resist the comeback. "Tell me that Laura has you doing legwork and I'll die a happy man."

"It's only a matter of a few hours, I'm sure."

He gave a slow, sideways grin. It was victory of a sort, though it came a little late. "Well you can't hide out here."

"You should see what we've all been reduced to in your absence. Miss Wolf broke a nail hefting one of those doorstop directories of yours."

"Skip tracing is hell."

"Even I've grown accustomed to your face – glaring at me over the sports page every morning."

He knew what had to come next. Laura. He braced himself, but Steele fell silent. Could it be that even he didn't have the audacity to play that trump card? It was pointless anyway. Murphy's throat tightened. He didn't need to be told how Laura was taking it. He'd seen the look on her face as she'd turned to go, as if he'd neatly managed to cut her heart in two.

Feeling numb, his brain on automatic, he watched Steele's long fingers trace a pattern in the frosting of his beer glass. Those fingers were deceptively strong, a fact he had discovered once when he'd ambushed Steele in an alley and had tried to shake him loose.

"Do you remember the Kenji Ito case? The night when you went searching for the girl?"

Murphy startled, collecting his wits. How did he do that? Practically read his mind. There was a lot about that night that left him twisted up inside. His face flushed. "Forget the teamwork speech. It won't work anymore. It can't work –"

Steele was up on his feet. "But it worked splendidly, Murphy. Me, you, Laura, Bernice." But as he spoke the familiar words, there was an air of failed gallantry about him, as if he were a captain at the point of a doomed cavalry charge.

Murphy stood there, arms loose at his sides, feeling the fight begin to drain out of him. "Look, you knew, she knew that once you came on the scene things could never be the same. Someone had to be the odd man out."

"Self sacrificing of you Murphy, but I hate winning in a forfeit. It's rather less than a woman like Laura deserves."

He knew Steele was trying to goad him into a reaction, hit him squarely where it hurt the most. "You think you see everything, but you don't," he shot back. "It's time I left. It's past time. I have to carve out something on my own."

Steele nodded his acquiescence with more fellow feeling than he might have guessed. "There we have a meeting of the minds, Murphy. I've seen enough of our sharp-elbowed and determined Miss Holt to wonder if the agency will ever be anything but indubitably hers -- no matter whose name is on that door."

He rubbed his chin in a gesture of resignation. "Funny how life turns out. You, me, Laura, this whole crazy triangle."

"I suppose there's the plot of a bad movie somewhere in there."

"The thing is, even the subplots are getting weird. Take Sherry for instance –"

"Exceptional girl."

"Couldn't agree more, but she seems more like your type than mine."

Steele's appraisal was more frank than he expected. "I'll admit I harbored certain fantasies."

"I should have known you would." But the territorial pose he'd adopted, hands on hips, was more out of reflex than active jealousy.

"Down Murphy! Not the kind you think. She'd make a smashing partner for Trivial Pursuit. They've come out with a Silver Screen Edition. We could while away the hours, matching our wits in every category." Steele smiled softly at the possibilities.

He felt himself flinch. He was no Carl Sagan, but it didn't take a scientist to know that the cosmos had folded in upon itself and somehow formed Steele's female mirror image.

"See, that's what's scary. I pick up a random woman in a bar and you might as well be twins!"

Steele's brows knit in eloquent confusion. "Come again?"

"She's another you! It all fits! The misdirection about what she really did for a living, the movie quotes, the odd skills –"

"Like psychoanalysis?" Steele pursed his lips doubtfully. "Not really up my street."

"Well, if you're going to nitpick – "

Steele held up both palms in mock surrender.

Murphy paced energetically, his brain on the brink of a truth that was stranger than fiction. "I had a shot at a perfectly good romance, maybe even something more, but there you were, right between us, just like with Laura!"

Steele slowly backed away as if avoiding a cantankerous wino on the street. "Murphy, old chap. I haven't seen you like this since that hot, hazy day in the desert. I've never known gold fever to have residual effects."

"It's not gold fever!"

"Then I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything!"

"Erm, maybe we should take this one step at a time," Steele said placatingly. "Perhaps Sherry has a colleague that could help."

"I don't need a shrink," he said tightly through his teeth. "I just need you to be eight hundred and fifty miles away!"

"Out of sight, out of mind and all that, but are you sure it will work?"

Murphy swallowed hard. "It has to."

"I'm no expert, but willing a thing doesn't always make it so."

"So now you're my therapist, too!"

Steele appeared to examine this wild and crazy notion with the thoughtful sobriety of a judge. "Since you brought it up," he offered, "there are time honored ways of getting things out of one's system, as it were. At least there always are in the movies."

Murphy held his head in his hands and groaned. "I knew I should have taken that early flight out."

"Nonsense, Murphy. No time like the present."

He circled the notion warily. "OK, I'll bite. What do they do in the movies?

Steele plunged in with his usual enthusiasm. "Well, with two male antagonists there's often some form of epic battle. A knock down drag out fight is rather typical."

Murphy's lips drew back in a smile. "This therapy is sounding better already."

The look that crossed Steele's face said he hadn't been quite as clever as he thought he had. "On the other hand, they could have an epic card game or an epic wine tasting."

"I think you got it right the first time."

"I can see this method is striking a chord," Steele said dryly. "Been itching for this chance, have you?"

"Since day one."

"It's not often I would give someone who wants to beat my brains out a free chance at it, at least, not willingly."

"Maybe you should have held a raffle. I bet there'd be a line around the block."

"This is in the service of a higher calling. The interest of science." Steele rolled up his sleeves.

He felt a sudden letdown. "But if it's therapy, won't you have to let me win?"

Steele put a finger to his forehead. "Focus, Murphy, focus. If the outcome is known in advance it would hardly be a proper experiment, eh?"

"OK, then. You're on."

Steele paused. "There is one slight problem."

"Too late to back out now."

"Wouldn't want to for the world. But we'll have to invent a cover story before we meet Laura and Miss Wolf at the airport tomorrow."

"Good point. If they see us looking like the sequel to the last 'Rocky' movie they'll never stop asking questions."

"We'll say we went to a bar for a farewell drink and then, ah . . ." Steele motioned him to elaborate.

"Right, a farewell drink, and we were minding our own business until some drunken bums started, uh, casting aspersions on --" Murphy ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "What were they casting aspersions on?"

"Or on whom? Think of the sort of bar room insults that usually start fists flying."

"Your mother."

Steele arched an eyebrow. "My mother, Mrs. Steele?"

"I don't think Laura would buy that one."

"Then what would win her over to our side? Remind me again. Doesn't she have a favorite sports team?"

"Depends on which sport, but for fan loyalty through thick and thin, I'd say the Stanford Cardinal."

"Excellent! Let's recap, then, shall we? We were having a sociable last drink when some inebriates –"

"From USC –"

"Precisely. USC, insulted the Stanford Cardinal!"

"We taught them a lesson they'll never forget!" he cried, imagining a bench clearing melee of major league proportions.

Steele beamed at their imaginary triumph. "We did, didn't we?"

"I think we've got a winner."

"Do you think she'll want gory details? Whether they were shouting filthy cheers or something?"

He glared back at Steele. "Whaddaya mean? You think we're all a bunch of soccer hooligans in the good old US of A?"

"I stand corrected."

"I'm kidding. Hey, it's USC. Whatever you can accuse them of, they're totally guilty."

"Ah, a case of 'consider the source.'"

Murphy rubbed his hands together. It would be fun to get Laura all worked up. "Now that's settled," he said happily, "let's ring the bell and get this show on the road."

"Eager to throw that first punch, eh, Murphy?"

"Bingo, but first we have to get the rules straight."

"Rules? Tsk. Advantage Murphy," Steele winked. "I've always fought better without them, but no matter. Let's keep the outcome respectable."

"I'm sure for you that'll be a first." Murphy glanced around the room. "Rule number one, be careful with the furniture. It's rented and I don't need another moving expense right now." The van and the movers, now on the highway with everything he owned, had already cost him plenty.

"Pity," Steele sighed theatrically. "Fighting with furniture is a grand old swashbuckling tradition. "'The Prisoner of Zenda' is a classic case in point. It's odd," he ruminated, "I prefer the Stewart Granger version even though in most respects it's a carbon copy of the original."

"Rule number two, no movie quotes."

Steele shot him a look of disparagement that was only half unserious. "Spoil sport. Though, in fairness, I should give myself some handicap."

"Rule number three …" He was beginning to enjoy this. He left the rulebook hanging in the air and launched a swift, staggering blow to Steele's midsection. Though the motion was a blur the strike was a year in the making, a smashing, pile-driving payback for every moment of jealousy, resentment, and petty frustration he'd been forced to endure at his rival's hands. Like the sudden escalation of a cold war, this first salvo felt good, no matter what future retaliation might rain down on his head. With a broad grin he surveyed the damage – the imperturbable Remington Steele, knocked back on his rear and staring up at him, his photogenic features perfectly dumbstruck as he rose painfully and slowly to his feet.

"I underestimated you, Murphy," Steele forced out, as if his breath had been knocked somewhere south of his shoes. "Nothing like a spot of good old fashioned cheating to get the ball rolling."

"I never said I would warn you." He saw Steele's palm cradle the spot where his fist had landed. "I'll bet you haven't been hit that hard in a while."

Steele mentally calibrated. "Perhaps you're right. I've had a bit of time off for good behavior."

Murphy grinned wolfishly. "Maybe you're going soft."

"I wouldn't count on that." Steele's clear blue gaze was bold with mischief.

"Then help me move the coffee table."

"Delighted. Your shameless cheating aside, how shall we continue the duration of the experiment?"

"Three minute rounds on points? That is, absent a knockdown or knockout?''

"I think three rounds of three minutes would suffice. We don't want to beat each other senseless."

Murphy nodded agreement. "I'll get an egg timer." He fetched one from the kitchen. "This is fine as far as it goes, but how do we keep score?"

"Tricky business. We'll have to self report. I hope you can remember the make of the lorry that hit you."

"I'll be sure to get the license plate."