CONSTRAINED STEELE

by Peg Daniels

PART 1

****

“Rubies are hot. Rubies are fire, blood, passion. Rubies live, pulse, throb. Rubies can corrupt you, twist your soul, make you lose your way. A ruby is always the possessor, never the possessed. It either loves you or hates you. If it hates you, it will destroy you. But a ruby is treacherous – you never know how a ruby truly feels about you until it’s too late.”

A jeweller had told Steele this, and he believed it. “A ruby,” his old friend had added, “is like a woman.”

Steele eyed the ruby, now dangling so tantalizingly close. It was a deep, clear, ‘pigeon blood’ red, the most valuable. Over six carats. Of extremely rare quality, commanding a price approaching $225,000 per carat. Few people realized that on a per-carat basis the rarest, most valuable gemstones were these hot-blooded rubies, not the cold-as-ice diamonds.

Well, except for royal lavulite, of course.

This was the most exquisite ruby to which Steele had ever had the chance to be up close – and personal. It was hard, deciding whether he’d rather be examining the ruby more closely or its wearer, this evening’s companion. Lora Raeder was in her early twenties, a statuesque beauty, looking simply ravishing in a deceptively simple black dress with a 24-karat gold clasp just below her right shoulder. Her fine blonde hair was swept up atop her head, tendrils escaping fetchingly. Around her neck was a delicate gold necklace, supporting the magnificent gem. She lightly fingered the ruby with one hand while her other hand trailed languidly up and down the front of Steele’s white dinner jacket, heightening his dilemma. Steele didn’t mind.

It did make paying attention to their conversation difficult, though. They were discussing the Raeder Unicorn Tapestries, which hung in the Trophy Room of the Raeder mansion: seven magnificent pieces, woven of threads of wool and silk, silver and gold, replicating the series, ‘The Hunt of the Unicorn.’ Unlike the originals, which hung in The Cloisters at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and were woven about 1600, these had been commissioned by Erich Raeder not quite a year ago. As each piece was approximately twelve feet by twelve feet, the artisans must have worked feverishly to complete them in time for the Raeders’ move here.

“You remind me of a unicorn,” she said to him. Her voice was low, sexy.

And she reminded him of a lioness on the prowl, with her catlike grace and her half-closed eyes of gold-flecked brown. “I hope you mean the embodiment of courtly purity and perfection – and not the poor fellow portrayed in the tapestries,” he replied, giving her an amused grin.

She swept her hand across his chest and shook her head slowly. “I mean that mythical blue-eyed beast, too swift to be captured, too fierce to be tamed, too beautiful to be forgotten, too mysterious to be understood.”

He laughed quietly. What would Laura think of this characterization? He was afraid he knew.

As another guest came to join them and claimed Ms. Raeder’s attention, he stole a glance to the south. Earlier in the evening the view had been impressive – the expanse of emerald green grass; the lush gardens awash in colour, butterflies flitting from bloom to bloom; and in the background, across the basin, the hills above Culver City. Now, it was too dark to make out much of anything, despite the illumination provided on this side of the mansion by the floodlights on top of the roof.

No matter. He had in mind a far lovelier view, another precious gem, someone who shared many qualities of the ruby – definitely fire and passion – but kept them hidden inside an exterior hard as diamond to penetrate. At least for him.

Ah, there she was, on the other side of the pool, engaged in conversation with Ms. Raeder’s husband and Murphy. Murphy looked ill at ease, of course, in his tuxedo. Laura was attractively attired in a three-quarter length black satin sheath with straps, a black gauze overlay, and an asymmetrical bottom hemline. It clung to her in all the right places, emphasizing her small, lithe body, but hiding her dancer’s legs a little too much for his taste.

Reluctantly, Steele tore his gaze from her and turned it to Erich Raeder. Sixty-five years old, the man looked closer to fifty. He was tall, trim, powerfully-built, and resplendently attired in a beautifully-tailored white dinner jacket. Steele felt a brief stab of envy at the tailoring job, though he had no cause to complain about his own finely cut suit.

Erich Raeder was a curious man. He was the nephew of Admiral Erich Raeder, grand admiral of the German fleet under Hitler until Hitler, disillusioned with the performance of the German navy, accused the admiral of incompetence and forced his resignation. The younger Raeder, however, was interested in a different arena of conquest, and no one would accuse him of incompetence. Considered ruthless and brilliant, this Raeder was said to gobble up corporations – and men – for breakfast. There wasn’t a shadow of emotion on Raeder’s thin, aristocratic face as he talked with Miss Holt. Then again, in the weeks he’d been working with Raeder, Steele had come to feel emotion was foreign to the man.

Now Miss Holt’s facial expression, that was a different story. Though he couldn’t imagine Raeder could be saying anything of the slightest interest to her, Steele would never know it. Even at this distance her dimpled smile lit up the place in a way that –

Steele started, and his attention snapped back to Ms. Raeder. Her hand had wandered a bit low. He realized they were alone again. He tried to pick up her thread of conversation.

“ – so fortunate for us Erich’s latest acquisition was Dillon Electronics. And we have you to thank for that, in a way. If you hadn’t exposed Mrs. Dillon, the company would’ve been run into the ground, and that galoot Meecham would’ve turned it into an industrial park. An electronics company is so much more useful to Erich. He does love his toys.” Her hand brushed his thigh. “And we got the added bonus of discovering you, of engaging your . . . services.”

“The Remington Steele Detective Agency does aim to please.”

“Oh . . . he does.” She ran her tongue over moist, sensuous, ruby-red lips.

Steele returned her seductive smile with one of his own. Though he’d only met Ms. Raeder yesterday, he suspected she also gobbled up men for breakfast. Lord knows, he had a weakness for beautiful, glamorous women – Ms. Raeder was simply the most stunning woman he had ever encountered, and he had encountered quite a few – but he was not naive. She was playing a game, had been playing one from the moment they’d been introduced, with the looks, the touching, the innuendo. He willingly played along. For now. Had this been another time, another place, another life, he might have been tempted to carry it further.

“I understand some tragedy occurred during your work on that case, though. . . . An employee was murdered?”

Steele’s throat tightened. His first real involvement in a case had led to tragedy. Wallace. Murdered when he discovered Mrs. Dillon’s deceit. Wallace. . . . He clenched his hands, trying to suppress the anger he still felt whenever those memories surfaced. Memories of that callous morgue attendant assuming Wallace was just a junkie who’d OD’d. Memories of the attendant telling Laura if she wanted an autopsy, get the stiff to her own pathologist.

He’d grabbed the man, made a pathetic attempt to summarize Wallace’s life in a few short sentences: ‘That stiff once made twenty-seven straight passes in a crap game, he had a daughter he put through college, he liked to fish off King's Point, and he read the “Wizard of Id.” That stiff was my friend.’ How could the essence of a man be adequately described so briefly? It’d been nearly a year, and yet Steele still felt sick to his stomach at these memories of his first introduction to the deadly side of his role as Remington Steele.

He realized he hadn’t answered Ms. Raeder, who stood observing him in silence, fingering his lapel. He unclenched his fists and let out a breath. “A friend, actually.”

“Oh.” She lifted a hand to his face and stroked him, but the mood had been lost. “Still, I suppose you must get used to that in your line of work.”

“One never gets used to the loss of a friend.”

Just as she started to reply, the estate was plunged into darkness. The next moment, the murmurs of the crowd were cut off by the unmistakable sound of an alarm piercing the night.

****

With each passing moment, the crowd became more restive, impeding the progress of the party of three trying to make its way to the pavilion from the farthest side of the pool. Erich Raeder had commandeered Murphy’s penlight and taken the lead, impatiently pushing at those too slow to get out of his way, occasionally muttering something in German under his breath. Murphy followed in his wake, just behind Laura, feeling like he was in a military parade march.

Finally, they were at the northwest end of the mansion, at the iron-gated entrance to the pavilion. Murphy whispered to Laura, “Looks like they won’t be showing any first-run movie in here tonight after all. Bet Steele’ll be mad, huh partner?” Despite the atmosphere of tension, they both snickered, Steele’s obsession with movies being an endless source of amusement and exasperation.

They worked their way to the other side of the pavilion and entered the door to the house proper, passing a security guard. They then went down the narrow corridor, which ran south. The corridor opened into the Glass Room. This room opened to all sides – each room on the main floor of the mansion was, in fact, connected to all its neighbors. To the west lay the drawing room, and through its windows Murphy could see the moonlight reflecting off the pool. To the south was the Jewelry Room, seldom open to visitors, now locked tight. To the east lay their destination, the front hall.

As Raeder strode through the Glass Room, Murphy tried to keep up, but he and Laura fell back, practically clinging to each other in an effort not to damage any of the priceless works around them. Laura’s penlight barely pierced the darkness. Raeder’s irritation at their slowness penetrated much further.

They exited the room and went down another corridor, their shoes clicking softly on the black-and-white marble floor. Laura swept the penlight beam around the hall as they moved. They were now midway down the hall. The penlight illuminated the white marble columns that framed the grand stairwell and marked where the hall opened up on the left to the main entrance to the mansion. Murphy turned to the left, noting how Laura’s beam first caught the white marble staircase and then the imposing rock crystal chandelier overhead, which split the beam into a thousand shards. Next to the staircase was a marble-topped table. The command console, the heart of the alarm system for the main floor, sat on it. But except for the panic button, the system had been turned off on this floor for the party; otherwise, guests opening and closing doors would set it off. In its stead, several guards, hand-picked from Raeders’ security division, had been patrolling the main floor. As effectively as any alarm system, these muscular models of Aryan perfection had discouraged guests from exploring the house proper.

Raeder pushed a button; the alarm was silenced. “Miss Holt, see to the main floor. This alarm triggers a signal to my own monitoring agency, and they will alert my security force. More men will arrive promptly. Direct them to me, upstairs. Mr. Michaels, come.”

Murphy didn’t need to see her face to know his partner bristled beside him. He could take Raeder’s imperiousness much more easily than Laura – she would take it as a put-down of her competence. As she stalked off, he and Raeder moved to the stairs.

“Where is Harald?” Raeder asked the guard in front of the stairway.

"Er ist oben mit Herrn Steele, Herr Raeder."

“What’s that about Mr. Steele?” Murphy asked.

“He is upstairs.” Raeder turned back to the guard. “Are there any other guests in the mansion?”

“Nein, Herr Raeder.”

“See to the lights, Dieter.”

“Jawohl, Herr Raeder.”

Raeder took the guard’s flashlight and handed Murphy’s penlight back to him as they started climbing the stairs. On the upper landing stood a marble-topped table with the command console for the upstairs system. They were met by another guard, emerging from one of the bedrooms.

“Where is Mr. Steele?”

“Er ist im Museum, Herr Raeder.”

“Go back downstairs, Harald.”

“Jawohl, Herr Raeder.”

The rooms on the west side, from where the guard had come, either overlooked or were fairly close to the scene of the party. Murphy and Mr. Raeder moved to the east side of the floor, entirely occupied by the Museum Room, which housed Raeder’s personal art collection, and by the Trophy Room adjoining it.

They crossed the stair hall and entered the museum side by side. Shining their flashlight beams up and down the aisles, they made their way across the vast room. Halfway, Murphy was startled by a sound coming from directly ahead, from the balcony. Both he and Raeder flicked off their lights. Murphy saw a flashlight beam, and then a figure, partially illuminated, entered the balcony door. As if by silent agreement, Murphy and Raeder switched on their flashlights simultaneously, catching the figure in the beams.

“Oh!” Steele swung his torch beam at the men. “Murphy!” He touched a hand to his chest to calm his heart.

Murphy and Raeder strode towards him.

“What were you doing out there?” Murphy added a belated, “Sir.”

Steele flicked his eyes towards Murphy, but kept his tone professional. “The door was unlocked, Murphy. I was checking for an intruder.”

“Did you see anyone, Mr. Steele?”

Steele turned to Raeder. “No, but I haven’t checked out the museum proper.”

“Then let us do so and see if anything has been taken. Mr. Steele, see to the Trophy Room.” Raeder pivoted and clipped off to the north side of the room.

Steele hesitated. Murphy frowned at him and went to the balcony door, which overlooked a large, immaculately groomed kitchen garden. “No sign of forced entry.”

“Picked, no doubt.” Steele sighed and moved off to the south side of the room, noting that Murphy stayed by the door.

Moving down the aisles, Steele used his torch to scan the exhibits around him. This room had presented a delightful puzzle. Raeder had wanted him to vary the detection and delay technologies used for the display cases, so that if an intruder somehow managed to ferret out the secrets of one case, that knowledge couldn’t be used to breach another. Ironic that Steele’s own expertise at breaking into such places to relieve them of their riches should be applied to designing a system to prevent just that kind of assault – except from him. He grinned.

He’d gotten quite creative in his designs but had had to temper some of them at Raeder’s insistence: cost-effectiveness was not Steele’s strong point, and Raeder had quashed a few of his flights of fancy in its name. Still, his designs were ne plus ultra . His and Carl’s designs, that is. Of course, as ‘Remington Steele’ he’d taken all the credit. But Carl – nearly as skilled as he in burglary and its accessory tasks such as lockpicking and safecracking – had been indispensable. The two of them had had a wicked good time on the project.

Weaving his way through the room, he passed paintings by old German masters from the time of Dürer. Cranach, whose works were favoured by the Nazis, was particularly well-represented. There was a van Gogh, a Matisse – both priceless. He passed by exquisite inlaid furniture, rich Renaissance tapestries, sculptures, glass-paintings, antique silver, arts and crafts from late Gothic to Renaissance times. Some items had little plaques proclaiming them as having been acquired from the Schäfer collection of Scloss Schweinfurt, or from the castle of the Prince and Princess Leopold of Bavaria, or from the princely houses of Löwenstein or Hohenzollern – even a few from the last Queen of Portugal, the last King of Bavaria.

Finally, he’d traversed the room and was at the entrance to the Trophy Room on the southwest side of the museum. He supposed he had to go in there. He wished he could think of a good excuse to have Murphy or Raeder go in there instead. He wished the lights were on. He wished Ms. Raeder hadn’t just compared him to a unicorn.

He shook himself, gave an uneasy laugh. Sometimes he could be so superstitious. He shined his torch into the Trophy Room. The layout of this room was bizarre. Raeder had erected a long corridor that wound clear back to the east wall of the mansion, and then to the south, to the mansion wall there, before entering into the Trophy Room proper. Along one side of the corridor hung the Unicorn Tapestries. But, although wider than normal, the corridor was not wide enough to give a proper perspective to the tapestries even in normal light.

Steele entered the corridor, and in the eerie glow of his torch, he felt the walls closing in on him. With each step he increased his pace. Tapestry dogs – greyhounds in front, chasing by sight; running hounds in back, chasing by scent – and hunters, with ugly, cruel faces, bore down on him and the unicorn. Finally, at nearly full sprint, he rounded the last corner, but not with relief.

The room he now entered repulsed him, out of place amidst the artistry of the rest of the mansion: an armoury of historical military and hunting weaponry, at three thousand artifacts one of the largest private collections in the world. Raeder boasted that a number of the weapons were spoils of war, captured by members of his own family. As Steele played his torch about the room, it picked out one of Raeder’s prize possessions, an ‘Honour Pattern’ Naval dirk, awarded by Grand Admiral Erich Raeder to some ‘deserving’ U-boat captain, or naval hero, or retiring admiral. The Damascus blade had been specially hand-forged, but its pommel was literally its crowning glory. The brass pommel’s design included an eagle on which was set a swastika with seventeen rose-cut, individually-set diamonds, four in each swastika leg and the last one in the centre. Quite beautiful indeed, if one could only forget the symbol on which they were mounted.

Most bizarre were the other displays in the room: the stuffed bodies of animals Raeder had hunted and slaughtered. As Steele swept his torch around the room, a grizzly bear, a leopard, a lion, a rhino, a cougar, a cape buffalo, a wild boar, each leapt at him to tear him to pieces.

He shook his head. Such blood lust displayed amidst exquisite art. This sight had given him a whole new perspective on the rest of Raeder’s collection – combining this sight, the dubious provenance of some of the art pieces, and Raeder’s predilection for conquest in the business world, he couldn’t help but think that each art piece must also somehow represent some sort of vanquishment.

As he turned to go, the glare of his penlight again caught the dirk. Odd. The half-metre cube display case looked different. Holding his penlight in his teeth, he felt around the under edges of the display case. Unlike the rest of his treasures, Raeder wanted the dirk easy to get at, so there was this little trick . . . . He heard the click and carefully opened the case. Taking the penlight in hand, he inspected the interior. It looked as if someone had inserted a small, thin rectangular object between the casing and the black velvet cloth that covered it – only someone as intimately familiar with this case as he was would ever notice it. He reached behind the dirk, cautiously lifted the cloth – and nearly dropped the torch in surprise. Talk about dubious provenance –

“Mr. Steele. We have a problem.” The cultured voice, only betraying its Germanic origin by the pronunciation of the ‘w’ with a slight ‘v’ sound and by its stilted formality, carried through the walls even into this cavernous room.

The lights overhead came back on. Steele sighed with relief. He tucked the velvet back and closed the case, then threaded his way through the exhibits and jogged through the corridor, studiously avoiding looking at the tapestries. He entered the Museum Room and headed towards the central aisle.

Raeder and Murphy stood midway down the northern section of the museum; a number of Raeder’s security men were now scattered throughout the room. Murphy was inspecting an opened display case and the area surrounding it, making sketches and diagrams in a small notebook, not touching anything – ‘securing the area and observing it carefully.’ Good old standard-operating-procedure Murphy.

Steele knew which exhibit they surrounded. “The mosaic was taken.”

As he joined them, Murphy eyed him. “You know the placement of every object in this room?”

“Of course not, Murphy,” – just most of them – “but this . . . . yes. An intricate mosaic of amber and . . . . royal lavulite.” He ignored Murphy’s sharp look.

“A gem that intrigues you, does it not, Mr. Steele?” Steele did look up at that. “I believe the first case you ever became personally involved in concerned royal lavulite,” Raeder continued.

Yes, the first ‘case.’ He’d come to Los Angeles to steal gems of royal lavulite and had ended up instead assuming the identity of Remington Steele. “That’s true, Mr. Raeder. I’m surprised you’d know that.”

“You should not be, Mr. Steele. I would not be who I am without thoroughly checking out everyone with whom I do business. Especially if it is someone I intend to employ.”

“Of course.”

They looked up as Harald came rushing back in. “Entschuldigen Sie bitte, Herr Raeder. Es betrifft ihre Gattin. Etwas ist geschehen.”

Steele took off running, hearing Murphy’s confused “What’s going on?” and then footsteps pounding after him.

****

A wide empty circle surrounded Laura and Ms. Raeder. On the circumference of the circle, various elegantly dressed guests were down on their hands and knees, crawling around the pool area. Laura was making sketches and diagrams of the area on some cocktail napkins. Ms. Raeder was in obvious distress, sobbing.

Laura looked up to see Steele and Murphy trying to navigate the crowd, finally succeeding and cautiously entering the circle. “Ms. Raeder, Miss Holt. What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Steele asked.

“Ms. Raeder’s necklace. It’s gone.” Laura could hear the tension in her own voice and chided herself for her unprofessionalism.

“Oh, my. Are you sure the chain didn’t simply break? Perhaps it’s around here somewhere, on the ground.” Steele gestured vaguely around him.

Laura nodded toward the other guests. “That’s why all these people are crawling around, Mr. Steele. But Ms. Raeder says she hasn’t moved from this spot. I’ve already searched inside this circle.”

“But who could’ve taken it? How?” Steele asked.

“That’s what we’re trying to determine, sir.” Again, she couldn’t keep the tension out of her voice. “Ms. Raeder says you were the one closest to her. That you caught her when she stumbled in the darkness.” She saw a glint of suspicion flare in Murphy’s eyes, no doubt mirroring her own. No, Murphy had more than a glint. A conflagration.

“Something struck the back of my knees, causing me to stumble,” Ms. Raeder offered tearfully.

Steele turned to Ms. Raeder and touched her arm. “Yes, well, I assure you, Ms. Raeder, the Remington Steele Agency will give the matter its full attention. We will unearth the culprit responsible.”

“You can count on it.” Laura’s words were directed to Ms. Raeder, but her pointed gaze was upon Steele.

****

Myriad reasons could be given why many guests had already scattered, leaving as soon as they could after the alarm went off and before the police arrived: they thought it none of their business, or they feared the publicity, or they didn’t want to be inconvenienced by the questioning, or, worse, by having to appear in court.

Or they had something to hide.

Steele’s voice came clearly from inside the library, where the police were interviewing him. Laura stared at the library door. Interviewing? Who was she kidding? It was an interrogation. An interrogation of the man who would not reveal even his own name.

The library door opened. She started toward it, then stopped in disappointment as a detective came out instead of the person she’d hoped for.

“Miss Holt, I want to verify some information with you.”

“Of course, Detective – ?”

“Russell. Mr. Steele was hired to design and oversee the installation of the Raeders’ interior security system six weeks ago, correct?” Well, that was the official version, though Laura knew some of Wallace’s crew had helped with the design. She nodded. “I have here that Mr. Steele hired a crew of men from the Lost and Found Mission to do the actual installation.”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“Detective?”

Russell looked up from his notes. “Interesting how men of such obvious expertise all flocked to the same Mission.”

Laura’s heart missed a beat. She’d queried Steele during the Dillon case about the competence of Wallace’s crew in setting up a security system. The words he’d spoken at that time came back to her: ‘Between them they've over seventy-five years of experience.’ What he’d left unsaid she’d nevertheless understood – that experience was in burgling. Oh, why had she let Steele do this job unsupervised? She feigned confidence. “We’ve been using them for nearly a year, Detective. They’ve done excellent work for us.”

“So, Mr. Steele spent six weeks out here – ”

Six weeks going over every inch of the house and grounds –

“ – and the last three of those weeks the crew was also here.”

Doing God knows what. Laura wasn’t sure if the insinuations were actually there or if she heard them in the detective’s voice because of her own fears. At any rate, there was nothing she could refute.

“Now, tonight,” – the detective flipped to the next page of his notes, and Laura steeled herself – “the power went out and the alarm went off shortly after that.”

“That’s correct, Detective Russell.”

****

Steele finished his tale of the evening’s events, then responded to the questions put by Detective Kearney for clarifications and more details. When Kearney could wring nothing new from him, Kearney thanked him. As Steele turned to leave, Kearney said, “Mr. Steele, let me just go over the high points again.” Steele nodded. These Beverly Hills coppers were much more polite than most of those he’d dealt with before – especially those from his ‘pre-Steele’ days – but beneath Kearney’s veneer, Steele discerned an intelligence and street sense conceivably as keen as his own. Great. Just what he needed – a ‘Lieutenant Columbo’ on his tail. Kearney looked up from his notes. “You were standing next to Ms. Raeder when the power went out.”

“That’s right.”

“Ms. Raeder stumbled, and you caught her.”

“I caught her, yes.”

“Do you know what caused her to stumble?”

‘Did Steele hook his leg around her?’ was really the question swimming below the surface of Kearney’s mind, but there was no point in Steele letting show he knew this. “Ms. Raeder said something struck the back of her knees.”

Kearney gave him the once-over, then continued. “After she stumbled, you took off to the Museum Room.”

“To investigate the alarm.”

“And you went out onto the balcony why?”

“I found the door unlocked – ”

“Your associate discovered an amber-and-royal lavulite mosaic had been stolen from the Museum Room. And Ms. Raeder discovered that the ruby necklace worth over a million dollars had been taken right off her neck.” Prosaically put, but Steele recognized the bait; he didn’t take it. After another swift look-over, Kearney continued. “Mr. Raeder and Mr. Michaels say that after the theft of the mosaic was discovered, you took off running.”

Provocative phrasing, that. He looked Kearney in the eye – always look ’em in the eye, Daniel had taught him. “The guard came in. He said something had happened to Ms. Raeder – I understand German a little. I headed towards – ”

“Mr. Steele, I’d like to ask you to submit to a search.”

Steele couldn’t help but admire Kearney. This man would keep him on his toes.

****

“Perps knew their stuff.”

Laura stopped pacing in the front hall, her thoughts on the crime scene interrupted by the portly Beverly Hills police detective who bowled in from the east side of the mansion. “What do you mean?”

“Removed the electric meter to cut the electricity to the house. Safer, better, than cutting wiring. Cut the power from the garage, made the easy climb to the balcony above, bingo! Whoever planned this knew the house, knew the security set-up, knew how to break into the display case.” For the first time, the man faced her; in contrast to the little piggy eyes she’d expected, he had cold eyes, shark eyes. She could see him smelling for blood as he added, “And knew how to get close to Ms. Raeder.”

She kept her face impassive. “Have you found the necklace or the mosaic?”

“Not yet, ma’am. But we will, we will.” His flat expression belied the politeness of his voice as he left her with a “Ma’am.”

Laura glanced at Murphy, who was speaking to his police photographer friend, then turned back toward the library door as Steele walked out between two officers. He still wore a confident look, still held himself in his usual proud, stately manner. Still in full Steele mode. They stepped into the front hall, obviously heading toward the door.

Oh, no. “Where are you taking him?”

“To the hospital,” Kearney replied.

“The hospital?”

“Internal search, x-rays, the whole nine yards.”

“Are you arresting him?”

“No.”

She was about to protest further when Steele said in a firm voice, “It’s all right, Miss Holt. I’ve agreed.”

She wished he hadn’t. Not only did it limit the range of his defense in later proceedings should he be arrested, but even if he only wanted to show them he had nothing to hide, what he might consider insignificant – a piece of paper with a telephone number, a receipt – might be incriminating evidence in the hands of the police. Funny, she would’ve thought he would’ve known things like this. Maybe he did. Who knew how his mind worked?

She watched as they led him outside, her impotence making her feel caged. She wished she could inspect the premises further, or question the hosts and remaining guests, or at least leave so she could start mapping out her strategy on this case, but the police would allow none of that at this time: like any PI, she wasn’t welcome at an active crime scene, and they wanted to interview her again.

She started pacing east down the hall, her feet on automatic pilot. She stopped cold when she realized she’d gone through the Porcelain Foyer, turned into the Dining Room, and was now at the entrance to the Breakfast Room. On the opposite side of the room, the bay window gave a view of the Lunar Garden. Normally, such a sublime sight would’ve filled her with peace. But now . . . . now it brought back memories that warred with her worries that she’d made a terrible mistake in allowing a man skilled in chicanery and art theft to be her frontman, let alone in putting him in charge of the security of the Raeders’ riches. She gave a hollow laugh. She’d made a mistake? She must’ve been insane.

She crossed the room and stared out the window. Was it only a few days ago that, with permission from Mr. Raeder, Steele had taken her for an evening stroll there?

They’d wandered through the garden, their fingers occasionally brushing, neither of them bold enough to take the other’s hand. Somehow, Steele had arranged for the main pathways to be lit by candles in crystal holders set atop ceramic tiles. A sensuous, romantic fragrance had filled the late-summer night.

“What’s this?” Steele reached out to touch one of the eight-foot tall shrubs filled with thousands of tiny, green-yellow flowers expressing a sweet, hypnotic perfume.

“Night-blooming jasmine – Queen of the Night.” Laura reached out to touch it herself.

Steele grinned at her. “You can almost feel the scent in the air.” He moved on to some small trees filled with flowers, yellow and peach and pink and gold and white, hanging like bells, tropical and decadent, adding their intoxicating odor to the blend. He turned to her, lifting an eyebrow.

“That’s Brugmansia – Angel’s Trumpet.”

“Aptly named.” He bent to sniff a three-foot bush. Every one of its huge flowers, double purple with white centers, their edges rolling back to form tendrils, pointed upwards. “These are fruity.”

“It’s a type of Datura. It’s called Purple Devil’s Trumpet.”

He gave her a sly grin. “Ah, angels and devils, eh? They mix surprisingly well with each other, don’t you think?” Without waiting for her answer, he strode over to a trellis filled with vines. “I know these. Moonflower – the ‘no-light flower.’” The magical, pure white blossoms with their flat faces luminescing in the dark and their leaves shaped like hearts were headily fragrant.

“I can teach you all about flowers, Mr. Steele.”

Suddenly, he was standing in front of her, hardly any distance at all between them, looking down at her. “I’m only interested in one. A rose. It’s called an ‘American Beauty.’”

“It comes with thorns, Mr. Steele.” She put her hands on his shoulders.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Her awareness of the other sensual delights surrounding them was obliterated when Steele led her off the pathway and, under the blanket of darkness, took her in his arms and kissed her –

Murphy opened the door to the Breakfast Room and noted how Laura tensed as he entered. That damn con man. How could he do this to her? She’d finally turned a corner with the guy and decided to move their relationship to a more personal one, and now it turned out that all along he’d just been waiting for his chance to pull off something big. Dammit, even he himself had finally gotten to the point where he’d looked upon the guy’s continued presence as a commitment of sorts. But this guy had waited them out, gained their trust as never before, and seized the first opportunity to pull off a heist.

Laura glanced back at him, but then resumed looking out of the window. “How could they get through his security system so easily?”

“He set it up so he could get at the mosaic – a mosaic of royal lavulite.”

She turned quickly toward him. “He wouldn’t do that, Murphy.” But uncertainty flickered over her features.

For her sake, Murphy tried to rein in his anger. “What’s your theory, then?”

“An accomplice cut the power, then the thief ‘stumbled’ into Ms. Raeder and snatched the necklace – the chain was thin, easily snapped. Ms. Raeder’s attention was diverted from it by her fall. The accomplice stole the mosaic.”

Murphy shook his head. She was always trying to excuse the guy. Well, this was just too long a string of coincidences. “Think about it, Laura. Why did the alarm go off? Anyone with the skill to get the mosaic out of the display case that quickly and without setting off its individual alarms has the skills to not set off the main alarm. And the thief with the ruby could’ve just slipped out in the confusion created by the power outage alone – his absence would’ve never been noticed. But not if that thief was ‘The Great Remington Steele.’ For him, the alarm would have to go off, so he could investigate, so he could slip off to the Museum Room, pick up the mosaic, and pass it and the ruby to his partner.”

“Murphy – ”

“We know he has a special interest in royal lavulite. It’s simply back to business as usual. He couldn’t resist. Especially since he failed before to steal the royal lavulite we were guarding – ”

“Murphy – ”

“It all fits, C and D.” Cut and Dried. C and D, E and F, U and D. How long had it been since he’d shared that private lingo with Laura? It’d been replaced by a stupid code consisting of movie synopses, complete with annotations. Murphy went to stand before her to drive his point home. “He sucker-punched us, Laura.”

She shivered. “Murphy – ”

The door opened, and Jenkins, the rotund detective who’d spoken to Laura earlier, poked his head through. “Soon as a door or window was unlocked or opened, alarm would go off, right?” He held a doorlock in a plastic bag, no doubt taken from the balcony door. Laura nodded. “Guess we’ll check this baby out, see if it’s been picked. Not that it matters much. Luckiest thing if it wasn’t picked. Then the thief would have to be someone who was already in the house – he swiped the necklace, then the mosaic, opened the door, and tossed ’em to his accomplice. ’Course, I don’t think the thief’s that stupid. Most likely he picked it himself, just to throw off our scent.” As a seeming afterthought, he added, “Found a pick on Mr. Steele during our little search, ya know.” He eyed them both as if trying to decide if they were food capture, then nodded and left.

Laura’s mouth tightened. “There’s something about that man that makes me want to punch him right in his fat, jowly face.”

****

Murphy swung his fist, hitting the door. He saw Fred’s startled look in the rear view mirror but knew the driver was too discreet to ever make mention of what went on in this limo – Laura, and especially Steele, would make sure anyone privy to their more private goings on could keep secrets. He leaned his head from side to side, then brought it forward and back, trying to ease the tension in his neck muscles. He stared out the window. It wasn’t often he rode in the limo alone. Hell, it wasn’t often he rode in the limo at all – too pretentious. But Steele had proclaimed Laura’s Rabbit ‘most unsuitable’ for the occasion and that no employee of the agency bearing ‘his’ name should be seen coming to the party wallowing in Murphy’s Lincoln, so the three of them had come in the limo. Now with Steele being taken by the police to be searched at the hospital and Laura planning to run off after him in a taxi as soon as she’d finished up at the Raeders, Murphy was left to himself in this symbol of snobbery, so relished by Steele.

Suddenly, he had to get out of this car. “Pull over, Fred.” He refrained from slamming the door and strode down the sidewalk, not caring where he was, not seeing any passersby. Damn it, why had he ever let his guard down? Laura would never blame him, but he should've known better. He did know better. He knew how con men operated. Lord, hadn’t he had enough personal experience with them during his career?

Pivotal events during his college years had first put him on their scent. As soon as he could after graduating, he’d become a freelance PI, even traveled around the U.S. with a bounty hunter who specialized in con men. They’d dealt with block hustlers, shortchangers, pastors of persuasion, fraudulent telemarketers, door-to-door dupers, pyramid schemers, and glamour scammers. Oh, yes, Murphy knew all about con men. He’d once thought he’d devote his entire career to apprehending them.

It hadn’t quite worked out that way. The realities of the life he’d been leading had worn him down. He’d gotten tired of living in motel rooms, tired of eating at roadside diners, tired of never knowing where his next paycheck was coming from, tired of the air of sleaze surrounding bounty-hunting. He’d returned to California, done a brief stint at a small detective agency run by a judge, and then hit the big time with a job at the Havenhurst Detective Agency. There he’d met the remarkable Laura Holt. When she formed Remington Steele Investigations, it’d been an honor and a privilege to be asked by her to be her partner. He’d expanded his focus, helping her bring to justice many different kinds of characters, from the dregs of society to corporation slime.

And then he had oozed in. It’d been like a knife twisting in Murphy’s gut to see Laura, this special lady, fall under the con man’s charms from the very beginning. Murphy had kept thinking she’d surely see how wrong this was professionally, and how in her personal life she certainly deserved better than this glitzy fraud. Scratch his surface, and there was just a con man.

But if anything, she’d become more and more taken with him, though she’d fought it in herself and tried to hide it. Probably the only one she’d hid it from with any success was the con man himself, which had been just fine with Murphy since he’d figured the guy would get bored and move on. And then Murphy would pick up the pieces and show Laura that his quiet, true, steadfast love for her was there for the taking –

Murphy turned and whacked the building he was walking by. Why couldn’t the guy have just gotten bored and moved on? How could that damn con man have used Laura like this? Murphy could kick himself. He’d gone soft, not voiced his objections strongly enough in the beginning when he’d had his best chance. And despite his continued wariness, he’d always kept his objections toned down – he’d wanted Laura’s perceptions of the man’s basic decency to be correct, because of what she wanted for her agency. Most unforgivably, he’d allowed his own perceptions to be blunted by her continued support of the man.

He, with all his knowledge and experience of the tricks used by con men, had been had yet again. He, who should've known better, had forgotten a basic axiom: once a con man, always a con man.

Murphy pulled up short, then turned around and noticed Fred had been following him a discreet distance away. He got back in the car and stared out the window. “Home, Fred.”

Murphy leaned over and put his head in his hands. He, who wanted her happiness above all else, had failed Laura.

****

Jack Ritt was at the National Art Library. Several years ago, he’d made a £20,000 donation to the N.A.L. supporting cataloguing in the archives. He’d followed that donation with an application for a reader’s ticket to the archives: he’d confessed he thought of himself as an amateur art historian. He’d given a Dr. John Bunker, M.D., as a reference. When the N.A.L. wrote to Dr. Bunker for a referral, Jack wrote back, ‘Professor Ritt is a man of integrity,’ and signed the letter, ‘Dr. John Bunker.’ Since then, he’d continued making large, annual donations for cataloguing. After all, he had a vested interest.

Jack knew the most likely time that he’d be alone with the manuscripts. He was alone now. He took out from the stacks a 1955 catalogue for an exhibition at the Ohana Gallery of London, a place that had closed in the mid ’70's. He placed the catalogue in a museum bag and slipped it out of the building. He then drove north out of London to his home in Golders Green.

****

Steele stared out towards the ocean from the end of the Santa Monica Pier. He loved the ocean. The air was quite damp now, and he was shrouded in mist, but he didn’t mind. That was the way he liked it. He closed his eyes, the better to feel the breeze and hear the slap of the water. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the salt air. The only thing missing was a certain beautiful woman. Well, not tonight, or rather, this morning. This wasn’t the kind of meeting to which she was invited. He opened his eyes and checked his watch. Almost 2:00. He turned around and looked up at Pacific Park’s nine-story-high Ferris wheel, the world's first solar-powered Ferris wheel, now motionless. He began to make his way towards the merry-go-round. He wished he’d brought Laura out here sometime when the park was open. She liked cotton candy . Here she could’ve had cotton candy, popcorn, ice cream, and hot dogs. They would’ve been surrounded by stilt walkers, face painters, and clowns. She certainly would’ve wanted to try her hand at the so-called games of skill. He’d heard this park billed its games as ‘authentic carnival games with prizes.’ If that was true, at least a quarter of the ones on the midway were rigged and most of the prizes were trash. Well, it would’ve been fun to point out to her all the cons going on, as long as she took it all in stride and didn’t try to have everyone busted.

No doubt she would’ve also wanted to drag him around to all the rides – knowing her, she probably liked roller coasters best of all, the more stomach-lurching, the better. And bumper cars. She liked to drive aggressively and probably would’ve enjoyed nothing more than caroming off him. Yes, Laura and her driving. He smiled, remembering how she’d careened down the roads of the wine country when Wilson was on board . That had brought some of her devils out. His smile disappeared when he remembered her look of pain after confronting Wilson. All those years, she’d kept that pain of Wilson leaving her inside herself all those years. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on her and Wilson when she’d laid bare her soul – he’d just been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, it’d seemed to be a cathartic moment; she’d seem to come to an acceptance of her past with Wilson. No, much more than that, she’d –

Fire ripped from his brain down to his loins at the memory of Laura devouring his mouth in that most passionate, most perilous of kisses, the kiss in the wine cellar. The precious memory was interrupted as he neared the merry-go-round; the man standing in front of it, about five metres away, said to him, “You always come this well-dressed to your clandestine rendezvous? Or am I special?”

He gave the man, who was wearing a natty black silk noile suit with a blue silk tie, an exaggerated up-and-down look. “Just keeping up with the Ortegas. Besides, behind you is the hand-carved merry-go-round featured in ‘The Sting.’ Paul Newman, Robert Redford. Universal Pictures. 1973. Proper attire is required.” He laughed softly and self-mockingly redid his bow-tie and smoothed his dinner jacket, then approached the man with hand outstretched. “Mando.”

Mando smiled, clasped his hand, and pulled him down into an abrazo  – Mando, built like a wrestler, was only about Laura’s height. But Mando then turned around to face the merry-go-round. “I shouldn’t be meeting you, Desco.”

“I wasn’t followed.” He liked the name Armando had given him. Mando had explained he’d made it up from the Spanish word ‘desconocido,’ which meant ‘unknown person.’

The man’s chipmunk cheeks pulled into an acknowledging smile. “Of course you weren’t followed. I’m just a little edgy. You understand.”

Desco nodded. “What did you find out?”

“Weimar got back to me a couple of days ago. He’ll know for sure soon, but he’s thinking the de Barbari painting is the real thing. Or ‘Der wahre Jakob,’ as he put it.” Mando’s teeth flashed very white in his dark face.

Desco grinned back, knowing those words were practically a guarantee. “What’s its story?”

“First it was stolen from the Schwarzburg Castle in Germany. Then, somehow, it ended up in Long Island, of all places, as a gift to a priest. He gave it as a gift to a nun who was an art teacher. The nun brought it to a furniture restorer to have the frame repaired. The restorer recognized the painting might be valuable, and when the nun came to pick up the frame, he told her all he wanted for payment was the picture – that he saw the eyes of Christ in the picture. Of course, that won the nun over. She gave it to him, having no idea of its real value.”

“Slick.”

“It’s a little unclear after that – the restorer contacted some fence who’s not revealing who he sold it to.”

“Naturally.”

“Can you believe it? Nun gave away a picture that may be worth nearly $3 million.” Mando’s arched eyebrows threatened to crawl to the top of his balding pate.

Desco gave a low whistle and nearly rubbed his palms together. “Mucho dinero. That’ll mean over half a million dollars for me.”

“If you want to go that route. If not, I could – ”

“No, no. What about the other items?”

“Still working on them. You still want me to check into that silver? I’m thinking that’s worth only about $14 thou. That won’t mean much of a take for you.”

“And even less for you,” – Desco gave his friend a knowing smile – “assuming it pans out.”

The man shrugged and smiled in return. “Hey, with the cut you’re offering me on the de Barbari, you don’t hear me complaining.”

“I’m just curious why an old sepia photograph of a castle was so well hidden in the canteen .”

“If it was so well hidden, how’d you find it – never mind, forgot who I was talking to.” The fence laughed softly as Desco grinned. “Well, hopefully the caption on the photo is the key. But it’ll take time – I don’t have a direct contact in Northeim – it’s only 200 miles from Weimar , but on the other side of the Wall. And ‘Regelheim’ could be a placename or a surname. Not to mention the picture was taken in ’45. Each person I have to go through on this means there’s less in it for you. And me.” The fence grinned again.

“Well, obviously the other items have higher priority. This one would be a charity case.”

The fence snorted. “You’re the only one I deal with who’s interested in charity cases. I’ll see what I can do. But Desco, I’m not meeting you again while la chota are nosing around.”

“I understand. But keep working on the rest, will you?”

“You know I will. Always a pleasure doing business with you, Desco. And when we close this, we can celebrate. We’ll sit in my backyard, drink cold cervezas , and you can make the fajitas.”

“Your tastes are simple, my friend.”

“Simple? Ay, no. But, you make the best fajitas.” The man clapped Desco on the back. “Hey, you gonna tell me who your man is?” At Desco’s grin, the fence shrugged and grinned back. “Just in case something happens to you?”

Desco shook his head, still with a smile on his face. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me, mate. Thanks for your help. Gracias. I’ll be in touch.”

Mando gave him the Chicano handshake, short version. Desco greased the fence’s palm and turned to leave. He heard the voice behind him call out, “Hey, when things cool down, I might be interested in another item or two I hear you got.” He didn’t turn around, but gave a backward wave, kept walking, and shed his ‘Desco’ persona.

He walked back out to the end of the pier to sit, to decompress, for a while. He stared into the water. Did people fish off this pier? Wallace would’ve known – and made sure not to invite him. He shifted his weight and laughed softly, recalling the one time he’d gone fishing with Wallace. In his own defence, he would’ve never accepted the invitation had he understood Wallace correctly.

He and Wallace had just finished a job at the Carnavalet Museum in Paris. Wallace had said he was going to reward himself with a trip to King’s Point and had asked him, “You want to come with, John?”

“King’s Point, oh yes. I could work on my tan.”

Wallace looked at him a little funny. “I was thinking fishing.”

“Oh, I’ll be fishing, all right.” For lovely, bikini-clad women. He gave scant notice of Wallace’s bemused expression, figuring it was probably because Wallace was fifteen years older and married to boot.

Wallace shrugged and said, “I’ll get the tickets.”

The next thing John knew, he was in Newfoundland. King’s Point, Newfoundland. Somehow, he didn’t think he was going to need much suntan lotion here. He got out of the car and joined Wallace at the petrol pump, where Wallace was refuelling. “So, what do visitors to this fair city, uh, village, do for fun?”

“The Alexander Murray Hiking Trail’s the main tourist attraction here,” Wallace told him.

John consciously kept his lip from curling. He’d had in mind snorkelling, flirting, playing tennis, flirting, windsurfing, flirting, horseback riding, flirting, parasailing, flirting, nightclubbing, flirting, seeing stage shows, flirting – flirting, flirting, flirting –

“Pottery’s also big here. They specialize in whale designs.”

“Oh, this just gets better and better. Any fine eating establishments?”

“‘Emerald Dining Room’ and ‘By the Sea Café.’”

No classically elegant French fare, no traditional roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, no piquant Indian curry, no authentic Tuscan pasta, no fish chowder with sherry peppers and black rum, no Calypsonians to entertain him, no Dixieland group with brunch, no pianists and harpists and classical trios to accompany his afternoon tea, no band to provide a lively beat for a dinner dance – “Don’t suppose the former is encrusted with real emeralds, is it?” As Wallace started looking like he was finally cuing in on John’s undertones, John made an effort to rein himself in. It wasn’t Wallace’s fault, after all, that John had jumped to the wrong conclusion. However, there was one last question he needed to ask, and he wasn’t looking forward to the answer. “And our accommodations?”

“We gotta a choice between Budgell’s Motel and Windamere Cabins.”

When Wallace continued to stare at him with a chagrined look on his face, John finally realized he was standing there with his mouth open. He closed his mouth. He refused to think any further about the lap of luxury accommodations he’d been looking forward to. “Uh, I’ll leave it in your expert hands.” Was he going to end up sleeping on the flea-ridden mattress or on the hard wooden floor?

Wallace tilted his head. “This ain’t what you expected, right?”

“Of course it is – no, not really.” John gave a little shrug.

“I should’ve known. I’m sorry, I’ll drive you back to Port Aux Basque.”

Yes, there he could catch the Super Ferry back to North Sydney, Nova Scotia, and then he could – he looked at Wallace’s crestfallen face. “No. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m looking forward to this.” John plastered a big smile on his face. He didn’t have a reputation as a consummate con artist for nothing. Besides, he didn’t often avail himself of casual comradeship, and it’d been three years since he’d last seen Wallace; it could be an interesting experience.

“I’ll bet you didn’t pack the right clothes for the trip.”

“Uh, probably not. Unless linen trousers and casually elegant cottons by day and jacket and tie in the evening are de rigeur here.”

Wallace finally relaxed and laughed. “Where’d you think we were going?”

“King’s Point in Bermuda. I thought you’d just planned some obscure route for getting there to make sure no one was on our tail for the Carnavalet job.” John smiled ruefully.

Wallace laughed and clapped him on the back. “I’ll drive you to Springdale so you can shop for clothes. The highest temperature here won’t even reach the lowest of Bermuda.”

Oh, lovely. “Any other details about this place you care to share to further elevate my gay mood?”

Wallace laughed again, shook his head, opened the passenger door of the car, and ushered John in with a sweeping gesture, finishing off with a little bow. John chuckled. He’d have to plot some appropriate way to pay Wallace back for this.

In Springdale, John settled for some denims, some cotton trousers, some plain cotton shirts, a pair of boots, sneakers, a light sweater, a jacket, and, at Wallace’s insistence, a floppy cotton hat to keep the sun off his face when Wallace took him fishing. “We could’ve gone deep-sea fishing in Bermuda,” he muttered under his breath. He gave Wallace a sweet smile when Wallace shot a look his way.

Windamere Cabins turned out to consist of four pine log cottages nestled together at the foot of some hills. The cabin had two bedrooms, double bed in each; a full bathroom, towels included; a kitchen with stove and refrigerator, dishes and pots included; and a living area with cable TV. John wondered if they could get a movie channel.

After he resigned himself to his fate, he found King’s Point and Rattling Brook, a thriving metropolis of less than one hundred and fifty souls and where the cabins were actually located, did have their good points. The cottages overlooked the deep green waters of the ocean. An eagle lookout was right behind them. They were in scenic coastal lowlands of a big valley surrounded by beautiful, high mountains.

The next day Wallace decided they should go hiking. John’s protests that his scaling of museum walls in Paris had been more than enough exercise for the week fell on deaf ears.

“It’s only four or five miles, John.”

Two hours later, John felt compelled to point out, “You neglected to tell me these four or five miles are straight up and down.”

Wallace only laughed at him. “It’s just a thousand-foot climb all total, John. Carl told me about the time you two climbed up to Isola 2000 in record time.”

“Yes, well, that was a ski resort, there were ladies waiting for us at the top, we had Mediterranean sun and Alpine snow to look forward to, there was a variety of French and Italian restaurants on the mountain, there was cross country skiing, freestyle skiing, night skiing, an outdoor ice rink, a heated swimming pool, game rooms, night clubs, and a cinema,” – John paused to catch a breath – “and the only reason we got out of the bus at Isola and climbed the rest of the way to Isola 2000 was because the driver was a loony old codger who took the hairpin curves at dizzying speeds, cackled ever time he made one, and would shout out in French, ‘Once again, death has been defeated.’” John stopped to take in a lungful of air and looked up at the steep mountainside to North Ridge. “We must’ve climbed hundreds of these wooden steps.”

“Eight hundred and eighty by the time we’re through.”

“Oh, I’m going to be a cripple tomorrow.”

“By the way you moan about this, one would never know you’re someone who regularly climbs mountains, fords streams – ”

“You forgot ‘follows every rainbow’ – ”

“‘’til you find your dream’ – ”

“Or the jewels, or the artwork – ”

“Or whatever else you’re commissioned to find.”

“I live to serve.”

“I think you’d rather live to be served.”

“I would, but no one’s applied for the position yet.”

“Actually, I think you’d soon be bored with such a life, John.”

“I’m willing to give it an extended trial period.”

“Lord, look at this.” Wallace set down his pack on the wooden lookout at the top of the ridge. They got the full view of Corner Brook Gorge, the steep granite walls nearly vertical. Even though it was late May, they could still see ice far below them. Wallace pointed off into the distance. “You can make out some of the landmarks of King’s Point itself. There’s Corner Brook. There’s Bulley’s Pond. There’s Bulley’s Mish.”

“‘Mish’?”

“That’s what Newfoundlanders call a marsh – it’s actually a large peat bog. There’s Moose Barrens – see that rough ground over there covered by Caribou moss and dotted with scrub spruce and juniper? Once, in the dead of night, I actually saw a young bull moose in the middle of the road around here. I just stopped and watched.” After gazing awhile longer, Wallace shouldered his pack again. “Well, we’re almost to the highest part of the trail.”

“Oh, joy.” But John grinned when Wallace turned to look at him.

Wallace snorted and shook his head. “Good thing you weren’t this smart-alecky five years ago. I’d never have taken you on.”

“Five years? Has it really been that long?”

“It was ’71, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I believe that’s right.” When he was about eighteen, just after his ignominious return from South America, where Barney had suckered him out of his then-meagre lifesavings. Barney had come across him in a street brawl and had taught him how to box proper. They’d travelled from town to town hauling in the cash because he, ‘The Kilkenny Kid, Pride of the Pampas,’ looked more like ‘Skinny Kid, Available for Pounding,’ and the locals all bet against him. In the end, Barney had convinced him he was a good enough boxer to make it in America. ‘The Kid’ had given his every last centavos to Barney so Barney could buy them tickets, and that had been the last he’d seen of Barney. That night he’d ended up in one of Rio’s extremely violent and poor neighbourhoods, and a nightmare of being sucked back into that kind of life had scared the hell out of him. Just wanting to get away as fast as he could, he’d swallowed his pride, rung up Daniel, and asked if Daniel would spot him a ticket back to London. Daniel had never asked him what had happened, and ‘Harry,’ as he was known to Daniel, had never volunteered the information. “South America led to good things after all.”

“South America?”

“Right before I met you, I was in South America. In my travels, I heard rumours about how the Nazis who’d relocated there had brought with them looted gold, jewellery, and art work – even Monets and Picassos. When I got back to London, I started thinking about the possibility of recovering such items, but decided I first needed advanced training in, uh – ”

“Burglary. So you found me.”

“You’re the best.”

Wallace only laughed at that. “You’re the one who’s added all the ‘artistic refinements.’”

“I can only break into the systems. You know enough that you could actually build them.”

Wallace shrugged. “Hobby. Carl’s picked up on that though – he’s getting better than me at it. But, breaking into the systems is all you need in this business.”

“Why’d you never let me and Carl work together with you back then?”

“You two greenhorns? Gimme a break. Besides, I didn’t want you intimidating Carl. You pick things up so damn fast.”

John shrugged. “I’m a couple years older than him – ”

“And that was another reason. Talk about hero worship.” They both laughed. “But seriously, you have to remember, I’d just taken him into my home about then. He needed my undivided attention. He was pretty wild.” After a pause, Wallace added softly, “He’s still too volatile, too easily set off by things beyond his control. Too eager to seek revenge against anyone he thinks wronged him.”

“Well, the streets can do that to you. You certainly saved him from a nasty existence.”

Wallace threw a grin at him. “Speaking from experience, John?”

“It must’ve been hard on your daughter, having a boy only four years older than her suddenly move in with you.”

Wallace’s voice turned sombre. “Well, soon after that her mother finally decided she’d had enough of the business trips to Europe I was always taking – she never knew the line of work I’m in. She divorced me, took Noley with her. Haven’t seen my girl since ’72.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She’ll be ready for college in a few years, though. I’ve already saved enough to put her through. . . . . Whew, that was a hot climb.”

“Why do they call this ‘Haypook’?”

“The locals decided this hill looked like a hay stack, also called a ‘hay pook.’” They shed their jackets and stood on Haypook Summit, taking in another breathtaking view. The land fell away steeply on all sides except in the direction they’d approached from. Taking a panoramic view, they could see the Southwest Arm of Green Bay, coastal islands, jumbles of hills, rocky barrens and peaks, boreal forests, lakes, ponds, rapids, and waterfalls. In some directions, their view was unimpeded for nearly eighty kilometres.

“Well, you can’t say this hasn’t been worth it.”

“I admit, it’s a lovely view.” John glanced over at Wallace, saw the man’s eyes shining with pleasure.

“Thank you for coming with me, John.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

Later that night, having turned down Wallace’s invitation to teach him fly-fishing by moonlight, John filled up the bath to nearly overflowing with water as hot as he could bear while pouring in nearly a box of Epsom salts, adding some lime juice, and tossing in a small muslin bag filled with slices of ginger. He climbed into the bath and kneaded his calves, wishing he were being given an Exotic Lime and Ginger Salt Glow with Well-Being Massage by a scantily clad Bermudan masseuse. He soaked in the blissful waters until his body flamed red and his fingertips shrivelled to white, then prepared to retire for the night. He turned down the covers, crawled into bed, and –

at the ungodly hour of 5:00 the next morning, Wallace roused him from a dream in which he’d just accepted an invitation from a lovely lady to stroll down a pink beach in Bermuda. “The fish are biting, John.” ‘Bully for them’ was the first response to come to mind, but instead he dressed and gamely accompanied Wallace onto the lake in an old motorboat. His nose slathered in zinc oxide, SPF 35 sunblock covering every other possibly exposed inch of his body, and his floppy hat pulled low over his face, he promptly fell asleep. He awoke a little later to find Wallace pulling in a large trout. Wallace waved away his apology for having fallen asleep. “An eighteen-pounder,” Wallace told him. “Jigging gets them every time.” John wondered how he’d managed to sleep through a jig being done in a little boat. “Now we’re going to do a little trolling.” John nodded sagely, and as they moved through the water at about 2.5 kph, promptly fell asleep again, only to wake up to Wallace pulling in another large trout. He finally managed to stay awake for the next go round and caught some little fish that Wallace made him throw back. They eventually finished their expedition with what would’ve been a score of 5 - 0, but Wallace threw the last three of his back, saying he had no need of more now and could always catch more later. John couldn’t quite see the point of sitting on hard boat seats for hours for the brief thrill of catching a fish when one was going to turn right around and toss it back. For all he knew, the last three fish were all the same fish, conning Wallace into believing he was a man of great skill, and he told Wallace so. Wallace laughed. “You’re the one who likes telling fish stories.”

John decided to make up for his own lack of fishermen’s skills. He went grocery shopping, cleaned the fish, stuffed them with mussels, then grilled them, Potatoes Anna, and carrots. These he served with a Caesar-like salad – he had to substitute boring iceberg lettuce for the romaine – and a Newfoundland molasses pudding for dessert, recipe courtesy of the cabin owners. If he’d had his way, he would’ve started out with peach-and-brie canapes, but apparently brie was not in great demand among the locals. Wallace declared the meal superb, and John thought it did taste quite good, but then again, he’d found out while hiking on the trail that even peanut butter crackers tasted divine.

The next morning, he again woke with the sun. He thought he heard Wallace out in the living area, but no tap came at his door, so he fell back to sleep. He got up at 7:00 to find Wallace chuckling away, lying on his bed reading ‘Every Man is Innocent Until Proven Broke, a Wizard of Id Book.’ The title reminded John of the definition of British justice he’d heard as a child, ‘Every man is innocent until proven Irish.’

John made them a simple breakfast of tea, omelettes, and toast with a jam that tasted a bit like honey and apricots, but which was made from Newfoundland cloudberries. “Ready for me to take you back to Port Aux Basque?” Wallace asked him.

Had he offended Wallace?

“Don’t look so stricken. It’s nothing you’ve said or done. In fact, I give you credit. I would’ve had to peel Carl off the ceiling by now.”

John relaxed and laughed. “You brought Carl out here?”

“I made that mistake once. It was like dragging a four-year-old child to see the dentist.” They both laughed. “Anyway, this is supposed to be fun.”

“I have enjoyed myself,” John said sincerely.

Wallace smiled at him. “But enough is enough. Go get your things. Don’t worry about me, I enjoy being up here by myself for a while.” John nodded and tried not to display too much alacrity in his step as he went to pack.

It was another three years until he saw Wallace again, and Wallace had gone through a lot of changes. For a while he’d simply disappeared off the face of the earth – not even Carl had known what’d happened – and they’d all assumed the worst. When Wallace returned, he told a tale of how he’d wrestled with demons and almost lost, cast into a personal hell of alcohol and drugs. He said he’d only been rescued through the grace of Jesus Christ. John was surprised – he’d never seen any signs of Wallace overdrinking, let alone using drugs – but he didn’t pry. Someone who didn’t talk about his own past was hardly in the position to ask about another’s. He’d just been glad to have his friend back alive and, apparently, happy.

It’d been another three years until he, as ‘Remington Steele,’ had seen Wallace again. The skilled fisherman had become an equally skilled fisher of men’s souls. At least he had been, until Steele had hired him for a job that had cost him his life.

Steele swallowed hard. He stood up on the pier, took one last look down into the water, then turned to go – he had other business to attend to. Just before leaving Pacific Park, he paused at a stand that read ‘Cotton Candy.’

****

She watched him. He hid the ruby in the Glass Room. He glided into the Museum Room and disarmed a display case. She saw him caress that mosaic. The pieces of amber ranged from black through red and gold to green and from near translucence to milky opacity, and the pieces of royal lavulite – she watched his long, slender fingers fondle the stunning, vibrantly colored violet gems, a lover reunited with his beloved –

“Laura.”

That single word, whispered in the distinctive accent that bespoke London and . . . . something else, drew her consciousness up from the depths of the dream. She sat up, startled.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Still whispering, Steele moved to turn on the lamp by the couch.

She stared at him groggily, too disoriented to remember the perfectly logical reason she’d had for coming.

After doing what she could at the Raeders’ and undergoing another interview, or rather, interrogation, by the police, she’d gone to the hospital, hoping to bring Steele home. But they’d already taken him back to the police station and wouldn’t let her see him; they’d told her not to bother waiting for him – he’d be there awhile. At least they hadn’t found the ruby on him – or in him.

She’d returned to her house, made up her initial to-do list for this case, then finally, exhausted, climbed into bed. But she’d been too restless to sleep and had ended up getting into the Rabbit and driving to his apartment. She’d taken the sleeping bag from his closet, left his bedroom door open in case he snuck in without waking her, and fallen asleep on the couch, inhaling the faint scent of him that lingered in the bag’s material. As she’d slipped from wakefulness the memory of the other time she’d been in this bag – spooning him, flanked by a circle of gold-crazed cutthroats  – had segued into a dream. The cutthroats had turned into police officers. They’d torn Steele out of her grasp, pummelled secrets out of him, led him off in chains. Headlines had flashed: ‘Remington Steele Investigations Goes Down the Toilet.’

Steele had moved around the couch and now sat beside her, watching her.

“What time is it?” She tried to see her watch.

“About five.”

“They’ve had you there all this time?”

“Yes. Thorough, our men in blue.”

“But you weren’t under arrest. You could’ve left any time.”

“‘Remington Steele’ wouldn’t. Besides, if they think I’m holdin’ back on ’em, they might get a little too curious and start diggin’ a little too deeply into ‘Remington Steele’s ’ past. So . . . .”

“‘The best defense is a good offense’?”

“Sun Tzu?”

“Vince Lombardi, I think.” She noted his blank expression. “A football coach.”

“Oh. At any rate, well spoken, Miss Holt.”

She still felt uneasy that he was speaking to the police when he didn’t have to, but once he got it into his mind something was ‘right’ or ‘not right’ for ‘Remington Steele,’ it was next to impossible to dissuade him from it. Now, if she could only be sure he had it in his mind that as the man the public identified as ‘Remington Steele,’ it was ‘not right’ for him to steal million dollar rubies. She furrowed up her brow and ran her hand over her face – there was something wrong with that last thought, but right now she was too tired to figure it out.

“What’s our next move?”

“What? Oh . . . .” Get with the program, Laura. She got off the couch and paced the short distance to his dining room and back a few times. She always thought better when she was pacing. Finally, her head felt clearer. She turned professional, speaking as if giving a report. “I completed my initial examination of the scene. Murphy is buddies with the police photographer, so I’m sure we’ll get copies of his photos. We’ve made sketches and diagrams of the pool area and the area around the museum display case. Before I left, I was able to get some witness statements from the few remaining guests who were willing – ”

“Your night sounds worse than mine,” Steele teased with a slight smile.

She tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a small smile of her own. He’d probably prefer being tortured on the rack to doing routine investigative tasks. She turned her smile into a smirk. “Oh, I’d say we were each engaged in our favorite activities. You were dodging questions, I was finding answers.”

“Touché.”

She returned to the business at hand, ticking off the points on her fingers as she continued to pace. “We need to interview all the guests and the help, see if anyone saw anyone else close to you and Ms. Raeder, someone who could’ve caused her to stumble into you. And we need to interview Ms. Raeder ourselves.” Noticing he seemed about to speak, she went on hurriedly, “Murphy and I will handle all this, Mr. Steele.”

“And what do I do durin’ ‘all this’?”

She paused, trying to find the right way to put it, but he spoke before she’d found it.

“I see. I do what I do best, of course. Sit back and let you professionals handle the job, eh?” He got up, walked to the fireplace, and stood facing away from her, gazing out the sloping windows that ran from floor to ceiling, hands in his pockets.

She returned to sitting on his couch. “Mr. Steele. There are simply no other suspects at this point. It would be best, for your own sake, not to involve yourself.” She rubbed her forehead with her hand, staring at his stiff back. Then she straightened up. It was time she got to the real reason she’d come. No doubt they’d tried to put him through the wringer at the police station, but she needed to ask the questions herself – more was at stake than ever before. “Near the time of the theft, did you see anyone else close to where you and Ms. Raeder were standing, or feel anyone else close to you when the power went out?”

“I apologize, Laura. Ms. Raeder was doin’ a bang-up job at keepin’ my attention solely on her.”

The frustrations of last evening, eased in no way by the image Steele’s words conjured up, boiled over into her words. “And your security system is so poor someone broke through it this easily? And just happened to target a mosaic of royal lavulite?”

“I couldn’t have gotten through the safeguards that quickly.”

“You could’ve set it up so you could.” Did his shoulders just tense? “Murphy thinks you couldn’t resist. That you finally saw your chance after failing to steal the royal lavulite in the Hunter case – ”

Steele turned abruptly. “I didn’t fail.” He spoke firmly, matter-of-factly, and looked directly at her. “Somethin’ else caught m’ eye. I abandoned m’ interest in the gems.”

She couldn’t allow herself to be distracted by his meaning. “Or postponed it.”

“Laura, I didn’t take the ruby. Or the mosaic. You have m’ word.”

His gaze burned into her. She could hear the challenge in his voice. She softened, thinking back to that first time when he’d ‘given his word,’ saying he’d not steal the jewels she’d been hired to protect – and kept it. But . . . . what if Murphy’s initial instincts had been right all along? What if she was being played by the con man, who’d just been waiting for his big chance to score? She tried to shove those thoughts aside.

“One of your work crew could’ve tampered with the system.” A flash in his eyes told her that her words had come a beat too late for him, that they were not the ones he’d hoped to hear.

“They wouldn’t do that, Laura.” With that, he turned and walked the few steps to the bedroom, saying, “Now, if you’ve no further questions, I’m goin’ t’ get some sleep.” He paused at the bedroom door. Without turning back to her, he said softly, “Thank you for bein’ here. You’re welcome t’ finish the night on the sofa.” The door closed behind him.

He was exhausted, she could tell – more by the way he talked than by the way he looked, though she hadn’t often seen him with a day’s growth of beard. He only started blunting his words during rare moments of informality, moments of intimacy – or moments when he was just plain too tired to expend the effort to cover up his natural accent with the purity of the Queen’s English.

She closed her eyes, fatigue hitting her again. She stood just outside his bedroom, her hand on the doorknob: she would throw caution to the wind, climb into his bed, hold him, reassure him, reassure herself . . . . make love to him. She opened the door. He turned to her, naked except for the medallion he always wore, of unknown significance. He was even more beautiful out of his clothes than in them. In his hands, those elegant hands, he held the ruby and the royal lavulite –

Laura’s body jerked and her eyes snapped open. She looked down at her clenched fists, then over at Steele’s closed bedroom door. Please God, don’t let him have done this. She got up from the couch, folded the sleeping bag, and left the apartment.

****

The walls of the dimly lit Unicorn Tapestry corridor closed in on him. There was a secret passageway here somewhere – he couldn’t remember where. He had to get out! He pressed, then pounded, the first tapestry, ‘The Start of the Hunt.’

The shrills of dogs eager to give chase pierced the air. He whirled and saw coarse, heartless hunters in brilliant, multicolored liveries struggling to rein in the howling beasts. A lymerer signaled – he had been sighted!

He bolted. The hunters tracked him to a fountain. The hunters encircled him, closed in on him, then, unaccountably, they let him escape. No! He knew what they were doing – they were toying with him, prolonging the game. Other creatures – birds, a stag, a lion and lioness – looked on, indifferent to his plight.

They chased him to a stream. Surrounded by hunters with spears, dogs at close quarters, he frantically foiled down the waters, trying to throw off the dogs’ scent. He failed.

He savagely kicked and butted and gored the pursuing animals and people. The sound of a hunter’s horn split the air, rallying the men for his capture.

He narrowly escaped the stealthy hunters, the relentless pack of hounds. He was exhausted. He saw before him a maiden. She beckoned him, urged him to come to her, offered him a safe haven. He went to her, laid his head on her lap. He looked up at her with gratitude – and saw her signal the men, signing his death warrant!

The dogs finally chased him down. The lord of the hounds flashed his hunting sword, preparing to deliver the coup de grâce. Three hunters surrounded him as he made one last attempt at escape. He screamed as they thrust their spears into his body, immobilizing him. Four dogs sank their teeth into his flesh and held him fast. He reared back his head; a spear pierced his throat, cutting off his cries. His body shook with shock and terror. His legs failed him and he started sinking to the ground. His tongue lolled. He was bleeding, dying. His last sight before his world turned to black was that of the lord and the lady of the castle standing impassively nearby, awaiting his slaying: his horn would be sliced off with a machete and given to them.

Then, somehow, miraculously alive and whole again, he lay chained to a circular wooden gate in a lush garden, a happy pet, tamed by the maiden, enjoying the Garden of Eden.

No! Impossible! He was a trapped beast; he had to escape his captors!

No! He was not the unicorn. He had to save the unicorn! He had to get out! He ran down the corridor pounding on each of the tapestries –

Steele scrabbled in blind panic, feeling suffocated, then realized he was all twisted up in the bedsheets with the covers over his head. Trying to find his way out, he nearly fell out of bed. He sat up and put a hand to his heart, willing himself to breathe, trying to force himself out of the miasma of fear and death exhumed by his nightmare. From a smorgasbord of languages he chose the strongest invectives he could think of to curse his so-called cousins – really the children of whomever he’d been dumped with at the time. They were to blame for causing the torturous pursuit of the unicorn depicted in the tapestries to invade his dreams. They were to blame for the periodic nightmares he’d suffered throughout his life. They’d delighted in terrorizing him as a small lad with their tales of headless phantoms, pookas, banshees, ghosts, evil spirits, and witches. Or with stories that he’d be carried off by the bad faeries who’d sacrifice him to Satan in their yearly ceremonies. Or, worst of all, by telling him he was a changeling child and had to prove otherwise by letting them perform the one infallible test: they must lay him on a fire, recite the magic formula, and see if he burned. Only a true child wouldn’t burn. More than once they’d dragged him, kicking and screaming, to some pyre they’d built; only when he could feel the hot flames licking his face had they loosened their grasp enough for him to escape. They’d laughed at him as he’d wept in fear and humiliation. ‘Omadhaun !’ they’d jeered. ‘It was only a game.’ Each night he’d stolen a little milk and put it on the windowsill, trying to appease the faeries, begging them to leave him alone . . . .

He’d faced down more dangers in his life than he cared to recall, but prime him with a tale of cruelty and turn off the lights, and he was reduced to that quivering child. He shook his head in disgust. He slithered back down under the covers and plunked a pillow over his head.

****

Laura sat at her desk, holding Steele’s photo in her hand. She was feeling the strong urge for a stress-relieving chocolate bar about now. She could feel her left eyebrow twitching. She hurriedly shoved the photo under some file folders as Bernice walked in wearing a knowing smile. Laura ignored it and gratefully accepted her monogrammed brown-and-black coffee mug. She took a sip and quirked an eyebrow at the receptionist. “This is tea.”

Bernice shrugged, sat on the edge of Laura’s desk, and started fiddling with her fingernails. “How you doing?”

Laura leaned back in her chair, staring at the papers overlapping like snowflakes, nearly hiding the black surface of her desk. She really should move some of these onto Steele’s desk, whose pristine surface had never been marred by anything so vulgar since his arrival. “Well, Murphy’s been spending the whole day interviewing the housekeeping staff and some of the guests and the help hired for the party. Nothing so far.” She sighed. “There were two hundred people at that party. What a chain of eyes ! I interviewed Ms. Raeder again. Got nothing helpful. She expressed her sympathies for Mr. Steele, said she and her husband thought it ridiculous he’s considered the prime suspect for the crime – ”

“Well, from what I hear, she considers him prime something ” – Bernice held her palms out as Laura shot her a look – “hey, I’m just telling you what I heard. Anyway, that’s not what I asked – ”

“I contacted the local pawnshops, jewelers . . . . fences. But I don’t think the thieves would use them.”

Bernice shook her head at Laura, evidently giving up on her original question. “Why not?”

Laura nodded toward Steele’s office. “He said he wouldn’t.” As Bernice opened her mouth to speak, Laura went on hurriedly, “They dusted the display case for fingerprints. Found Mr. Steele’s and some of the work crew’s.” She grimaced.

“Well, they would, wouldn’t they? That’s not suspicious.”

Laura sat up in her chair, an edge creeping into her voice. “What’s suspicious is the doorlock is missing. Mysteriously removed from the lockbox at the forensics lab.” She’d checked. He’d been at the police station a long time last night, but not quite as long as he’d claimed – there were several hours unaccounted for.

“Oh . . . . Do you think he did it? I mean all of it. The ruby, the mosaic.”

Laura bit her lip and dropped her eyes. “I don’t want to think so. But it’s right up his alley, isn’t it.”

“Is it?”

Laura looked up in surprise. “Have you forgotten our introduction to him?”

Bernice shrugged. “He said he was going to return the royal lavulite to the South African government.”

“After stealing it.”

“True.”

“He once stole ‘The Five Nudes of Cairo.’”

“Twice. Once with you.”

“That was different.”

“Was it? Did you ever ask him why he stole it the first time?”

“No. I doubt he’d tell me the truth, and I’m not sure I’d want to hear it. We know he was mentored by a con man. We know he hunted for gold in the Yucatan – ”

“That’s not a crime – ”

“No!” Laura slapped her hand on the desk. “But this is the sum total of what I know about him. And since when are you such a big supporter of him?”

“Just playing the devil’s advocate.” Bernice grinned. Then her grin faded, and her voice turned gentle. “But that’s not all you know about him. That’s just all you know about before he became a regular fixture around here.”

Laura knew what Bernice was getting at but pushed it aside, along with the memory of what had happened in the early afternoon, when he’d seemed so vulnerable, so stripped of pretense. “I know he’s not ready to play straight with me. I took him to help interview Wallace’s crew – they trust him.” She heaved a sigh. “I even let him lead the questioning, at first. He asked the right questions, though I had a few more of my own. Afterwards, he seemed upset that because of him these men are suspects – ”

“Well, they worked on the security system, so naturally the police are interested in them. But you were saying he’s not playing straight.”

Laura got up and walked to the front of her desk to pace. “We – or at least I – learned one of the crew has disappeared. A man named Carl. Why? Is he the accomplice, out fencing the goods? I wish I’d paid more attention to this Raeder job. ”

“But you didn’t. Because Mr. Steele was so enthusiastic about it. And it was like the Dillon job. So you knew he could do it. You were delighted. Said for once you could turn your attention to other cases and give him full rein – ”

“And maybe that was just the opportunity he was waiting for – ”

“Would you stop that pacing? You’re driving me crazy.”

“Sorry.” Laura grinned sheepishly and sat back down at her desk.

“Maybe it was just the chance to do something he’s good at, something where he didn’t have to pretend to be ‘master detective.’” As Laura started to protest, Bernice held up a hand. “Oh, it’s obvious he likes playing ‘Remington Steele.’ But maybe it was a relief not to pretend for a while.”

“And maybe he decided to just drop the pretense entirely and go back to his old ways.” As Bernice again opened her mouth to speak, Laura cut her off. “I know, I know, I don’t know what those were.” She stared at Bernice. “I don’t really know him.” Her tone dared Bernice to disagree. “And because I wasn’t at the Raeders to keep an eye on things, I might’ve missed something about his or the crew’s behavior that could clear him – or condemn him. This missing man Carl – I’ve done some checking on him. He was Wallace’s right-hand man at the Mission. Took it over when Wallace died. He was out of town during the Dillon job, but he worked every other security job we hired Wallace’s crew for. On the jobs before this one, I never saw him and Mr. Steele together at all, and according to the work rosters, he did only the most menial tasks. But on this one, according to the Raeders, Carl worked closely with Mr. Steele, hand in hand. Why this one?”

“What did Mr. Steele say?”

“That Carl was the right man for the job.” Laura shook her head in dismay. “And when we were questioning Wallace’s crew, each time I’d ask one of them about Carl, his eyes would dart to Mr. Steele, and all I’d get was an unhelpful answer. Once I was quick enough to catch the warning look Mr. Steele was giving. He later denied it.

“I searched Carl’s office at the Mission, hoping for credit card receipts, personal letters, telephone bills, something. . . . I told Mr. Steele to sit in the office chair while I went through Carl’s stuff. His face blanked and I could tell he was offended, and then he just sat there impassively when I wouldn’t let him leave. . . . ”

She looked up at Bernice. “He refused to pick the lock for me at Carl’s home. Took me forever. And he wouldn’t open the wall safe. . . . He just tagged along after me, silent, looking pretty irked. ’Course, I’d given him the choice of following me around not touching anything, or being locked in a closet.”

They both laughed, but without real humor.

“And of course by then, I was more than irked with him, too.” In the silence that followed, Laura could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall behind her.

“Where’s he now?”

Laura looked away from the sympathy in Bernice’s eyes. “The police are interrogating him again.”

“Can they do that?”

“Oh, legally they can’t make him go to the station and answer questions, but he agreed to. He said, ‘How would it look if Remington Steele didn’t give full cooperation with the authorities?’ When I said it’d look a lot worse if he incriminated himself, he said, ‘Nonsense. I shall simply tell them the truth.’” Laura slumped down in her seat. “That’d be a first.”

She fell silent, her exasperation with Steele temporarily falling away, picturing the scene at police headquarters. This was the 80's, and the days of rubber hoses, protracted grilling under bright lights, and severe sleep deprivation, as portrayed in Steele’s beloved film noir, were long gone, but intimidation, even if subtle, still ruled.

The interrogation room: wooden table, uncomfortable chair, tape recorder. Harsh, dreary, grim. The table as far away from the door as possible; him seated at its far end. Far, far away from freedom.

No windows, no intercom, no phone – disconnect the interrogatee, cut him off from outside information, that was the goal. What did the police know? What had witnesses said? What evidence had been garnered against him? Bits of misinformation would be fed to him as answers.

They’d interrogate him for hours on end, hoping to break him, urging him to confess, to name his accomplice, threatening he’d take the fall alone if he didn’t.

They’d ask questions, over and over again, covering the same ground from different angles without giving him time to recover, in the hope of provoking contradictions.

They’d stand, pace, loom over him; he’d be required to sit. They’d thunder, whisper, snarl; he’d be required to answer politely.

And then, after a long while, would come little shows of concern – are the lights too bright? is the room too cold? would he like some coffee? a sandwich? They could be generous, they could be compassionate, they could be benevolent. They could offer him a lifeline, pull him out of this mess – if not quite save him. All he had to do was talk –

Laura shook her head. She shouldn’t have watched ‘Murder, My Sweet ’ on TV the other night. And anyway, for all she knew, Steele was lounging in the Chief of Police’s office, regaling the Chief with tales of real-or-imagined derring-do. No. Not likely. The scene in Steele’s apartment this afternoon had quashed any fantasy that the police would treat ‘The Great Remington Steele’ with kid gloves.

But one thing was for sure: in any interrogation, he wouldn’t talk. At least, he wouldn’t say what they wanted to hear. He would stick to his story, never waver in its details. Because he was telling the truth? Or because he was just one damn good con man? She looked up at Bernice. “He’s the logical culprit.”

“Now you sound like Jenkins. You ask me, that guy’s just got some bug up his a–– ” Bernice broke off, and they both unsuccessfully hid smiles. “Besides, this whole thing is too unimaginative for Mr. Steele. Remember how you got ‘The Five Nudes of Cairo’? Remember his sting with Daniel? Remember spearguns and windup monster toys and elaborate charades?”

“Maybe this involves an elaborate charade, too,” Laura said morosely, sinking further down in her chair. “The elaborate charade of being ‘Remington Steele.’” She ran her hand through her hair. “Tonight I’m sending him out with Murphy on an all-night stakeout of Carl’s home.”

“Bet Murphy will love that.”

****

Murphy stood looking at the Raeders’ pool. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find at the mansion, but his motto was, ‘When your investigation leads you to a brick wall, keep pounding your head against it until you bust through.’ He grimaced, knowing he was up against a man with the motto, ‘When you come to a brick wall, sneak around or over it.’

Murphy turned and started to retrace his steps of last night.

He went into the pavilion. He stopped, his eye caught by the floor’s mandala-like centerpiece. ‘This is a marquetry floor, designed by a craftsman, with hand-scraped squares of white oak, mahogany, and satinwood,’ – Steele had told him, going on and on – ‘each square has been hand-selected for that perfect combination of colour, grain, and texture, each piece of wood has been individually shaped and then lain in this decorative geometric pattern.’ Steele had been practically hopping up and down with delight as he’d viewed the room. ‘Jesus,’ Murphy had thought, ‘all that money on a damn floor.’

Murphy continued through the pavilion. He brushed past the hoity-toity artcase Steinway concert grand piano with its intricate carvings and expensive wood inlay, past the fancy-dancy cabinet of copperplate works, past a huge, grotesque bronze urn, past a settee covered with a tapestry of silk and wool threads – surely no one would ever sit on that thing. Finally, he passed a monstrous sideboard of mahogany. Porcelain plaques were inserted into the wood; it was gilded in bronze and topped with marble. All these little things Murphy knew because Steele had given him and Laura a grand tour of the mansion, eager to point out everything in excruciating detail.

Murphy exited the pavilion and went into the Glass Room, filled with old glass. ‘Old glass!’ Steele had exclaimed. ‘Why, Murphy, this room is filled with Venetian glass, baroque glass, collections of porcelain, faience, tin, and more.’ Yeah, yeah, Steele. Old glass.

Murphy stared at the door to the Jewelry Room. Even Steele had been startled, the words he’d been speaking frozen on his lips, at his first glimpse of the treasures in this room. Words had been frozen on Murphy’s lips, too, but he was sure they weren’t the same ones. Why did the rich waste all their money on these goo-ga’s ? Think of all the good they could do with that money.

Murphy snorted his disgust, then headed into the front hall, with its fluted white marble ionic columns – as Steele had painstakingly enlightened him. He briefly flicked his eyes east toward the Porcelain Foyer, filled with more old glass – oh, excuse him, Bohemian engraved glass – before turning toward the alarm system’s command console. Careful examination revealed nothing of interest. He then started up the stairs to that Museum Room filled with pieces that should’ve been available for public viewing instead of tucked away in this egotistic monument to Raeder’s wealth.

Two hours later, he went back out to his car, discouraged. No startling revelations. No new clues. All he had were suspicions.

****

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Original content copyrighted by Margaret Daniels 2004

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