PART 2

****

Steele once again resisted the urge to chew on his lip. Easy, mate. If Murphy wants to sit here all night in inhospitable silence, so be it. I know what you’re up to, Miss Holt. Babysittin’ me. No doubt you’ll take turns sittin’ up with me each night. Well, you’ll be the ones losin’ sleep, not I.

He settled back in the car seat and closed his eyes. Murphy wouldn’t expect him to stay awake, anyway. What a day.

He’d slept in until noon, only to be awakened by Miss Holt buzzing away at the doorbell like a blackfly at uncovered flesh. She’d insisted he come interview Wallace’s crew with her. He’d persuaded her to first let him make a bit of lunch for them: some vegetable soup, sandwiches. He hadn’t wanted to go out – his face was too well known. At any other time he’d have revelled in his celebrity, no matter how unjustly deserved, but now it’d become notoriety. Soon after he started preparing the meal, a group of policemen invaded his apartment with a warrant to search it for the stolen items. They . . . destroyed his apartment. His sofa and bed mattress were ripped open, his posters and paintings removed from their frames and tossed carelessly about, camera dismantled, film containers opened, curtain rods unscrewed, linings and hems of coats and trousers and suit jackets ripped open, contents of drawers and closets and cabinets searched and dumped into heaps. The plants on his balcony were knocked out of their pots, their roots explored – he doubted they’d survive the damage. They tracked in the dirt all over the carpet, all over every room.

Canisters of flour and sugar were emptied. Food from the refrigerator was smashed with forks to make sure no ruby lay inside. They even took his pot of soup from the stove, strained its contents, and poked through it.

And his videotapes. He’d just started collecting them, though he hadn’t yet plucked up his courage to actually go buy one of those videocassette player gizmos and try to figure out how to set it up, or, better yet, soap someone else into doing it for him. But he’d wanted to be prepared. Well, so much for that: they ruined his entire collection. They opened up the shell of every single one, and ‘Casablanca,’ ‘The Third Man,’ ‘The Thirty-nine Steps’ . . . all lay in ribbons, a big heap on the floor. Laura was furious, and he . . . he just stood there. “It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,” he said, not sure if the mantra was directed at Laura or himself. He looked again at the pile of rubbish. He might as well set a match to it. To the whole place. When had he developed this sense of ownership, this sense of attachment, that he should feel so violated?

He winced at the sound of something breaking in the kitchen, but stayed put. Let them do their worst – they wouldn’t find anything. As if he’d ever be so stupid as to hide stolen items in his apartment. Laura panicked, digging her fingernails into him as she asked him about his passports. He assured her he’d already removed the passports from the premises. It wouldn’t do for the police to start checking into the backgrounds of Michael O'Leary, Paul Fabrini, John Murrell, Douglas Quintain, and Richard Blaine. Somehow he didn’t think they’d be willing to accept that Remington Steele just liked to have false passports in the names of Humphrey Bogart characters.

Finally, after some last, angry words for the police, Laura had dragged him from the chaos, and they’d taken up their interviews of the crew, the silence weighing heavily between them. . . .

Steele sighed. He didn’t feel like going back to the apartment. Well, he’d check into a hotel tomorrow – he might have to be moving on anyway. He found himself chewing on his lip and stopped himself. C’mon, mate. Quit thinkin’ these thoughts – they’re hardly relaxin’. Don’t give Murphy the satisfaction of seeing you rattled. Turn your mind to somethin’ more pleasant and drop off like the babby he’s supposed to be mindin’. That’ll get his knickers in a twist.

He searched his mind and came up with the perfect bedtime thought. In fact, he nearly started laughing. He thought of Carl, remembering the two of them working together in Raeder’s Museum Room. They’d been able, sometimes with difficulty, to behave appropriately when others were around, restricting themselves to shooting each other furtive glances, but occasionally they were left to themselves and propriety went out the window. Sometimes, Carl would parody a ballet dancer as he’d sweep down the aisles, his hands gracefully brushing against the exhibits. Steele would follow him, preferring to just slide across the polished floor in stockinged feet, pretending to be Gene Kelly in ‘Singing in the Rain’ (Gene Kelly, Donald O’Connor, Debbie Reynolds. MGM. 1952), though he didn’t drop to his knees – he would’ve, had he thought he, too, would end up at the amazing legs of Cyd Charisse. One time, Carl persuaded him to demonstrate an Irish step dance – well, he didn’t admit to Carl he was pretty much making up the steps since he’d never been properly taught. Carl would never know: keep your upper body still, kick up your legs, look like you’ve got a poker shoved up your backside, and you’re doing an Irish dance. . . .

But most of the time when they were alone and taking a break, they’d just go around gaping in awe, pointing out to each other some piece they were particularly fond of, not trying to hide the lust it inspired. Then, someone would enter, and they’d once again fall into their assumed roles. Although, it’d been a bit awkward the time he’d ended up half a room away from his shoes . . . .

Murphy looked over at the sleeping figure. Jeez, was that a smile on the guy’s face? Well, Murphy would give him one thing: if he’d done this, he sure had balls, sticking around like this. Murphy had expected that even if the guy were innocent, being a suspect would’ve been enough to send him running.

The con man sure didn’t seem too concerned they were staking out this Carl guy. Not that that meant anything. The only thing you could be sure about with con men was that nothing was as it seemed. He’d learned that when he was eighteen.

Irritated not only at having to stake out a guy who Steele could probably tell them the whereabouts of, but also at having to put up with Steele, his candidate for the thefts, sound asleep next to him, Murphy reached over Steele to pull a notebook out of the glove compartment. He slammed the compartment shut.

Steele’s eyes flew open. He jerked upright in the seat and looked around wildly to see where the shots were coming from, only to see Murphy pulling back from his direction, his hand still on the glove box. Their eyes met. Never hesitating to go where angels might fear to tread when it came to Murphy, Steele plunged right in as if they’d been having a casual conversation all along. “So, when did you first decide to put on the mantle of a PI?” For a moment he thought Murphy might refuse to speak to him, but then again, Murphy had never shown any signs of fearing to tread on Steele, unless Laura was around. He suppressed a sigh of relief when Murphy started talking. Always worse than being abused was being ignored.

“When I was eighteen, after I was conned.” Murphy’s voice was hard.

Steele couldn’t help the small smile that formed on his lips. “Eighteen. That means you were still in high school? I saw your personnel records – you went to George Washington High School, named after that chap who could never tell a lie. I thought that explained a lot.” He again couldn’t keep a small smile of amusement off his face. Murphy shot him an irritated look before turning back to Carl’s house. When Murphy remained silent, Steele raised his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “My apologies. Would you tell me the story?” He did his best to project an air of openness and interest.

Murphy shifted in the seat, then shot Steele another quick glance. After another interval of silence, Murphy spoke. “I’d recently graduated from high school. I wanted to get out of Denver, away from mom and dad, like any kid.”

Well, not any kid. First, you needed parents. “That’s when you came to California?”

“Straight to USC. First week there, I met a girl, took her to the first weekend dance. I got her to leave the party early and wander about the city with me.”

“Good show!” But he knew Murphy wasn’t letting all this slip out of a sense of camaraderie. From the very start of this story, Murphy’s tone let Steele know there was a point to it. A very sharp point.

“We were crossing a street, and up ahead we could see a man coming down the sidewalk, slowly making his way toward us, stumbling a bit. He was older, maybe late twenties, early thirties, and he was drunk. Happy drunk. ‘I love everyone’ drunk. He stumbled coming off the curb and I rushed to help him.”

“Naturally.” Steele kept his tone neutral, but it didn’t matter. Murphy’s voice when he resumed speaking held barely suppressed anger; he seemed too involved in his story to pay attention to Steele for the moment.

“The drunk greeted me as if I were his long-lost cousin.”

“And then when you’d gotten halfway down the block, you realized your wallet had been lifted. You whirled around, only to find the drunk had magically discovered coordination and disappeared into the night.”

Murphy glanced at him, eyes blazing. “Sounds like you’re familiar with the ploy.”

“It’s one a pickpocket might use to survive on the streets,” Steele responded coolly. Just a way to keep from starving when one had no other means. “Nothing personal. To incite such passion in you, though, I take it that it didn’t have a salutary effect on your date.”

“You could say that.” Murphy bit off the words. “Some nights I’d go back to that street, hoping to run into that ‘drunk’ again.” Murphy fell into a brooding silence.

Even though – or maybe, because – his companion obviously didn’t want to elaborate, Steele wasn’t inclined to drop his line of inquiry. Surely there was more to this story, surely Murphy hadn’t yet said what he’d really wanted to let fly. He phrased his goad for maximum effect. “So. A desire to avenge yourself on the lowly pickpockets of the world for having spoiled your first date led you to become a PI.”

Murphy turned on him angrily, his voice low and intense. “Not long after that I learned firsthand that scammers usually prefer frailer victims than me. That same year, my seventy-year-old grandma was the target of a pigeon drop in a supermarket parking lot in Florida. After she’d withdrawn some money, she became suspicious and refused to give it to the cons. They beat her and took it and never were caught.They beat her for $300. That’s when I decided I wanted to bring felons like that to justice. I’ve been in this business for ten years, I’ve traveled all around the U.S., and you know what? Everywhere I go, I find con men. I know all about you. Your languages vary, but what comes out of your mouths is deceit. You’re masters at manipulating your victims. You’re seldom caught, hardly ever convicted, but when you are, you manipulate the cops, the judges, the parole officers. You’ve all shown not only can crime pay, it pays very well.” Murphy threw a pointed look at Steele’s attire. “And while you’re sitting pretty, not giving a damn about right and wrong, believing yourself superior to your victims, to everyone who believes in the law – hell, to everyone who’s not a clever confellow like you – another family loses their life’s savings because they were gullible, another old man is declared incompetent and put into a nursing home because he was naive, another old lady is beaten because she caught on too late.”

Murphy’s eyes bored into his. “Every time I hear of one of you getting caught, I celebrate, and whenever I catch one of you myself, I go out to a nice secluded beach and scream at the top of my voice, ‘That’s for you, Grandma.’” Murphy turned abruptly away from him and resumed staring at Carl’s house. “She loved the ocean.”

Steele turned his head to look out the front window. He had to consciously untense his shoulders. He glanced at Murphy’s profile, then looked down at his own lap, not really seeing anything, having to blink several times because something was blurring his vision. He could think of nothing to say.

****

Steele heard Laura greet Bernice and go into her office. He massaged the back of his neck. He’d gotten a crick in it after finally falling into an uneasy sleep in Murphy’s car last night. He stared at the door connecting his office to Laura’s. He rolled down his sleeves, fastened his cuffs, put his suit jacket on, and adjusted his tie. He walked to Laura’s door, knocked, opened it, and stuck his head inside. “Miss Holt, may I speak with you a moment?”

He didn’t wait for her answer, but left the door open and returned to sit behind his desk. He heard Murphy enter Laura’s office and tell her that nothing had happened during the stakeout last night, that he was going to write up some of his notes before heading out again to interview more of the party attendees, and that no one had yet reported seeing anyone who might’ve bumped into Ms. Raeder.

Laura came into Steele’s office and proceeded to wear a hole in the carpet. Her ‘this better be good’ look definitely marred her unstudied beauty.

“Laura, I once knew this contessa who pulled a jewellery scam. I’ve been wondering if the same thing could’ve happened here.”

Laura glanced at him, looked away, then stopped pacing to look at him more fully, her features slightly less forbidding, but her arms still crossed in front of her.

“What if, what if the ruby wasn’t stolen? I mean, what if Ms. Raeder staged the theft?”

“Go on.” Laura’s tone was neutral.

“She could’ve snapped the chain herself, hidden the ruby in her, uh, dress. What if, what if they faked the theft to collect the insurance money? It’s been done. What if the Raeders have some outstanding debts and they’re unable to pay? Or rather, unwilling – they don’t want to part with their treasures.”

Laura’s shoulders relaxed. She came over to lean her arms on his desk. “A man with the resources of Mr. Raeder – he could have access to people who could break into your display case – ”

“It was one of the first ones we worked on. They had nearly three weeks to figure it out. Maybe they had little spy cameras or bugs to help them, or they just . . . solved the puzzle. Any system can be breached given sufficient time and resources.”

Laura sighed. “The ruby and mosaic could be anywhere by now.”

“I’ll wager they’re still on their premises. Raeder likes to be personally in control. I think he’d keep them in his possession. Trust me, I know the type.”

“The premises were searched.”

“By Raeder’s men.”

“And the police.”

“I’m sure they were a lot more careful with his belongings. . . . Anyway . . . they didn’t search the . . . safest places.”

She stared at him. “We couldn’t get a search warrant served based on this.”

“Then we’ll search it ourselves. And not just the safes. That place was built during Prohibition. There’s a secret bar he’s converted into a niche to hold artwork . . . .” He trailed off as he saw her look, then continued bravely. “It’s in the library. I came across it during my . . . my investigation of the premises – for security purposes,” he added hastily.

“Was it empty?”

“Laura. You’re assuming I checked.” He tried to sound hurt, but under her continued stare he couldn’t help breaking into a grin. “Yes, it was empty at the time.”

“You’re suggesting we break into their mansion, into their safes, and search for the ruby and the mosaic.”

“Yes.” As she turned away, he hurried to say, “It’d be child’s play, Laura. I know the security systems, inside and out. A fact that has thus far been used against me. Let me make it work for me.”

She turned back to him. “I’ll give the matter all the consideration it deserves, Mr. Steele.”

His eyes followed the long line of her legs as she strode purposefully out of his office, then he scowled, swung his chair around, clasped his hands behind his head and stared out the window. Things were rubbing along about as smoothly as fingernails on a blackboard.

As Laura marched into Murphy’s office to collar him, Murphy swivelled his desk chair around to face her. “Murphy, we need to dig more into the background of the Raeders. Top priority.” Steele’s intuitions, while often out of the blue and not always correct, always led their cases forward, toward resolution. Unless, this time, he was just leading them on.

“What, specifically, are we looking for?”

“Any reason they’d report those items missing while actually keeping them for themselves – insurance fraud, business difficulties.”

Murphy grinned at her. “The Raeders pulling a scam.” His grin disappeared and he jerked his head in the direction of Steele’s office. “I bet I know who gave you that idea. After his performance during your interviews yesterday, why do you trust anything he says?”

“It’s not a matter of trust, Murphy. I know it’s not the first thing we’d normally look at, but it’s a good idea. It bears checking out.” Murphy’s look told her he thought she was clutching at straws.

Finally, Murphy shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “It’ll take time. Raeder’s had that mansion out here for a while, as well as business offices, but he hasn’t really lived here before now. His base of operation has been New York. The important stuff’s going to be back there. If we’re talking federal information, it could take weeks. And the man’s business dealings are international. We could be looking a long time.”

“I can help there.” Steele was leaning in the doorway where he’d managed to inconspicuously park himself.

“Adding eavesdropping to your list of sins?”

Steele straightened up. “That would appear to be the least of my worries, Murphy. Anyway, I can help.”

“How.” Not a question. A statement of flat-out disbelief.

“Always the skeptic, Murphy. Every source of information is vulnerable to a good ruse.”

Laura stopped Murphy from retorting with an admonishing shake of her head.

Steele was, as usual, oblivious to the exchange. “Also, Mr. Raeder is quite the art collector. I’m sure I can contact certain . . . brokers . . . to find additional information on our man. As for Ms. Raeder, well, of course I prefer the personal approach – ”

“I think we’ll let you concentrate on Mr. Raeder, Mr. Steele,” Laura broke in as he grinned. She paced a few steps, feeling a resurgence of energy. “Do you know when the Raeders married?”

“About a year ago, she told me. Said it was love at first sight,” – Steele shrugged and lifted his eyebrows, conveying his opinion that he didn’t see what Ms. Raeder could’ve seen in Erich – “said they married after a whirlwind romance.”

“All right. You two see what you can find out on Mr. Raeder, and I’ll concentrate on Ms. Raeder.”

She noticed Murphy eyeing Steele with his old distrust. Also as of old, Steele was ignoring it, saying, “By the way, old boy, the best time to call to talk your way into closed information is 12:01 local time. The management is out to lunch, leaving the more malleable clerks and secretaries to run the world. Give me a shout if I can be of service.” She hoped Murphy would take him up on it. She knew Murphy hated to admit it, but at this kind of thing Steele could be very . . . Useful and Diligent. She smiled to herself at the reference .

As Steele left the room, she turned to Murphy. Her unassuming, shoot-from-the-hip partner had contacts all over the U.S. from his freelance days, and she had need of them. “Murphy, what’s the number for your investigator friend in New York? Ed Something-or-other.”

“Ed Hines. Sure, I’ve got the number right here.” Murphy flipped through his Rolodex. “I’ll give him a call.”

Laura shook her head and copied down the number. “I’ll get it. Thanks, Murph.” As Laura went into her office, she heard a burst of laughter come from Steele’s office. Unable to resist, she cracked open his door. There was Steele, on the phone, lounged back in his chair, feet on his desk, a hand waving expansively, smiling and laughing.

“Ah, yes, Henri. It’s been too long, too long. And how is Joelle?” Steele’s voice caressed the name. He noticed Laura and waved her in, but she declined. She had better things to do than listen to him discuss some woman while conversing long-distance with a – what had he called it? broker? – fence, more likely.

She went to her desk and picked up the phone to dial New York. She got Ed’s secretary, who said Ed was in with a client but should be finished soon. Laura told the secretary to mention Murphy was her partner, knowing that would speed Ed’s return call. As she set down her phone, she could hear Murphy’s voice come through the wall. He was probably on the phone speaking to some bureaucrat about the Raeders’ current insurance policies and past claim histories. She smiled, picturing Murphy hunched over his small, neat-as-a-pin desk, frowning in concentration at the notepad in front of him, scribbling furiously.

The office phone rang, and Bernice punched through the call from Ed. Laura explained the situation as briefly as possible and hired him to start a background check on Ms. Raeder. She grimaced at the expenditure, but this was a time for frugality to take a back seat to speed. Now, what next? Ms. Raeder was new here, so likely no close friends to pump. Laura drummed her fingers on her desk. She’d try the household staff, though they’d probably choose to face a firing squad rather than give her any dirt on the Raeders and face their wrath. Given the coldness Laura felt when she was around the two, she could understand that choice. But, worth a try. She picked up the phone and called Ms. Raeder. The line was busy. Well, she’d just go out there.

As she left her office, Murphy stalked past her, heading for Steele’s office. “What’s wrong, Murph?”

Murphy glowered at her. “I’ve got Ms. Raeder on the phone, trying to get some information from her. She wants to speak with him.” Murphy jerked his head in the direction of Steele’s office.

Laura smiled a little and shook her head. “Well, suck it up and let him speak to her. Tell him what you want. I want to see her anyway – I’ll talk to her now to set up an appointment and then turn her over to you two.”

Murphy chuffed a breath and turned to go into Steele’s office. Poor Murph. She could imagine Steele apologizing to Ms. Raeder for Murphy’s inexperience in dealing in such matters – but what could he do? – the boy had to learn sometime as part of his training to be a PI. Lord knows, it rankled her enough when Steele did that sort of thing to her. She knew Murphy found it nearly intolerable.

****

Laura was escorted into the Breakfast Room of the Raeder mansion where Ms. Raeder was having a late brunch. Ms. Raeder gave her the smile of a woman who knows not only that she is beautiful, but that the woman she is greeting is no rival in that department. Laura gritted her teeth. Ms. Raeder swept her hand out, indicating Laura should join her at the table. As Laura sat, maids brought in trays with orange juice – freshly squeezed, no doubt – milk, coffee, a selection of teas, fresh baked croissants and muffins, toast, a selection of marmalades and jams, yogurt, smoked salmon on cream cheese bagels in nests of dill, and fresh fruit compote – Laura could smell the vanilla bean in the sauce. What army was the woman planning to feed? It was obvious by her figure she must live on air.

But no, evidently Ms Raeder had a voracious appetite. Laura thought caustic thoughts as to how the woman worked it off. Laura selected some of the compote, to be polite; she had no intention of staying long. “Ms. Raeder, I’ve just finished speaking with your household staff again. Thank you for instructing them to give me their full cooperation.”

Ms. Raeder nodded indulgently.

“This is everyone who’s ever worked for you, correct?”

Ms. Raeder raised a perfect eyebrow. “Yes, during the day we have five maids, a cook, and a butler. That’s everyone.”

“Now, according to my notes, your entire staff, except for the cook and a maid, came with Mr. Raeder when he made his final move here – which was two weeks before your arrival.”

Ms. Raeder’s bagel halted its journey to her mouth and resumed its position on her plate. “I made do with the limited staff.”

“According to your cook and maid, you cancelled your flight reservation and arrived two days later than you’d originally planned. But you sent the cook and the maid on that original flight.”

Ms. Raeder picked up the bagel and her perfect, even teeth took a healthy bite out of it before she answered. “Guilty as charged, Miss Holt. I had some things in New York to wrap up. Do you have a point?”

“I’m just wondering if you hired anyone to do the routine chores those last two days. A temp, perhaps.”

“Why is this important, Miss Holt?”

“Just dotting all my i’s and crossing all my t’s, as Mr. Steele taught me.” With the smoothness of long practice, Laura managed not to grind out that last part. If, as Bernice said, Ms. Raeder thought Steele ‘prime something,’ the mention of his name might bring greater cooperation. “You never know – maybe that temp holds a grudge against you or Mr. Raeder, has some connections you’re not aware of.”

Ms. Raeder sniffed. “I doubt that very much. But if you must know, I ‘borrowed’ the services of a girl who works for one of Erich’s attorneys – she doubled as cook and maid those last two days. Dreadful girl.”

“Could I get her name and a contact number for her, please.” Laura didn’t inflect her voice as a question. She noted the tiny wrinkle that appeared on Ms. Raeder’s otherwise perfect forehead as the woman looked at her with ill-concealed annoyance. Ms. Raeder got up from the table, swept from the room, and went through the door from the Dining Room to the Library. She soon returned with an address book in her well-manicured hand.

Laura took down the information and handed the book back. Ms. Raeder picked up one of the small brass bells on the breakfast table, rang it, then again left the room to go into the Library. While she was in there, the butler came to escort Laura out of the mansion. For Laura, evidently, brunch was over. She checked her watch. Almost noon. A client had arranged to meet her for lunch today to go over the wrap-up of his case.

Since she had to pass by the office anyway, she stopped in to check her messages to see if Ed had called with any information. Not yet. She opened the main door to Steele’s office to see what he was up to. Her first glimpse revealed Murphy pacing back and forth. Then she saw Steele at his desk, feet on the floor, posture erect, speaking into the phone to someone about the possibility of insurance fraud, the need for utmost discretion. He spoke earnestly, then cajolingly, then he melted into the chair and spoke suggestively to the obviously female recipient of his call. He finished with a soft laugh and a silky, “It’s been a pleasure speaking with you, and, yes, I’d be delighted to repay the favour and pleasure you.” He handed the phone to Murphy, evidently having been put through to the source Murphy was after. Steele saw Laura and gave her a slight smile and a wink. She gave a tight nod and closed the door, picturing him following up on his promise. ‘Why, Laura,’ she imagined him saying, ‘it was all in the line of duty. I gave my word. And Remington Steele’s word is his bond.’

Laura swished out of the suite, nearly knocking Bernice over as she came into the office with sandwiches for the men.

****

Steele polished off his BLT, goat cheese, avocado, and basil on a toasted roll sandwich. As soon as he was sure Laura was safely out of the building, he grabbed his coat to leave. Murphy, on hold, called out, “Where are you going?”

“Off to see friends.” Steele gave Murphy a backward wave, refraining from taking in the picture of Murphy standing frustrated at the phone, wanting to pursue him yet unable to do so – Murphy would never reach the person on the other end of the line without Steele’s help again; Murphy just didn’t have enough artifice in his bones. Steele gave Bernice a beatific smile, which she returned with a less-than-beatific scowl, and slipped out the door.

Out on the Avenue of Stars, Steele spotted the tails immediately. Jenkins needed to lose some weight; the only way he’d keep up with Steele was if Steele left a trail of donuts. Steele took a taxi to the Grand Central Market, nice and crowded at this time of day. Jenkins and his partner were easily lost, probably gorging themselves on burritos. Steele got his friend Amistad to take him to La Placita Olvera . He slipped into the back of the Art Gallery to wait while Amistad delivered a message for him. He could only hope the message’s recipient would show up.

A half hour later he decided his friend thought him way too hot for his message to make any difference. In his message, he’d called in the marker owed him concerning the fifth piece of the Marchesa Collection . That marker alone should’ve been more than enough, given what’d happened in Mexico, but he’d even offered to sacrifice a larger cut in his profits from their current ‘business.’

Just as he was about to give up and move on to his next source, the familiar voice greeted him. “Desco.”

“Thank you for coming, Mando.”

The man took his hand and clasped him in a one-armed abrazo, but there was a grim look in his normally warm, deep-brown eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

Desco nodded, grateful Mando had come despite his former declaration he wouldn’t meet with Desco while the cops were on his tail. “Tell me everything you know about Erich Raeder, his standing in the art world, both the legitimate and the not-so.”

“Ah, the ‘not-so.’ Only rumors, carnal .”

Desco listened with interest as his friend continued to fill him in. These were some good rumours to pass onto Laura – they certainly made Raeder seem like a suspicious character. He then asked Mando, “Anything about the other items?”

Mando pulled at his gold earring, then ran a hand through his nearly nonexistent salt-and-pepper hair. “Maybe one of the Dürer drawings. Bremen said it could be the one that was taken by the Soviets from a German castle, went through KGB hands, ended up in the Baku Museum in Azerbaijan, and then was stolen again from there. Nothing more definite. Weimar hasn’t had a chance to check into Northeim about the silver, yet.”

Desco nodded at the fence and followed the parting Chicano handshake with a particularly generous amount of green.

The man asked his retreating back, “Desco, is Raeder your man?” Mando followed the expected nonreply with, “Take a care with that one, carnal. I don’t want you to see the wolf’s ears . I don’t want to have to rename you ‘Dismas.’ Or is it ‘Gestas’? Never could keep the two of those straight. ”

He gave a backward wave to Mando, then cut over towards Union Station, whose platforms served more pigeons than passengers. He caught a taxicab on Alameda to his next destination, in West Hollywood. Afterwards, he’d try to check with some of his other local sources about Raeder’s standing in the art world, but he doubted he’d learn anything more. Mando was his most reliable source on these matters, and Mando hadn’t told him anything he hadn’t already suspected. Still, it was good to have confirmation.

He wished the fence had had some more definite information on the items, though. Steele couldn’t lose the feeling Mando was holding back on his pursuit of the matter until he saw how things shook loose with the current situation. Not that Steele could blame Mando – if the current situation wasn’t resolved in Steele’s favour, all the treasures of ‘his man’ would remain buried.

Steele shook his head in amazement. To think, he owed his discovery of these treasures to a fluke. He’d taken the silver out of the oak canteen and, out of habit, had checked under the royal blue velvet lining for a false bottom. He couldn’t have been more startled when, after some careful probing, he’d actually found one. All that had lain inside it was an old photograph with the inscription ‘Regelheim, Northeim.’ Funny thing was, it’d stirred a memory.

He’d still been living on Brixton’s streets, then. He’d just lifted a wallet when a mate of his – whom he called ‘Amish,’ which meant ‘honest’ in Hindi, and who called him ‘Nevan,’ which meant ‘little saint,’ in Irish – came up to him.

“I am going home to my mummy and father, Nevan.”

“Your ‘mummy’? G’way from me .”

“You will come with me, yes? You can pinch a few items from the art gallery,” – Amish grinned at him – “and mummy will feed you curry until it comes out your ears.”

Nevan knew something else must be up, but the offer of mountains of food was not one to take lightly. He kicked at the sidewalk and pretended to give it some thought. “Okay, I guess.” He had no other pressing business, after all.

That evening, Nevan broke them into a local thrift shop. He occasionally trawled such places and had a knack for hooking just what he needed. They got clothes, shoes – even a duffel bag in which they could pack their few possessions. They also took the opportunity while there to wash up in a sink in the employees’ loo.

In the early morning they started to hitch to Coventry, Amish’s hometown. On the way, Amish once again insisted on telling him about John Hewitt, the Director of the Herbert Art Gallery and Museum in Coventry. Amish had the mistaken belief Nevan should be interested in Hewitt because Hewitt was Irish. A famous Irish poet. Nevan couldn’t get it through Amish’s thick skull he had no interest in a Protestant from the North.

“Let me read to you some of his poetry, yes?” Amish pulled a book and a few papers out of the duffel while Nevan groaned. Actually, Nevan didn’t mind that much. Amish was educated; he could read – even write English in those curly letters. And Nevan liked to hear Amish’s soft voice, which came from deep in his throat. Amish’s voice sounded so musical anyway, but especially when he spoke poetry. Amish planned on being a poet himself one day. Nevan planned on staying alive.

Nevan lay in the back of the lorry with his head on the duffel bag. He looked up at the sky and tried to see animals and faces in the fluffy white clouds. He tuned in and out as Amish’s voice flowed on.

“. . . and years spent walking through an alien place / among bland strangers kinder than his kin . . . ”

A little later, in another lorry, “ . . . and I am left with these alternatives, / to find a new mask for what I wish to be, / or try to be a man without a mask, / resolved not to grow neutral, growing old. ”

And still later, in another lorry, Amish told him about how in a trilogy of Hewitt’s poems , the speaker of the poem lamented that he couldn’t feel at home in either the countryside of his ancestors, or in the city where he resided. . . .

Nevan awoke to Amish poking him in the ribs. “We are here, Nevan.”

“Good. If I don’t get some curry in my belly soon, I’m not goin’ t’be able to stand up in my shoes.”

It was early evening now, and Nevan could smell delicious smells wafting from the open windows of the houses on the street where Amish lived: smells of dal, smells of naan, and, of course, smells of curry, all mixed with the perfume of incense. Nevan hoped with all his heart Amish’s family was ready to eat.

A tiny, dark, plump woman with a red dot in the middle of her forehead answered the door. She was wrapped in yards and yards of purple silky material – yes, that must really be silk. Nevan wanted to touch the sari, but he didn’t dare.

“Saeed!” the woman exclaimed.

Nevan looked sideways at Amish and mouthed, “Saeed?”

“It means ‘priestly,’” his friend said out of the side of his mouth.

Nevan almost burst out laughing: that was about as fitting as ‘honest’ had been.

They pulled off their shoes and went into the house. Saeed was immediately surrounded by a gaggle of bodies, their excited voices filling the air. Nevan felt a bit envious. Saeed finally explained to him that these were his two little brothers, his little sister, his mother, and his grandmother.

A man appeared. All the sing-songy voices stilled. Saeed looked a bit nervous. Nevan tensed, prepared to run.

“Father,” Saeed said deferentially.

The man looked at Saeed sternly. Nevan couldn’t see anger in the man’s face, but neither could he see affection. Disappointment, he guessed.

Saeed approached his father and pressed his palms together as if he were going to pray. His father flicked his eyes towards his mother, then turned to go into another room. Saeed hesitated, but then his mother came up to him, softly said some words in Hindi, and gave him a little push. Saeed turned towards Nevan. “Come, Nevan.”

Nevan edged forward. All the little children started chattering and laughing and pushed their way past him and then past Saeed. They went into the same room as their father. Saeed and Nevan went in, too, but more slowly.

They entered a dining room. A spotless white carpet covered the floor. The children and their father sat around a rectangular table of gleaming wood. There was a little carving on each corner of the table’s apron. The legs of the table were tapered and formed with ridges like a reed. The chairs were all a match to the table. The backs of the chairs were artistically shaped; their tops were arched and had roses carved into them. Nevan had never before been in such a grand home. Well, at least not for any purpose other than a smash-and-grab.

Saeed’s father said something to the little children, and with lots of giggling, they rearranged themselves so Saeed and Nevan were seated next to each other. Nevan decided the best thing about the chairs were their comfy cushions. He stopped himself from bouncing up and down on them. Saeed’s grandmother brought in place settings for them, and then the feast began.

Nevan ate silky dal, rice that smelled like perfume, spicy-sweet date chutney, crisp curried potatoes with peas, crunchy cucumbers in yogurt, mouth-puckering lime pickle, and soft chappati. Everyone scooped up their food on their chappatis, which was a relief since it’d been awhile since Nevan had used knife and fork. Throughout the meal, Saeed’s mother and grandmother would appear with fresh chappati.

“More, yes, Nevan?” Saeed’s mother urged him. Nevan nodded his head vigorously, wondering why the women didn’t eat with the rest of the family.

For dessert, there was a sweet with paper-thin foil pressed onto it. “It is real silver,” Saeed whispered to him. Nevan looked at him open-mouthed and thought his eyes would pop out of his head when he saw Saeed eat the silver.

Finally, when Nevan really was afraid the food would soon be coming out of his ears, they were served a small cup of liquid. “Digestive lassi,” Saeed told him.

Nevan looked at the thinned, beaten yogurt with cumin, ginger, salt, and coriander leaves. He put a hand to his belly. “I hope it works.”

Several hours later he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet in the loo off Saeed’s bedroom. He should’ve known a belly so unused to this quantity and variety of food would rebel against it. But it’d tasted so good. . . .

“Good Morning, Nevan,” Saeed sang.

Nevan groaned and sat up. “D’you have t’be so bloody cheerful in the mornin’?” They were in a huge bed, with a line of pillows down the centre. Saeed’s family had lots of pillows.

“Up, up! We must eat a little breakfast, and then we are going to temple.”

Nevan made a face. “That’s a piss-take , right?”

“There will be five hours of chanting, and afterwards there will be a big feast.”

Nevan flopped back onto the bed and pulled the covers over his head. “Wake me up for the ‘feast’ part.”

Saeed laughed and pulled the covers back down. “I was only teasing you, my friend. I must go to temple with my family, but you should go to the art gallery, yes?”

That was more like it. Their pillow fight was interrupted when Saeed’s mother tapped on the door and called them to breakfast.

Breakfast was a relatively simple affair – something that resembled puffed rice mixed with raisins and nuts, some fruit, some griddle-baked bread with cashew butter, and a yogurt drink with mint. Nevan was hungry, having lost most of last night’s food, but restrained himself, not wanting a repeat performance. He watched as Saeed dug into his food. How could Saeed give all this up to stand with him outside of chippers at closing time and beg for burnt chips and bits of fish floating around in the grease?

After repeatedly turning down Saeed’s mother’s invitation to join the family at temple, Nevan made his way to the art gallery, hoping to find some easily snitchable treasures. He should’ve known, though, what with it being run by a Protestant from the North. The blue buttoned uniforms of security were everywhere he looked, and breaking into a place like this at night was beyond him. Maybe some day.

He stared at the exhibit of Chinese art and kicked at the floor. He should’ve known Saeed was just codding him about all the treasures ripe for picking here by his nimble fingers. Having nothing else to do, he wandered about and came upon an exhibit the likes of which he’d never imagined. “Venezuelan kinetic art,” he heard someone say. People were not only looking at it, but touching it, and when they walked by or through the pieces, the works would vibrate and whisper out sounds. For a while, he imitated what the other people were doing, then he walked into another room.

There he viewed a collection of pictures of landscapes, pictures of city life, pictures of heroic-looking working class people. Typical of the quality to cheer clap the working class while grinding them under their heel. He overheard a man talking about “the unresolved tension between the international pull of the Marxism of Hewitt’s politics and the unionist inflection of his regionalism . . . ”

Nevan moved away. Not only hadn’t he understood a word the man was saying, but he cared about only one ‘ism,’ ‘Robin Hoodism’ – steal from the rich to give to the poor, himself. ‘Robin Hood.’ Douglas Fairbanks, Wallace Beery, Sam de Grasse. Douglas Fairbanks Pictures.1922.

As consolation for Nevan’s inability to stroke a prize, Saeed took him to a Bollywood film that evening at the Kabhi Palladium. Everyone was all dressed up, the cinema was packed, the atmosphere exciting, special. They watched the film ‘Barsaat.’ Nargis, Raj Kapoor, Premnath, Nimmi. R.K. Films Ltd. 1949. His friend occasionally translated the Hindi, but it wasn’t really necessary. It was impossible to miss the passion braided with sadness, as a couple, Raj and Nargis, madly in love with each other, underwent tragedy after tragedy until they were finally united as they were meant to be. Nevan’s favourite line was, ‘Love, which comes like rain, brings with it hope, life, and the promise of new beginnings.’

The film should’ve been rivetting, but his friend insisted on interrupting the flow of the film by telling him about valuables hidden in an attic in Coventry. “It is real silver. The man took it when he was a soldier in Germany at the end of World War Two. I overheard his son bragging about it to his mates.”

“Are you coddin’ me?”

“No, no, my friend. I have a photograph.” Saeed surreptitiously showed him a picture.

Nevan wrinkled his face. “That’s a picture of a British soldier in front of a castle. I don’t see any silver.”

“I broke into the attic of Mr. Barclay months ago, the last time I was here. I found the canteen full of silver. There were two identical photographs in it. I took this one and left the other. The soldier is Mr. Barclay. His son bragged that his father took the silver from the castle.”

Nevan’s fingers itched, but then he eyed Saeed suspiciously. “Why didn’t you nick the silver yourself?”

“I did not have the means to dispose of it. But now – your new friend Daniel could help us, yes?”

It’d seemed a fair deal: Saeed could try to make use of Nevan’s connection to Daniel in exchange for having given Nevan a few days with a full belly and a warm place to stay.

But before they’d been able to come up with a plan to liberate the silver, fate had intervened. He’d never been sure what had happened – all he knew was he’d awakened that night to hear a lot of yelling and screaming. Finding himself alone in Saeed’s bedroom, he’d pulled on his trousers, shrugged into his shirt without buttoning it, and crept out to see what was going on, only to see Saeed being beaten by his father. Saeed had scrambled out of the house. Nevan had flown back into the bedroom, flung open the window, swung himself out of it, and, after briefly hanging onto the ledge by his fingertips, dropped down a floor to the ground. He’d knocked into a dustbin in the dark and the back lights had snapped on. He’d scurried away and searched for Saeed for a while. When first light had threatened, he’d given up, and barefoot – his shoes had still been in the foyer of Saeed’s family’s house – he’d started the journey back to Brixton.

He’d never seen his friend again. He hoped his friend was somewhere writing poetry. And what of that antique silver? Had Saeed nicked it after all, and it’d somehow ended up in L.A.? After all these years, to have opened a canteen of silver and seen a photograph of what Steele was almost sure was the same castle with the same British soldier in front of it seemed nothing short of fantastic. He couldn’t say for sure whether the script on the picture Saeed had shown him had also said ‘Regelheim,’ since he’d been barely able to read at the time, but Saeed had said that there were two pictures in the canteen and that he’d taken only one. If the picture Saeed had shown him and the one Steele had found in the oak canteen were indeed identical, ironic the silver that had once eluded his grasp in Coventry had ended up here in L.A., back once again within the reach of Nevan. Or Desco. Or whatever he chose to call himself when the time came.

He shook his head and stared out the window as the cab turned onto the tree-lined residential cul-de-sac. Seeing that photo had piqued his curiosity, and he’d kept a sharp eye out for other questionable items among the display objects. He’d come across a few possibilities – and one definite reality, though it hadn’t been on display. He’d also learned that the nearby Greystone Mansion, built during Prohibition, had secret bars, and that it was likely many mansions in the area had them. So he’d expanded his search and had found some, as well as a labyrinth of secret passages. The passages had led to tunnels and rooms – cells, really. Each such chamber had had sterile, climate-controlled air and had been empty of everything except what his imagination had filled it with.

The taxi stopped. He got out and kicked at the sidewalk in discontent. All further hunt for treasure was on hold now. He sighed. Well, maybe he could find some more dirt on the Raeders to dish to Laura and Murphy. He went into the three-story, Mediterranean-styled Sunset Marquis Hotel, where the rich and famous recharged after a debauch in the nearby Sunset Strip clubs. But the area had its further enticements. There was the nearby Hollywood Bowl, where in the film, ‘Olly Olly Oxen Free’ – Katharine Hepburn, Kevin McKenzie, Dennis Dimster, Peter Kilman, Sanrio Communications, 1978 – Kate had landed a hot-air balloon by herself in front of the stage during a performance of the 1812 Overture. And of course other legendary stars had appeared there – Frank Sinatra, Barbra Streisand, Mickey Rooney, Edward G. Robinson, Al Jolson, Judy Garland, Fred Astaire. Also close-by was the Tiffany Theatre, a wonderful cinema, which, like the NuArt and the Fox Venice, ran classic films. Universal Studios was nearby. And there was the Hollywood Walk of Fame and Mann’s Chinese Theatre with its giant, red pagoda, a huge dragon writhing up the façade, two lion-dogs guarding the main entrance, and tiny dragons offering their protection from evil spirits from the ridges of the theatre's ornate, copper roof. The Chinese Theatre, with its footprints of the stars, was the site of more gala Hollywood movie premieres than any other theatre.

But, this hadn’t been the time to indulge in such diversions.

He went to his hotel room and, after a brief freshening up, went back down to the lobby. After checking for possible tails, he went out into the courtyard to the poolside alfresco Patio Café and nodded at Huela, a big-boned German girl. Huey had the manner of the sweetest creature on God’s green earth, but she looked like she could flatten a man.

As she handed him a menu, her pale china-blue eyes crinkling into a smile of greeting, he slipped her a piece of paper with the Raeders’ names and the social security numbers he had for them, along with a G-note – a big one, a large, a thou – wasn’t American slang wonderful? Huey was slick: everything disappeared nicely into her ham-sized hand. “Huey, I need advice about banking matters. If I recall, you told me you have a relative in the business.” Translation: ‘I need an information broker .’

Huey tossed back a fat blonde braid. “He’s an excellent advisor, but you’d need two grand for his advice.” Translation obvious.

“I may have friends who are also interested in his services.” Translation: ‘The people on that list may have aliases and other social security numbers and would your man please look into that as well.’ He handed Huey the menu, which now contained another three grand. “Just a club soda, please.”

Huey nodded. “Hmm. Well, I think my uncle may be all booked up for a while. I’m not sure if he could take on new clients right now. I’ll find out and leave a message for you at your office.” Translation – mostly meaningless chatter to give them a way to end the conversation, but the last sentence was asking him who should get the information.

“Leave the message for Murphy Michaels. He’s overseeing my financial matters. He’s very perceptive and can be counted on for his discretion.” Translation: ‘Get the information to Murphy in some obscure way and for God’s sake, don’t give away anything that directly implicates I had a hand in this, though I’m sure he’ll figure it out.’ Huey moved away to serve another customer. She eventually made her way back to him and handed him the club soda. He sipped at the drink, then left money to cover it and a generous tip. He caught another taxi, again checking that he wasn’t being tailed.

****

After the lunch meeting, which had lasted longer than expected, Laura returned to the office. She poked her head into Steele’s office. Empty. She whirled on Bernice. “Where’d he go?”

Bernice shrugged. “Search me. Murphy was on the phone. You didn’t expect me to tail him, did you?”

“Things were so much easier when I didn’t have to worry if my ‘boss’ is the one committing the crimes I’m investigating,” Laura muttered as she entered her office. She picked up the phone and dialed a New York number. “Mrs. Richthofen? My name is Laura Holt. I’m a private investigator in Los Angeles, and I’m working on a case involving some thefts at the Raeder mansion out here – ”

Laura’s self-introduction to the Raeders’ former neighbor was interrupted by honks of laughter. “Oh my, yes. I heard about that. Lora lost her ruby.” More mirthful laughter followed; Laura couldn’t help her own smile. No love lost here.

Mrs. Richthofen finally quieted down. “I’m sorry, Ms. Holt. Erich is the perfect gentleman, and I am sorry about his difficulties. But what he sees in that little tramp, I’ll never know.”

“I understand your maid worked for Ms. Raeder the two days before she came to L.A.”

“Is she somehow trying to pin this on my Melisenda? Listen, Melisenda never stole that money from that slut. My poor girl’s been so upset I had to give her the week off – ”

“Money?” Laura could hear Mrs. Richthofen take a deep breath, evidently trying to calm herself.

“Lora Raeder accused my Melisenda of taking money from her that last day. Melisenda has worked for me for fifteen years. She is not a thief.”

“I believe you, Mrs. Richthofen – ”

“The nerve of that little gold digger. I swear, I don’t understand why Erich puts up with her. She just spends all his money and coquets with anything in pants. If it weren’t for that prenup, I doubt she’d stop at undressing every man she sees with her eyes – she’d use her teeth! Erich should just dump her.”

Meeooww. “Tough prenup, huh?”

“I probably shouldn’t say this, but,” – more hoots of laughter erupted from Mrs. Richthofen – “my husband drew up the agreement. They signed it right here in the library. And I sort of sneaked a peek at it. I tell you, I thought I was going to going to split a gut – oh, excuse my language.”

“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Richthofen – ”

“At the end there, I thought Erich would wise up and exercise his rights. Did you know that little floozy was after the tail of some competitor of Erich’s? At least, that’s what my husband let slip. And what does Erich do? Whisks her off to California, as if that would solve the problem – ”

“Any name for this competitor?”

“Mmm. I couldn’t pry that out of Frederick – that’s my husband. I’ve just returned from a three-month stay in Europe, so I haven’t caught up on all the local gossip.” She laughed. “But I certainly have friends who are in the know. Would you like me to ask around? Don’t worry. I shall be the soul” – Mrs.Richthofen’s voice sang out the word – “of discretion.”

Laura doubted it, but she wasn’t trolling for such souls at the moment. “I’d appreciate that, Mrs. Richthofen – ”

“You ask me, Erich should’ve just stepped back and caught her in flagrante. Put that prenup to good use. But, I suppose he’d view that as a defeat. And he’s not the type to admit defeat. He’d rather try to control her behavior. Well, I think he’s in store for a nasty surprise. I think he’d have to move her to an island staffed only by women and eunuchs. Hmm. Maybe just eunuchs. Hmm, come to think of it, that probably wouldn’t stop her either – ”

“What did the prenup say?”

“Wellll . . . oh, what the hey.”

Laura readied her pen to take down the details.

****

After spending the rest of the afternoon at the library scanning microfiche of newspapers for the Raeder name, Laura returned to the office in the early evening. She checked her messages and returned a call to Ed Hines. Next, she paged through her notes, looking for the insurance information on the ruby necklace. She checked the date of purchase and nodded to herself. Finally, she went to rally the troops. She found all of them already in Steele’s spacious office. Steele was to himself at his desk, Murphy and Bernice were in the conference area. Battle lines drawn?

The low table in front of the couch was littered with empty coffee cups and take-out trays. Bernice offered her a chocolate brownie. Laura shot her a dirty look. Bernice knew she shouldn’t have chocolate – like liquor to an alcoholic. Bernice shrugged, gathered up the mess they’d made, and left the room.

Laura walked over to Steele’s desk and addressed the men. “Well, let’s hear what you’ve got.” She could hardly keep from blurting out her findings, but decided to hold off until last.

Steele leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “I regret to say I’ve come up with nothing of much use to us about Raeder. There’s the interesting rumour his family’s involvement in the Nazi plundering of artwork is partially responsible for his vast wealth. But he’s not in debt to any . . . intermediaries or in trouble with any of the organized criminal elements that have turned their attention to the art world.”

Murphy walked over to the desk. “Well, I’ve got something interesting. Raeder has a $4 million bank loan that the Chase Manhattan Bank has asked him to either pay off or put up more collateral. The deadline’s fast approaching.”

“Good work, Murph!”

“Yes, splendid, old boy – got you to the right source, did I?”

At Steele’s cocky look, Murphy glowered, “I’m not sure how ethical that was – ”

“Nonsense. PI’s do it in the movies all the time – ”

Laura cut in before the ethics – or lack thereof – debate could continue. “Ms. Raeder is a con artist.” She decorously refrained from grinning like an idiot at their dropped jaws. Thank God for Murphy: Ed had proved invaluable, ferreting out some very interesting information from a county clerk in NY and from an NYPD buddy in the fraud detail who’d been relentless in his pursuit of the woman. “She’s a sweetheart scammer. Before meeting Erich Raeder, she was married to a lovesick, ninety-two-year-old gentleman. She cashed in his $10,000 monthly stipends, ran all his credit cards to the limit, depleted one $800,000 trust fund and was in the process of doing the same with another when he died. Before that, it was a rich old eighty-five-year-old. There’s probably a whole string of them, according to a New York detective. And all the while, she was carrying on with one rich playboy or another, men who could care less about throwing their money away on her.”

She leaned her hands on Steele’s desk. “Unfortunately, though, no one can prove she committed a crime. Her ‘husbands’ were men without family, who evidently thought they were in love with her. They ignored their lawyers’ advice that, at the least, she was a ‘not-nice’ person and they needed to protect their financial interests. They’d say they saw no need, she’d always been good to them.”

“Oh, my!” Whether Steele’s exclamation and grin of admiration were for the scammer’s exploits or for her own uncovering of these facts, Laura was unsure. “But Erich Raeder doesn’t fit the pattern,” Steele continued. “He’s not some doddering old pigeon. What’s her game? A pity if she just fell in love and decided to change. No motive there.”

Murphy sat on the edge of Steele’s desk. “Don’t worry, old boy, people like that never change. When con artists aren’t pulling a con, they study at the feet of their masters or hone their techniques for luring in their next victim. They don’t ‘change.’”

Steele put a hand to his heart. “Murphy. I’m sore wounded. Anyone can change given sufficient motivation.” He looked at Laura and gave a conspiratorial smile and wink.

Murphy narrowed his eyes. “I’ve yet to be convinced. And she’s the worst kind of con artist, the kind who uses sexual attractiveness to manipulate the victim.” He stared hard at Steele, who merely raised an eyebrow in return.

Laura reached out and touched Murphy’s arm. Easy, friend.

She straightened. “Let’s get back on track. Apparently Ms. Raeder, or rather, as she was known then, Loralei – ”

“How appropriate,” Steele interjected.

“What?”

“‘Loralei.’ It’s a German name. It means ‘she whose singing lures men to destruction.’ There’s a famous German folksong, ‘Die Loralei,’ whose words were written by the exceptional German poet Heinrich Heine.”

Where did he get this stuff? Laura sat on the front corner edge of the desk and looked at Steele. “Yes, well, anyway, the story I’m getting from all quarters – you, the New York paper gossip sections, Murphy’s friend Ed Hines, and a New York detective friend of Ed’s – is that Loralei met Erich Raeder at a party in New York about a year ago. They married just a few weeks later. There’s an odd clause in the prenuptial agreement: if there’s an act of infidelity on her part, she’s to be cut off without a penny.”

“That must put a crimp in her style,” Steele observed.

Murphy flicked his eyes at Steele. “Not so’s you’d notice, if that party the night of the theft was any indication.”

“Yes.” Steele cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.

Laura folded her arms. “According to the New York rumor mill, Ms. Raeder became attracted to a business rival of her husband’s in New York, and that’s what sparked their move out here. The ruby necklace was bought for her at the same time.”

She watched as Steele smiled, got up out of his chair, went to the front of his desk, and leaned his hands on it. What was it about him? Why couldn’t she keep her eyes off him whenever he was in the room? Everything about him was so distinctive – the way he talked, the way he gestured, the way he moved. ‘Élan,’ Daniel had called it – the street kid had picked up élan. The pauper had become a prince.

Steele looked at Laura. “So the necklace was a bribe.”

“Maybe.”

Steele tugged an earlobe. “It seems to me we now have many motives for one or the other or both of the Raeders. It could be a scam on Loralei’s part – ”

“If she and this other guy were lovers, he may be blackmailing her – ”

Steele nodded at Murphy. “Yes, she’d lose every cent of Raeder’s if this were to come out, and I’ll wager his wealth far surpasses anything she’s come across yet. A rival of Raeder’s . . . .” Steele straightened up. “What better way to vanquish Raeder than to cuckold him. Perhaps Raeder even knows his wife was unfaithful but doesn’t want to open himself to public humiliation after all – he’d rather pay the blackmail. And what better price for the blackmailer to demand than the symbol of her supposed acquiescence, the ruby. Or, or, or, – ” he emphasized each syllable with his hand – “no blackmail – Raeder arranged for the theft, humiliated by his wife’s betrayal and her subsequent demand for the bauble in return for her public commitment to him. This is his way of taking it back from her without appearing to do so.”

“There’s still the insurance angle – ”

Steele clapped his hands together. “Oh-ho, yes! Glad to see you’re getting in the spirit of things, Murphy.” He slapped Murphy on the shoulder.

Murphy rolled his eyes. “Not so fast, Steele. There’s still a little matter of proof. The evidence still points to you. We don’t even have a candidate for this blackmailer/lover.”

“Ah, Laura will smoke ’im out, Murphy.”

Murphy shook his head and left the room. As Laura went into her office to collect her things before leaving for the night, Murphy popped back into her office. “The Raeders are worth investigating, but I’m still going to keep a very, very, close eye on this guy,” – he jerked his head toward Steele’s office – “I’m still going to investigate his possible role in these thefts. I’m not going to let us be conned, Laura.”

Laura patted Murphy’s arm and started to speak, but turned abruptly as the door to her office opened and Steele came in.

“Oh. Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Laura told him. She turned back to Murphy. “Follow up on all your leads, Murphy.” Murphy nodded, flicked a glance at Steele, and left the room.

Steele came to stand in front of her. “There’s a movie on at LACMA tonight. ‘Dark Victory.’ Bette Davis, George Brent, Humphrey Bogart. Warner Brothers.1939 – Hollywood's most famous and competitive year. It’s an electrifying, compelling, tour de force performance from Bette Davis – ”

“Mr. Steele – ”

“It’s a real tear-jerker – ”

“Mr. Steele – ” She hesitated. She loved tear-jerkers. She looked up at him. How had he managed to stand this close to her without her noticing he’d moved?

“We need a break,” he said softly. “Nothing else can be done now. We should spend a relaxing evening, start fresh in the morning.”

“I – ” It was several long moments before she realized she was just standing there gazing into his eyes. What was this, had he been a damn hypnotist in his obscure past? ‘Look into my eyes. Nothing else can be done now. You should spend a relaxing evening. You will go to a movie with me. And afterwards, you will – ’ She shook herself. “I want to stake out the Raeders tonight. It’s been a long day, and I need to take a short nap first.”

“Oh.” Steele’s face fell slightly, but then he brightened. “What if someone else does it for you?”

“Takes my nap?”

A chuckle escaped Steele. “The stakeout.”

“I want you with Murphy at Carl’s – ”

“I have someone else in mind.”

“And just who might that be?”

He grinned. “Officer McCarthy. Hollywood Community Police Station.”

“And just why would he do this for us?”

He gave a little shrug. “I did him a favour.”

Oh, no. Now what? Laura paced away from him and then turned back. “What kind of favor?”

“A small favour.” As her exasperation built, he lifted his hand and formed a half-inch of space between thumb and index finger. “A very, very small favour.”

God help her, she was going to wring his neck. “A small enough favor that he’s going to sit up all night for us at the Raeder mansion where probably nothing will happen.”

“Yes. At the very least.”

Laura huffed out her exasperation, stalked toward him, and backed him up against the desk. Would those fine, delicate cervical bones of his snap easily? She was mere seconds from finding out. “Are you telling me you’ve got this guy in your pocket?”

Evidently reading her murderous intentions, Steele leaned away from her. “Laura. It’s not what your thinking. It’s, well, it’s – you remember Veronica Kirk ?”

“‘The Queen of the B’s’ who got her buzz from rum and tequila.”

“Laura. That was most unkind.” He smiled. “Although fairly accurate. Well, as you might recall, as a result of all the publicity surrounding her being charged with murder – ”

Laura tapped Steele’s chest. “If memory serves, you proved that charge bogus by accidentally walking into the wrong bedroom and finding the evidence we needed – ”

“Accidentally? Why, Laura, as you yourself said, I was just following my infallible instincts – ”

“Mr. Steele, can we please get back to how Officer McCarthy fits into all this?”

“Ah, yes. Well, as you recall, after we’d cleared her, she got a guest spot on 'The Love Boat' to fall down a funnel and die – ”

“I remember you waltzing in here in sunglasses, scarf, and camel hair coat, looking like Cecil B. De Mille, carrying a script, spouting some line of guff about running lines with her on the set.”

“Yes, well, I did manage to obtain that position with her – the production people couldn’t refuse her anything with all the publicity she was generating, and she was, uh – ”

“You wheedled her into getting you onto the set.”

Steele glared at her while she smirked. “She was open to the suggestion. Anyway, Officer McCarthy was one of the people investigating the murder, and he’s a real 'Love Boat' fan – there’s no accounting for some people’s taste – and he asked me if I could, well, you know, if I could – ”

“Let me guess. You got him onto the set. And then the two of you snuck around and you got him introduced to Gavin MacLeod – ”

“Fred Grandy, Bernie Kopell, Ted Lange, Lauren Tewes, Jill Whelan – McCarthy was in heaven. And we did not sneak. I merely presented him as a special agent, there to see to Miss Kirk’s safety – ”

“A special agent? You had him impersonating an FBI agent?”

“No, Laura, no. We never said he was FBI. I just had a little card printed up for him, all official-looking. It said ‘Special Agent McCarthy.’ It didn’t say who he was special to.”

Laura could feel it building in her, more and more. She balled her fists, tried to hold it back, but she couldn’t stop it. She threw back her head and started to laugh. After all the horrible things she’d been imagining, this childish prank was a relief.

Steele grinned. “So, shall I call him?”

She shrugged and smiled. “Why not?”

“Splendid.”

After Steele arranged things with McCarthy, Laura called out to Murphy. “Hey, Murph, you want to go to a movie with us tonight?” She ignored the lugubrious look on Steele’s face.

“No, I’m going home to catch forty winks. One of us actually intends to go to and stay awake through a stakeout tonight.”

Laura hid her smile at Steele’s not-too-well-hidden look of relief. Of course, she’d known Murphy wouldn’t come.

Steele extended his elbow. “Shall we, Miss Holt?”

Laura took his arm and smiled up at him as they exited the suite. “We shall, Mr. Steele.”

****

Using special software, Jack Ritt perfectly matched the typeset of the original title page of the Ohana catalogue. He reset that page. Instead of reading, ‘Exhibition of Paintings and Sculptures by Members of the Entertainment World,’ it now read, ‘Exhibition of Paintings and Sculptures with Contributions from Members of the Entertainment World.’ Other pages now held photographs of paintings that hadn’t been in the original catalogue: Giacomettis, Chagalls, Dubuffets, de Stals, and Nicholsons. Or at least, that was who the paintings were attributed to. Once the catalogue was seeded with the new pages, Jack restitched the binding.

****

Loralei punctured the gel cap and squeezed a single drop into a small glass of water. She swirled the liquid. She went back into the bedroom and lifted the old, gray head. “Drink this,” she said in a honeyed voice.

“Thanks, Marta.” Officer Mac McCarthy returned the mike to its cradle in his surveillance car and scratched down another note. ‘Residence belongs to Lionel Ackerman, age 93. His grandson, Pierre-Yves, age 33, also lives here.’

He looked again at the home in Palos Verdes Estates to which he had tailed Ms. Raeder. God Almighty, there had to be eight bedrooms in the place. Bet the master bedroom was huge. Bet there was a tennis court. Bet there was an Olympic swimming pool. Bet there was an indoor/outdoor pool. Great view of the ocean, Catalina. This place was a ‘ten.’ Bet it was worth $4 million. Bet Steele had been born in a place like this.

What was in this for Ms. Raeder? More dough? Surely that old guy couldn’t be a good lay. Mac lifted his binoculars to once again sweep the property.

****

She watched him, there in the dark. At first Laura suspected Steele had chosen this movie purely as some sort of expression of twisted humor: Humphrey Bogart – one of Steele’s favorite actors – played a minor, forgettable role as ‘Michael O’Leary,’ forgettable except that ‘Michael O’Leary’ was the name Steele had used when stealing ‘The Five Nudes of Cairo.’ The first time he’d stolen it, that is.

And the leading male character of the movie was named ‘Steele.’

But something else was going on, something she couldn’t quite fathom. He was absorbed in the movie, captured by it, oblivious to his surroundings, oblivious even to her. His body twitched in empathetic reaction to the action on the screen.

She wished they’d gone someplace she could get popcorn, or better yet, Milkduds. Something with chocolate . . . . What were the people at LACMA thinking, showing movies without having a concession stand?

After a while, she started watching him more than the movie. She should’ve gone to more movies with him. Maybe then she could’ve deciphered him better. She began noting the lines and scenes where he’d clear his throat or shift around in his seat; she also noted the lines where she did the same:

I almost envy you – it must be nice to believe in what you're doing. . . . . . . . I'm young, I have no particular responsibilities, I don't intend to cultivate any, either. One is freer without. . . . . . . . For the first time I wake up in the morning with something to live for . . . . You're in love. . . .Yes! . . . . What about him? Has he given you any encouragement? . . . but if he hasn't given you any signs, how do you know? . . . . Well, that's it. I don't know. But he didn't go away. That's one sign. It must mean something. . . . . . . . before, women have never meant anything to me. I'd never met anyone like her. I was all set – I had plans, made arrangements . . . . . . . . when you say, 'Be gay today and live'/ My heart answers cautiously, 'Today will soon be gone'/ . . . . . . . . The nights I've laid awake thinking of you. The things I've wanted to say to you ever since I first laid eyes on you. (He takes her in his arms and ardently kisses her) . . . .

****

“Oh. . . .” Steele groaned. “Laura, must I? Sleepin’ in a hotel bed is so much more comfortable than sleepin’ in Murphy’s car.” He nodded toward the car down the block.

“Mr. Steele. If Carl shows up, you’re the best one to talk to him.”

“And you’re the best one to help me talk to him.” Steele slid over to her across the seat of the Rabbit. Facing her, he said softly, “Just think. You and I. Side-by-side. Shoulder-to-shoulder. Cheek-to-cheek. Face-to-face.”

Laura was picturing them corps-a-corps.

As Steele’s eyes made a silent request, she started to lift her face to meet his, but as he bent down his head, she stopped him, putting her hands on his chest. “If we’re face-to-face, I think Carl would be out of the conversation.”

“Yes, well, three is a crowd in such a situation. Perhaps we could talk to him afterwards . . . .” He searched her eyes and again leaned toward her.

She felt the warmth of his body under her hands.

She again pressed on his chest to stop him.

He pulled back. “Ah. No ‘sleeping with the enemy,’ eh?”

Was he her enemy?

After a few moments, he turned away and got out of the car. He gave her a polite smile. “Good night, Miss Holt. Thank you for attending the movie with me.”

She watched him walk down the street as if he owned it.

****

Laura sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair, thinking of the movie. She put the brush down and fingered the daisies in the vase in front of her. They were wilting. Steele had picked them up on a whim the week before when he and Laura were at the Grand Central Market and had presented them to her with a flourish. That had been the first time she’d done anything with him so casual as shopping. He’d made it fun, rubbing elbows with the Westside chefs, Valley socialites, Mexican housewives, and the rest of L.A.’s polyglot population, searching with them for the ripest tomatillos and the plumpest grapes, the smell of coffee beans and herbs and spices lingering in the air, the old-fashioned neon signs above them proclaiming that things hadn’t changed here much in the last sixty years. They’d wandered among the bustling crowd through the European-style open stalls filled with produce, past display cases of meats and seafood and cheeses. One vendor sold nothing but beans – there must’ve been at least fifty varieties: reddish brown, glossy black, creamy white, pale green, buff, and orange, and yellow . . . .

She’d been in awe of the enormous tortilla machine – dough was fed in one side and out the other popped the finished tortillas. She’d been disappointed when he’d insisted she not indulge herself in what was reputed to be the biggest burrito in town nor sample a pastry, but she’d been glad she hadn’t when she’d dined on the repast he’d put together from the fruits of their labor. . . .

She sighed and cast another glance at the daisies. Daisies, the symbol of loyal love and innocence. . . .

Tender – his kisses were tender. That’s what she knew about him. He brought to her life romance and sensuality, pleasures she’d denied herself in recent years in her quest for professional success. What else did she know? He had compassion – not worn on his sleeve, but revealed in case after case over the past year. Compassion for ‘the little guy.’ What else? He displayed a streak of opportunism. He had the expert ability to breach buildings and people by exploiting their vulnerabilities – an ability that could be used for either good or for ill, by the detective or by the con artist/thief. An ability that could be used against her.

She stared hard into the mirror. An ‘All-American Girl,’ not an ‘American Beauty,’ stared back: hers was not the glamorous face and figure of a Felicia, or a Lora Raeder, or of one of the women seen on Steele’s arm his first few months here, as any enquiring mind who perused the photos in the gossip section of the Trib could verify. Funny, he hadn’t been linked by the tabloids to anyone in quite some time now – not since their trip to Devil’s Island , not since she’d told him she wouldn’t sleep with him without knowing it wasn’t just for the moment, without a commitment of sorts. She’d secretly hoped the two facts were connected, but she’d needed more evidence.

Besides, it didn’t really make any sense he’d be attracted to her – she was nothing like those other women, either in looks, temperament, or brain power, of which they had none. This was just more evidence he’d been priming her while waiting for an opportunity like this to come along, so he could use her heart against her – No! He was never more honest than when he was kissing her, she was sure of that. . . . Wasn’t she?

She angrily swiped at her eyes. If that sonovabitch had used her, he was going to pay dearly for it. She shoved herself away from the dressing table and snatched at the daisies to throw them in the trash. As she touched the stems, some of the petals fell off. She froze.

He loves me, he loves me not –

Stop it. Get some sleep. There’s a lot of work to be done in the morning.

She turned off the light and climbed into bed, leaving the wilted daisies in the vase on the table, clutching her pillow to her stomach, wondering what was really going on behind those eyes when he looked at her with such desire.

****

Loralei ran a fingernail down the arm of the thoroughly sated – thoroughly exhausted – beautiful man lying asleep next to her in the bed. She smiled. Men had often told her her smile was predatory. She padded over to the bureau naked and from her purse took out lipstick, a compact, and a comb. They were a matching set, continental gilt silver, decorated with enamel, set with cabochon carnelian stones; they dated from the early 1900s. She combed out the tangles from her fine hair; then using the compact’s mirror, she carefully applied the lipstick. She ran her tongue slowly over her lips. The color of the lipstick pleased her. Red. Ruby red. Pigeon blood red.

Mac leaned back in the seat of the surveillance car to stretch. He cut his eyes toward the single dim light coming from the mansion, coming from one of the rooms on the upper floor. What the hell was Steele onto here? He looked again at his notes – he was going to have to clean them up a bit before showing them to Steele or that babe, Holt:

7:45 p.m. Tail subject, Lora Raeder.

8:23 p.m. Arrive in Palos Verde Estates at residence of Lionel Ackerman. Subject – wow, babe-and-a-half – goes to front door. Door opened by oldest man still vertical. Bitchin’ babe sucks his face off. Yech. Old man survives, but boy, what a body to die for. Christie Brinkley, move over. Door closes. Light in downstairs room comes on, subject and geezer enter room, drapes close. There is a God.

9:00 p.m. Dude drives up in BMW, enters house with a key. License # 3PBV931. Registered to Pierre-Yves Ackerman.

9:05 p.m. Light downstairs goes off, light upstairs comes on. Subject enters room. Bare-nekked! I need cold shower. Wish brought video recorder instead of binoculars. Stud enters, also in the buff. Good times start rolling, but then drapes close.

Mac sat up straight, popped the bubble of gum he’d been blowing, checked the time, and hastily scrawled on his notepad, ‘10:15 p.m. Goddess is a quick screw – leaves house.’ He tailed her back to the Raeder mansion and noted down that another fancy car – must be what Steele called a Horch – entered five minutes later.

****

Erich Raeder carefully unwrapped his latest acquisition. He was pleased. He made a mental note to funnel a particularly large commission to his representative in Rio. It would be well spent, after all.

****

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