PART 3

****

Laura groped for the phone. “Hullo?”

“Ms. Holt?” the voice chirped in nasal New Yorkese. “Emma Richthofen. I’m so sorry. I forgot about the time difference. Were you asleep? I bet you were. Anyway, my Melisenda decided she was up to coming to work today, and when she brought me my OJ, she overheard me talking on the phone to my friend Muriel Theiss – ”

Oh, would this woman ever get to the point?

“ – about your investigation of the thefts at the Raeders. I was asking Muriel if she had any inkling who the man was whose tail that whore was after, you see – ”

Augh!

“ – and anyway, my Melisenda misunderstood. She thought I was talking about the theft Lora Raeder accused her of, and now I can’t calm her down – she wants to speak to you and I won’t get a moment’s peace until she does, so would you mind – ”

“I’ll be happy to speak to Melisenda.” Anything to get a moment’s peace herself.

Laura heard Mrs. Richthofen call Melisenda to the phone and explain to her who Laura was. She finished with, “Now you tell Ms. Holt everything, dear. Don’t be afraid. You’re in no trouble. No one believes Ms. Raeder’s word against yours. I’ll be in the library if you feel you need to ask me any questions before you say something, all right?”

Laura heard the exchange of the phone. “Hello, Melisenda? My name is Laura Holt – ”

“I not take anything from that lady – ”

“Yes, Melisenda, yes. I understand that.”

“I think that what she say to make me go because I hear something.”

“I’m sorry, Melisenda, I don’t understand.”

Melisenda expelled a breath of frustration. “Mrs. Richthofen on phone with Mrs. Theiss this morning. You know what I say?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Richthofen say to Mrs. Theiss if she know some man so Mr. Raeder make Mrs. Raeder go to California. You know what I say?”

“Yes, I believe I understand. Do you know of such a man?”

“Mrs. Richthofen right. That lady mistress of the devil. She always make with the eyes at Mr. Richthofen, you know what I say? But Mr. Richthofen, he good man. He not make the eyes back, you know what I say?”

Laura’s hope of a lead dwindled. “Yes, I understand.”

Melisenda fell silent, but just as Laura was going to say her goodbyes, Melisenda piped up again. “The last day, when I come, I walk by bedroom, get linens from closet. The bedroom door open little. I hear her say, ‘Oh, Sammy,’ then she say something in German I not know, then she say, ‘You bad boy,’ in way woman say when she be . . . ”

“Flirtatious?”

“I sorry, I not know – like she make with the eyes, you know what I say?”

“I understand you perfectly, Melisenda.”

“I not try to hear, you know what I say?”

“No, of course you didn’t. Anything else?”

“He say something I not make out. Voice quiet. She get . . .” – Melisenda’s voice dropped to an uncertain whisper – “enojado . . .”

“Angry!” Mrs. Richthofen’s voice rang out from the background.

“She get angry and say ‘I will not, Mr. Gold,’ and she come to door and see me and she angry at me and say, ‘Get your things, Melisenda,’ and she make me go.”

“Did you see what the man looked like?”

“No. I see nothing.”

“Melisenda, you’ve been very helpful. Could I speak with Mrs. Richthofen again?” When Mrs. Richthofen came back on the line, Laura asked her, “Do you know this Sammy Gold?”

“She must mean Samuel Goldschmidt. Oh, my heavens. Now that would be playing with fire. I will continue to press the grapevine about this. And don’t worry, I shall be the soul” – Mrs.Richthofen’s voice again sang out the word – “of discretion.”

Laura smiled. “I’d appreciate your grapevine’s input, Mrs. Richthofen. Now, what did you mean, playing with fire?”

****

Laura hummed to herself as she came into the suite of Remington Steele Investigations and sat at her desk to go over the information she’d just gathered. The entire day had gone well, considering. Murphy was working on the insurance angle; she’d filled in that important missing piece; Ed Hines had gone down to the Clerk of Court, Civil Files to check for any lawsuits involving the Raeders; she’d continued making the rounds of City Clerk, Clerk of Court, Tax Assessor, and whoever else had popped into mind as she pursued the Raeders and the other players in this case – 

Her humming stopped. The ‘considering’ part concerned Steele. She wasn’t sure what he’d been up to. She’d spoken with Steele’s sweet-faced friend, Officer Mac McCarthy – he hadn’t seen Steele. She’d checked with Bernice – Steele hadn’t put in an appearance all day, nor had anyone been able to reach him at his hotel room.

His hotel room. Instead of putting his apartment back into its usual apple-pie order, he’d apparently abandoned it. Not a very good sign. She wished she could’ve had Murphy bring him straight from the stakeout to the office. She wished she could keep a twenty-four-hour watch on him. She wished she could just keep him tied up in a chair until all this was over.

She cleared her mind of that rather satisfying image, as well as of the remarks he’d likely come back with if she were to suggest it to him, and took out her legal pad from one of the desk drawers, intending to outline the possible scenarios. She drew two tangent circles in the center of the page. In the left circle she wrote ‘Lora Raeder’ on the top and ‘con game’ and ‘blackmail victim’ on the bottom. Boy, that woman was sure up to her old tricks – Laura gave a mental wince at the wordplay – if what McCarthy saw was any indication. Was Erich aware of her shenanigans? In the top of the right circle she wrote down his name as the next player in this drama. In the bottom of his circle she wrote a list indicating the possible roles he might’ve played in the thefts: ‘insurance fraud’ and ‘blackmail victim.’ She drew a circle in the upper right corner and just wrote ‘Carl’ since she had no justification for assigning any role to him. Similarly, in a circle in the lower right corner she wrote only ‘the person who bumped into Ms. Raeder.’ In the lower left corner she drew a circle for her latest information. She wrote ‘Goldschmidt’ and ‘blackmailer.’

On the upper left of the page, she made one final circle. She chewed on her pencil. She decided to first draw dotted lines connecting various circles, with relationships between the players written above them. She chewed on her pencil again, finally returning to the last circle. She decided to leave the upper semicircle blank – she was certainly not going to identify this man as ‘Remington Steele.’ She heaved a sigh, and in the lower semicircle she wrote ‘professional thief – challenge, financial gain.’ She tapped her pencil on her desk. Felicia had tried to blackmail him into stealing ‘The Five Nudes of Cairo.’ Could Carl have blackmailed him into these thefts? Was that why he’d thwarted her attempts to find out more about Carl?

She started to put pencil to pad to write ‘blackmail victim’ in his circle but stopped when she heard his cheery greeting from out in the reception room.

“Good evening, Miss Wolfe. Here rather late, aren’t you?”

Laura suspected that by now Bernice would actually miss it if Steele started using her correct name and that her automatic irritated response, “For the last time, it’s ‘Foxe,’” was just part of a game the two played.

“And where have you been? ”

“Just seeing to some contingency plans, Miss Wolfe.”

Laura heard Bernice huff and then call out, “Laura, I’m leaving.” She heard Bernice exit the suite and Steele enter his office. She grabbed her pad and went in through the connecting door, unable to stop herself from smiling in return as he looked up at her from behind his desk and grinned.

“His name is Samuel Goldschmidt.” Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that Steele’s grin had faltered – disappeared entirely, in fact – at her words. But she was too excited by her discovery to really take note. “He’s a fierce competitor of Raeder’s, just as successful. They tend to stay out of each other’s way, at least directly. Otherwise, they’d probably annihilate one other. So they settle for side skirmishes. Evidently Lora was one of those battles.

“In the blackmail scenario you’re the convenient scapegoat, set up by Raeder or Goldschmidt to take the fall. Raeder, it would have to be Raeder. He’s the one familiar with how you operate. A man like that – I’ll bet he knows more about you than I do.” She was pacing as she spoke, tapping her pen on her legal pad and frowning at it in concentration. She hadn’t been aware he’d come up to her. He snatched the pad from her fingers and held it over his head as she made futile grabs for it.

“Uh, uh, uh . . . . More lists, Miss Holt?” He reminded her of those schoolyard bullies who’d grab her schoolwork and hold it out of her reach, infuriating her. She gave up, growled, and whacked him on the arm. It was his own fault if he didn’t like what he saw on the pad. Steele’s face was unreadable as he looked it over. “Well. This certainly appears to summarize all the information we have at hand.”

Before she could reply, Murphy burst into the office. “I have some bad news for at least one of us.”

Laura quickly turned to him. “What is it, Murphy?”

Murphy’s green-brown eyes crackled with anger. “The burglary unit got a hot tip. An anonymous patron of LACMA has loaned his recently acquired painting by” – Murphy consulted his notes – “Georges Braque for display.” He jerked his head toward Steele. “Turns out that patron is none other than him, and the police are having a tough time discovering just how he came into possession of this painting in the past few days. Turns out it’s worth $2.8 million.”

Murphy’s voice turned hard. “You’ve been well-paid for that ruby and mosaic, haven’t you, Steele.”

Steele made no reply. He stood there, eyes fixed on Murphy, lips slightly parted.

Murphy regarded Steele bitterly. “And there’s more. I talked to Mr. Goldschmidt. He was pleased to hear of the thefts, though he denied any involvement in them. And said he’s heard of ‘Remington Steele.’ Said he looks remarkably like a fellow he once tried to do business with – a ‘Michael O’Leary.’ Evidently this O’Leary promised a painting to him – something by a, a . . . Francis Hale? ” Murphy started paging through his notes.

“Frans Hals,” Steele softly corrected.

“You would know,” Murphy retorted. His voice rose. “This O’Leary failed to deliver. Made off with the money Mr. Goldschmidt advanced him, in fact. Mr. Goldschmidt was very disappointed. Said one day O’Leary would get what’s coming to him. Know anything about it, Steele?”

Damn him. Damn herself for ever getting involved with him. Laura’s hands convulsed into fists as she awaited his explanation.

Steele looked from Murphy to Laura, then down at the pad in his hand. His face turned to stone. He took out his pen and drew two circles, one under the circle without a name in it – his circle – the other at bottom center. In the bottom one he wrote ‘Michael O’Leary’ and ‘professional thief, etc.’ He drew a line from it to Goldschmidt’s circle but didn’t write anything on it. In the other circle he wrote ‘Steele’ and ‘painting by Braque.’ He handed the pad back to her and moved toward the door. “I’ll leave it to you to connect the dots.”

Laura took a step after him and yanked him around to face her. “Oh, no. You’re not just walking out of here. Murphy, give us a minute.”

Murphy obviously would’ve preferred to stay for the kill, but with a grim ‘I told you so’ look, he nodded at Laura. His eyes raked over Steele and his jaw worked, but he left without another word.

Steele remained where he was, in her grip, a cold and remote look on his face that she’d never seen before. It obliterated any trace of ‘Remington Steele’; who did that leave? She let go of him and demanded, “What do you know of the Braque painting?”

“Braque is a cubist master. Not my style.” His tone was indifferent.

Laura felt like smacking him. “What do you know of it?” She glared at him. Icy eyes looked back. She didn’t waver, determined to stare him down if it took all night. Interminable seconds crawled by.

Steele bit his lip, bowed his head, and shook it. “Nothing, Laura. Really.” His voice was once again soft.

“And Goldschmidt?”

He inhaled and let out a long breath. “I was hired to recover a painting for him.”

“You mean steal it.”

“Let’s not quibble over terminology.” He turned and went to the desk and sat on its edge. “It was a painting taken from his father’s collection, first by the French, then by the Nazis. Before I could get my hands on it, it was stolen again. I couldn’t trace it. Mr. Goldschmidt wanted me to repay the advanced fees, but . . . I’d already spent them getting the information to locate the painting and the supplies needed for its . . . liberation. He wasn’t very understanding.”

She scrutinized him closely. He was looking at her squarely. A good liar would. She kept her eyes on his face but noticed his hands were lightly clasped in front of him, the thumb of one hand rubbing the other. He was hiding something. She’d seen him do that only a few times before, when he couldn’t quite suppress some agitation. In fact, the last time she’d seen that was when she’d been asking a member of Wallace’s crew about – “Does Carl know Goldschmidt?”

His eyes widened, and he licked his lip. He said nothing for a moment, and then with obvious reluctance he admitted, “Carl recruited me for that job. He’d worked for Goldschmidt a long time, recovering pieces of his collection. He was ‘hot on the trail’ of another piece, however, and asked me to do this job for him.”

“Have you done ‘recoveries’ with Carl?”

A few seconds passed. “Yes.”

“How much? How often?”

A flash of resentment crossed his face, and the words came out sharp. “Now and again.” He held up his hand. “I’m sorry. . . . Let me rephrase that. . . . I did some recovery work with him at various times in the past, but the last time was over a year ago.”

“When was the Goldschmidt job?”

“Before that.”

She gave up on trying to pin him down further. “I take it Carl was good at these jobs.”

“Oh, yes. The two of us together were unstoppable.” She pressed her lips together. “Bad choice of words, eh?”

“You know how this looks, don’t you? Carl’s your ideal accomplice. You could be working for Goldschmidt, ripping off his rival while paying off your debt. Or . . . ” – she paced for a moment and whirled on him – “Carl worked closely with you on this. He could’ve changed your design at some point so he could break into the display case the night of the party, couldn’t he?”

Steele just looked at her.

“Where were the designs kept? You told me you had them. Was that true?”

Steele broke his gaze, then looked her full in the face. “No,” he said softly. “Carl kept them.”

“Carl set you up for Goldschmidt – out of loyalty to him, or debt. Carl knows how you operate. Goldschmidt strikes a double blow – against you and against Raeder.”

Steele stood up abruptly. “No.” His voice was emphatic. “Carl wouldn’t set me up. He’s my friend.”

“‘Honor among thieves,’ Mr. Steele?”

“Something like that. And besides, Carl is devoted to Wallace’s cause. He moved from the shady side of the street nearly a year ago.”

“People have been known to slip back into the shadows.” She held his eyes.

The phone rang.

“Steele here.” He listened, glanced quickly at Laura and away again. “Thank you.” He turned to Laura. “That was . . . a friend. The ruby’s been found. In the men’s room at LACMA, near the theatre. The police had been waiting for someone to pick up the drop, but decided they’d been made. They’re on their way now to arrest me.”

Laura felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach.

Steele moved toward the door.

She grabbed him. “Where are you going?”

“To do what I suggested to you before.”

She gripped his arm tighter.

“Look, Laura, I can do it alone. Keep you out of it. I realize ‘Remington Steele’ shouldn’t evade arrest, but I’ll not willingly be the Judas goat leading this agency to the slaughter. Laura, I’m going to spend a last few hours of freedom looking for your proof. At least it will narrow down the possibilities for you to explore after I’m arrested. You can go with me, leave me to do it alone, or tell the police where to find me when they get here. It’s up to you.” He pried her hand from his arm and strode out the door.

She knew what she should do. She couldn’t do it. Dear God, what was wrong with her? A liar and a thief. Why did she listen to this liar and thief? Well, she’d make sure of one thing: he’d be no Judas goat – a Judas goat always escaped unscathed.

She tore off after him. How would they get past the Raeders’ perimeter security, installed before Steele had been hired? ‘Child’s play,’ he’d told her yesterday when suggesting a break-in. Of course it would be: he’d had six weeks to ponder the problem, and she had no doubts that he had. He could no more stop himself from working out how to breach security systems than she could stop herself from puzzling out a case. How would they do it? What new tricks would Steele teach her tonight? ‘Barriers are only psychological,’ he’d once told her. ‘Every barrier has its cracks, and every crack can be widened enough to let me through.’

And once they’d breached the perimeter and gotten onto the Raeders’ grounds, they’d be home-free. He’d know how to bypass the alarm system he’d put in, how to pick the lock – piece of cake, for him – how to break into the safes – again, piece of cake.

What would they find in the safes?

She caught up to him and grabbed his arm, but even before he could turn around, she’d wiped the grin of anticipation off her face. What was wrong with her? This was no game. Her agency was on the line. Because of him.

****

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Murphy groused in a whisper as the three of them, dressed in black, crouched outside the electrified security fence surrounding the Raeder estate. “This is never going to work. We’re going to get caught. We’re going to go to jail. The Remington Steele Agency is going to come crashing down upon our heads.”

“Don’t worry, old boy, I know this place in and out as if I’d laid every stone myself.”

“That’s what’s gotten us in trouble in the first place. . . . Isn’t there any other way to get around their fence?”

“Oh, there are a number of ways. For instance, these posts are probably too far away from each other to maintain an even current, so there may be ‘dead spots’ in the middle areas we could use to our advantage. I prefer not to risk that, though. We’ll just exploit Mother Nature.” And besides, this way would be a hell of a lot more fun.

Steele moved off, Laura right behind him. He smiled to himself as he finally heard Murphy’s reluctant footsteps as well.

It was so peaceful here. The stillness of the air. The clean smell of the trees. A fine night for a moonlight requisition. He swore he could even smell ‘Cymbeline,’ a heavily scented English rose found in the nearby English-style rose garden. It put him in mind of an English rose of a woman who – ah, yes, this was the tree he wanted.

A coastal live oak stood on the outside of the estate, on its north side. He’d have preferred a tree less full, but it had nice large branches and a broad wide-spreading crown, offering many potential targets. And it was situated perfectly. He could work around the problems it presented. At least it wasn’t a eucalyptus – he had no desire to end up smelling like Vicks. The area was sheltered by trees from any view of the street, of any neighbours, and of the mansion itself. Across from the oak, on the estate grounds and some thirty feet away, stood a similar tree. Steele turned and grinned slyly at his companions as Murphy straggled up. “Another flaw in the system.”

He removed his knapsack and took out a coil of high-tensile rope with a three–pronged hook at its end. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Bernice he’d been spending the day preparing for contingencies. Murphy had been a little miffed when he learned Steele had anticipated his help and broken into his place to find suitable clothing. It hadn’t been easy. All those plaids. Laura had merely rolled her eyes at him when he’d presented her with the outfit taken from her home. He’d first had to shake the coppers that had been tailing him, but that hadn’t been hard – he had plenty of experience with that. His other supplies he’d gotten with the help of a friend, a friend whose personal loyalty to him still transcended both his former apparent conversion to Truth, Justice, and the American Way as Remington Steele and his current apparent abandonment of those ideals.

He put the knapsack back on and tossed the hook over the lowest branch. He shinnied up the rope, then continued on up the tree, reaching for the thickest branches. About thirty feet up, the foliage thinned out. He took another larger coil of rope from the knapsack and moved out onto one of the branches as far as he dared. After getting the feel of balancing himself on the branch swaying below his feet as he swung his arm, he let go and watched the hook with its coil arc through the starlit night and find the other tree. Tugging hard, he made sure it was secure, then tied the part he held around the trunk.

He reached into his pack and pulled out a body harness. What had Carl called it? ‘A giant jockstrap.’ Americans. He fastened himself into it and attached a retention lanyard to both it and the rope. There wasn’t enough angle in the rope to use a travelling block, so he’d have to use upper body strength to get himself across. Should his grip slip, the harness would prevent him from plunging to the ground. If he’d been alone, he might have forgone it. His gloves, his second skin, provided the padding he’d need. He’d leave the knapsack containing the harnesses for the others. Last one over would bring it along.

He eyed his cohorts. He couldn’t resist. He reached for an acorn and aimed for Murphy’s head. A most gratifying “Ouch!” came in response. “Eyes sharp, Chicken Little!” He laughed quietly. He couldn’t quite make out Murphy’s response, but it seemed to involve a request that he perform some anatomically impossible act. He grinned again. Just another small act of revenge against a man he’d been unlikely to ever completely win over anyway. So petty. So . . . satisfying.

He started hand-over-hand across the rope. It was fun. It reminded him of the exercises he’d done in his carny days, when he’d done some catching for the trapeze act. He’d also been ‘The Great Savini,’ the fire-breathing dragon. He’d helped put up the tents, rigged circus equipment, and performed whatever other duties had been assigned to him during the church call : shill, inside man, talker, grifter. Especially the latter two. Talker, using slick sucker-words to seduce the live ones, making them believe that yes, you can get something for nothing. . . . Grifter, running one of the gaffed games – the alibi stores, the G- joints, the razzle games. No one had ever won as much as a jelly baby at one of his joints. They’d never let him run the games aimed at the little ones, though: fish pond, coin toss, and so on. He’d cheat there too, but in favour of the customer. Couldn’t have that – they weren’t running a Sunday School Show , after all.

Once he’d arrived at the other tree, he sloughed off his harness and reeled in the rope that Laura, now up in the other tree, was paying out to him. At last, a firm resistance told him the other end had been tied to the tree. Keeping the line taut, he wound the middle part of the rope around the tree a few times so that it angled down gently from the first tree.

He swung the end of the rope with its hook back at the first tree, trusting that Laura had climbed back down to safety. Now Laura would knot the rope so that it would give a gentle angle for their ride back. Both she and Murphy could ride on travelling blocks with attached hand-straps to get them across, instead of the method he’d used, and the three of them could use the blocks on the way back.

When the job was done, all they’d have to do was untie one end of the rope on the outside tree, flip it over the fence, and pull on the other end. The rope would slip free of this tree and could be reeled in. He could snap the last part over the fence if he timed it just right – and he always had in the past. But even if it touched the fence, it wouldn’t set off an alarm. Fence sensors weren’t that sensitive, since otherwise nuisance alarms would be sounding all the time: fence sensors were designed to protect from cutting, climbing, and other methods of breaching the fence itself.

He tugged on the rope, a signal that he was ready.

Laura glided into view. Truth be told, this was the reason he’d chosen this method. He loved watching her slim form cut through the night. It reminded him of the time they’d . . . borrowed . . . ‘The Five Nudes of Cairo,’ and she’d coasted down his makeshift aerial ropeway into his arms.

He caught her at the end here, too, but her grin of exhilaration had disappeared as soon as she’d spied him looking at her. He let her slide down his body and tried to get her to recapture the moment. “A rousing experience, eh?” He wished she’d smile up at him and let her hands linger on his shoulders a moment longer, as she’d done that other time; instead, she avoided his eyes. With a sigh, he helped her out of her harness. He looked back at the other tree and turned his thoughts to the job at hand. “Come on,” he said to Laura. Murphy could catch himself.

After climbing down the tree, Steele followed Murphy’s path with his eyes. An adequate performance, but Steele didn’t give him any style points. After Murphy joined them on the ground and gave him the knapsack, Steele led them south to the front of the house.

They reached the driveway, which ran parallel to the mansion, and then continued east to a point directly opposite the mansion’s main entrance. Steele nodded to Murphy, then turned to lead Laura to the garage at the northeast corner of the house. But Laura didn’t follow him. He turned around to see Murphy’s hand on her arm. Laura waved Steele on. He hesitated, then nodded and headed to the garage by himself.

Murphy and Laura crouched among the trees, talking in whispers.

“I don’t get it, Laura We should’ve just continued as we’ve been doing, going step-by-step. If Steele’s innocent, he should just let himself be arrested and trust us to figure this out.” Murphy really wanted to say: ‘How did you let that con man talk you into this? Why can’t you see through him? Here more and more evidence is piling up against the guy and you’re still going along with his schemes.’ But he didn’t. Such an attack on Steele would only drive her to defend him, because of what she wanted to believe. The only way to get her to see reason was to use reason against her.

“Murphy, now we’ve uncovered motives for the Raeders to have staged the thefts. This is the most direct way to learn if they’re involved. And we certainly couldn’t do it this way ourselves if Mr. Steele were in jail.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Can’t you see, even if this is all on the level – or as much as anything is with this guy – once again he’s seducing you, subverting you, drawing you to his side of the street? B&E’s , safecracking – you think nothing of them now. You’ve stolen artwork and broken into a Federal Reserve Bank – you even suggested that yourself, for God’s sakes. And that’s not the half of the shady activities we’ve been drawn into under this guy’s influence. The line we’ve been walking in the name of justice has grown thinner and thinner, and this is the thinnest line yet. It’s not worth the risk to the agency’s reputation – Laura, ” – he tried to catch her arm as she stalked off – “at least let me be the one to go inside with him.”

She didn’t give him a backwards glance. Well, that had gone well. So much for trying to stay calm and reasonable and not attacking Steele. But Laura needed to wake up, to take full command of her agency again. No matter if this guy was perfectly innocent, he was still way beyond control, not worth his help, not worth the splash he made as their front man. They needed to get back to calmer, saner days. The days when black was black and white was white.

Murphy forced himself to breathe, to relax his jaw, his fists, all the muscles he’d been subconsciously clenching. He glanced toward Steele’s position, though he knew he wouldn’t see him. After all that guy was putting Laura through, if he was the thief, it was going to be the greatest pleasure to take him down, put him away for a long, long time. Hopefully, Laura wouldn’t get hurt in the process . . .

. . . or if she did, she’d finally know who it was she could turn to.

Steele noted Laura’s expression was even chillier as she joined him in the shadows near the garage – he hadn’t thought that possible. How much of her shutting him out was due to anger at the revelations of his past with Carl and his current choice of action? How much was due to her need to distance herself from him in case he was the thief? How much was due to her overall regret for ever having met him? He didn’t know and he didn’t dare to ask. His standing in her eyes certainly hadn’t been helped by whatever Murphy had just said to her.

Murphy. He peered towards Murphy’s position, trying to see movement. Nothing. Since Laura didn’t indicate otherwise, Murphy must still be with them. Steele’s view of the entrance to the mansion was obscured by the portico and landscaped bushes and trees. He needed Murphy, hidden by the trees that lined the driveway, to signal Laura when Raeder had entered the house. Then the break-in would begin.

“From Ms. Raeder, I gathered Erich is the epitome of regimentation, which I’m sure comes as no surprise,” Steele whispered. “She joked she can set her watch by when he gets up, eats his meals, performs certain daily activities, leaves for work, returns home, and goes to bed.”

Laura shook her head. “How did you ever get along with him so well? Anyone trying to set their watch by your activities would have to change time zones from day to day.”

“Why, Laura. Mr. Raeder appreciates quality. He makes allowances for an artistic temperament. A trait some others would do well to emulate.” Steele smiled and waggled his eyebrows at her, trying to get her to smile back.

Laura rolled her eyes at him.

He gave up and stared out into the night. He prayed Raeder would stick to his daily routine. If so, they could count on him arriving from his office at 11 p.m. in his 1939 Horch 855 Special Roadster – one of only seven such cars ever built and one of only three such cars still in existence. Perhaps even the one rumoured to have been given to Eva Braun by Hitler. At any rate, worth over a million dollars. It was a beauty.

Steele again bent his head down to whisper in Laura’s ear. “He’ll have to disarm the security system at the front entrance. No doubt he’ll reactivate it once he’s entered the house. Of course, there’ll be a delay before the alarm system is rearmed – two minutes.” A tiny lie about the time there. “When he goes upstairs,” – and that should be immediately, since at the party Ms. Raeder had confided with a wink that she was on his schedule as soon as he came home from work – “he’ll activate the motion sensors in the front hall. There’ll be a three minute power-up delay.” Another tiny time lie.

They continued the wait in silence. Steele took a small slug of cognac from his flask and offered it to Laura. Unlike the first time he’d offered her such , she accepted it without hesitation, taking a healthy swallow. Soon, a car entered the drive and started to make its way up the long, serpentine driveway, its headlights flickering through the clumps of Italian cypresses. That bit of landscaping, at least, should please Raeder. The narrow trees, twenty to sixty feet high, stood like sentinels along the driveway – striking, strictly vertical, columnar forms of perfect symmetry.

The garage door slid upwards, and Steele and Laura ducked through as soon as they could. They took up positions to the side, where they could remain in the dark. The driver had to be taken care of, there was no help for it. Steele heard the car stop to let Raeder out, then continue the remaining short distance to the garage. The driver never knew what hit him as he exited the car. Steele caught him, laid him down gently, and secured him.

Laura called out quietly, “Now!” She ran to join him. He checked his watch. Laura held her penlight on the door while he worked on the lock.

Ah, life had been so much simpler when he was a child, when a large rock through the back window had been his method of choice. But that was so crude. Early on, by trial and error and lots of practice, he’d taught himself the rudiments of picking. He’d learned how to visualize all the pieces inside the lock, how to feel the slight movements of the plug and pins, how to judge the amount of pressure to apply, how to feel or hear – sometimes it was hard to tell which sense he was using – the pins falling into position. A few paperclips, a screwdriver – and his youthful imagination – had transformed him into a spy, working in Her Majesty’s service. Or for La Résistance Française. Or American Intelligence. It depended upon what movie he’d sneaked into recently. No matter that his take was geared towards his own survival and not that of the Free World.

Most locks he could still breach with those same simple implements he’d used in his youth, but with the right tools – tension wrench, several different picks with different heads, each suitable for a particular kind of lock and picking technique – it was easier and he could break into almost anything.

Of course, to pick any kind of lock one had to be completely familiar with its design.

Even if he hadn’t been in charge of the mansion’s security, if he’d merely been a guest at the party, he’d have made himself familiar with this lock. Automatic habit: if he came across a lock with which he wasn’t familiar – and there were few – he’d go out and get one of the same design and practice on it until he’d mastered it. He found the exercise stimulating, like solving a puzzle.

He’d practised on this particular type a great deal. Still, it was a highly complex one. . . .

The door opened. He quickly pulled Laura inside, closed the door, and checked his watch. Fifty seconds. His best time yet on this particular type of lock. They’d made it with ten seconds to spare – the little lie to Laura so she wouldn’t panic as the minute mark approached. He led her inside, into the darkened kitchen.

He briefly shined his torch towards her and hid a smile of wistful amusement. She looked slightly flushed, eyes dilated, breathing elevated. . . . The woman was definitely . . . excited. He’d seen this before, when he’d taken her for a walk on the wild side. Those other times, at least part of that excitement had been directed at him – he’d caught her looking him up and down in his form-fitting black ‘working clothes.’ A heightened air of danger had seemed to be an aphrodisiac for her. Unfortunately, it’d been just at those times he hadn’t been able to take advantage of her willingness. He’d had thoughts it might be worth it to stage such a situation, to see how far he could go. His eyes fell towards the rapid rise and fall of her small breasts – 

He tore his gaze away. This was hardly the time to fantasize, and a fantasy it would now always remain. He moved off, Laura following. They went through the kitchen, through the long, narrow pantry, through the small Porcelain Foyer, past the Dining Room, and into the narrow corridor that opened up into the front hall. The Library, their goal, lay almost directly across from the front entrance. A motion detector was placed to monitor the activity in the hallway.

Routine had triumphed. Raeder had gone upstairs, and the motion detectors had been activated. Steele checked his watch. Two minutes. They still had thirty seconds to spare before the motion detectors powered up, not the sixty Laura would think – another harmless lie to prevent undue tension. All was quiet in the house. He started into the hall, but Laura stopped him.

“Don’t we need masks?”

“No. No security cameras.”

“That seems strange.”

“Not if you want to make sure that . . . certain items don’t get recorded.” Steele went to the command console and disarmed the motion detectors and the alarm system. He joined Laura at the library door, and they slipped inside. After closing the door, he turned on a small lamp on a stand to his immediate right. He also flicked a switch that turned on two electric candelabra, one mounted on each side of the oversized marble fireplace to his right, along the west wall. The candelabra bathed the room in a soft glow and highlighted the huge portrait of Raeder hanging over the mantel. Up until the day before the party, the portrait had been of Admiral Raeder, and the one mounted above a short bookcase standing against the north wall of the library had been that of the admiral’s wife. Now, Erich and Lora’s portraits, newly completed, brought by Lora from New York when she’d come, replaced them. Steele moved to the left and turned on the small lamp atop the bookcase.

“Why didn’t you just turn on the chandelier? The light would be blocked by those curtains, and you could see what you’re doing better.”

“Mmm. Some activities are best conducted in the shadows.” He went to the antique mahogany roll-top desk. With its intricate, richly detailed gilt bronze mounts, the desk was a striking contrast to the austere pieces usually crafted by Conrad Mauter. He pressed a button Herr Mauter would’ve been surprised to find in his desk. A most satisfying click told him he was now free to swing Raeder’s portrait out to reveal the safe behind it.

A lady’s writing table, crafted by Öben, made of oak and covered with delicate floral marquetry of various woods, contained a similar button. A press and a click told him her ladyship’s safe, behind her portrait, was now also accessible. He moved to it, shrugging the knapsack off. He placed the pack on the floor by the safe, then absently ran the fingers of his right hand over some of the books in the bookcase while he swung the portrait out with his left.

The safes each rated a ‘thirty’ – they could resist drill hammers, screw drivers, even acetylene torches for thirty minutes of concentrated assault from a skilled UL tester, who usually had more knowledge, better tools, and more freedom than a burglar. Under realistic conditions and properly installed, such a safe could withstand hours of assault by a typical burglar. Steele smiled. He was not a typical burglar. His knowledge of safecracking more than equalled that of a UL tester. As for equipment, well, there were safecrackers who specialized in blow-up jobs, carry outs, chopping, punch jobs, and rip jobs. He, however, specialized in the more refined and artistic click job. Moreover, he was one of the few so skilled at this that, normally, to hear/feel the tumblers click into place, he only needed to press his ear to the safe as he turned the combination lock – no stethoscope required.

Besides, he’d already been at these safes. On those practice runs, his fingers had itched terribly as he’d gazed at the fortune in jewellery lying inside.

Even though the combination had no doubt been changed since he’d worked on the safe, he knew its sounds intimately. The safe opened.

An alarm went off.

“What happened?” Laura wailed. She nearly shook Steele, who appeared to be in shock.

An expression flickered across his face, too quick for her to read. He collected himself and replied, “A miscalculation on my part.” He reached into the safe. After an eternity of a few seconds, the alarm switched off. The damage, however, was already done.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” This time, she did grab his arm.

His eyes held a hunted look. He straightened and swallowed. “You go, Miss Holt. I’ll be right behind you.” He shoved the knapsack into her hands and turned back to the safe. “If I find proof the Raeders are involved, you’ll get it.”

She hesitated. He was as good as caught. She knew it, and she knew he knew it. All events pointed to him, even if he now made good his escape. She couldn’t afford to get caught: it was up to her now to salvage what she could of the reputation of her agency – and to save his hide, if he was innocent. She turned to run, but turned back, spun him around, pulled his head down, and kissed him savagely, trying in that instant to imprint herself so thoroughly on his psyche that he’d never be free of her, fearing that she’d leave no deeper impression than a line drawn on water.

Steele laid gentle hands on her and looked shaken as they quickly broke apart. “And here was I, beginning to think you didn’t like me.” The words echoed those he’d spoken before, when they’d temporarily taken ‘The Five Nudes of Cairo,’ but the nakedly sincere tone of his hoarse whisper was nothing like the bantering one he’d used then.

She, too, repeated the words she’d spoken then. “I do. Some.” Too much. Too much for her own good. She ran out of the room, out of the mansion, retracing the path they’d taken on their way in. She collected Murphy, who followed without question. They ran back to the tree, climbed it, and swung back to the tree on the other side.The entire time the rest of that long-ago conversation with Steele rang in her ears:

‘I do. Some.’

‘But not all?’

‘Only the parts I know.’

‘And the parts you don’t?’

‘They frighten me a little.’

‘Fear can be a most intoxicating brew.’

But she wasn’t intoxicated by this. He’d just spun her world out of her control. She wanted to scream, ‘Who are you that you have done this to me? Who are you that I let you do this to me?’

“Why isn’t Steele with you? What happened?”

She peered at Murphy through the branches, trying to catch her breath. “The alarm went off when he opened one of the safes. He stayed to search it.”

“Oh, this is just great, Laura. This is just part of his plan. Now he’s alone in the safes, taking who knows what. Things he can convert to cash. He’ll be gone before we can say ‘goodbye Remington Steele Investigations.’”

Anxiety twisted Laura’s guts.

Murphy blew out a breath in disgust and started to climb down.

Laura glanced down at Murphy, then had all she could do to hold back a yell. “Murphy! You took the pack! How’s he supposed to get back?”

He stopped and looked up at her. “You really think he’s coming back?”

She did not know.

Murphy’s tone became more conciliatory. “He doesn’t need it, Laura. You saw him go over. I couldn’t leave it in that tree. What if we have to remove the rope? If they discover the pack, they’ll know he had help. And they’ll be pretty damn sure it was us.” Murphy climbed back up to her.

Suddenly, the floodlights on top of the mansion’s roof lit up, turning night into day.

“Give me the pack!” Using her penlight, she fumbled in it, hunting for binoculars. Steele had packed several types. She found the right ones – they made objects appear about fifteen times closer than they actually were. She handed an identical pair to Murphy and then climbed up higher in the tree. She had to see. She trained the binoculars on the mansion, sweeping from the front entrance to the garage door and back again. Where was he? What was taking so long?

She saw Steele tear straight out the front door, hurtle the perfectly manicured hedge of Japanese boxwood at the front of the portico, splash straight through the large fountain pool in the middle of the circular driveway turnabout, and leap its side. It suddenly occurred to her that the shape of the fountain was the same as the one in the unicorn tapestry. The fountain – the place where the unicorn was found but not taken, so that the hunt could continue.

Steele had passed the thin clump of trees lining the driveway and now had a relatively clear path to them – about fourteen hundred feet of parkland and gardens. Though he liked to project an air of indolence, she knew he could run like hell when the need arose. He was practically smoking.

She froze. The bark of a dog. It came into sight. An unknown addition to the security system, another unwelcome surprise for the night. A dog of a breed thought to be descended from the old Roman dogs that fought against lions in the arenas. A mere human didn’t stand a chance.

“A rotten weiler,” Laura whispered. She’d thought that’s what the adults had called such a dog when the three-year-old brother of a childhood best friend had been horribly disfigured during an unprovoked attack. Through her binoculars she watched the blocky body of the one hundred-and-twenty pound powerhouse bound along the grounds, muscles rippling under the shiny black coat with rust markings, slavering foam from its jaws spraying back onto its muzzle and head, its inky shadow looming larger and larger.

Steele would never outrun it.

“Where’s that crazy bastard going?”

Murphy’s words caused her to tear her gaze from the dog and seek out Steele. He’d altered his path, running to the west, cutting back toward the driveway. Closing the distance to the dog. Oh, God. “Away from us. He knows he can’t make it. He’s drawing attention away from us.” Oh, God.

She heard him cry out, saw him twist his body away from the dog just before impact. She echoed that cry as she saw him go down under its weight. She saw him struggle with the dog.

She scrambled down the tree, fighting Murphy as she tried to grab hold of the ropes to return to the estate.

“Laura, Laura, are you crazy? You can’t help him now. It won’t do him any good if we’re caught too.”

“That dog will rip him to shreds!"

The estate was preternaturally silent.

Murphy unpinned her arms and looked through his binoculars. “No. Look.”

She sought Steele out with her own binoculars. He lay splayed out, motionless, the dog draped across his thighs.

She looked at Murphy. “We can’t just leave him. He’s injured.”

“Laura, be reasonable.” Murphy reeled in the rope. No trace would be left of their having been there.

Laura glued her eyes to the binoculars. Raeder appeared. She saw him reach Steele’s position. He must’ve said something because the dog got up and started back to the house. She watched Steele struggle to his feet. She gasped in horror as he unexpectedly, desperately, savagely lunged at Raeder. Something flashed in the night – a knife. Steele had it at Raeder’s throat, yelling out words that must’ve been German. The dog flung itself at him again, nearly knocking both him and Raeder to the ground. She heard Raeder spit out commands to the dog, which ceased its attack, growled menacingly, but headed back to the house – the perfect German dog under Raeder’s perfect control.

She stood frozen, watching while Steele, staggering, forced Raeder back toward the mansion, then past the front entrance to the garage.

She heard the moans of sirens; the police were rallying for the capture. How long had that sound been there at the edge of her consciousness? She heard the sounds of a car starting inside the Raeders’ garage, then saw one recklessly careen down the driveway. The car clipped the gate as it went through; Steele hadn’t waited for it to fully open.

Murphy grabbed her arm. “Come on, Laura!”

They made their way unnoticed to Murphy’s car, parked some distance away, and drove off as a police cruiser slued into Raeder’s driveway, tires squealing.

They drove for a while in stunned silence.

“Crazy bastard. . . .”

Laura stirred at the whisper and stared at Murphy. He had a choke-hold on the steering wheel.

He glanced at her. “All right. For the sake of argument, say the alarm going off wasn’t intentional. How could that happen? He put the damned thing in.”

“He said it was a miscalculation on his part.”

Murphy shook his head. “I don’t buy it. He wouldn’t make a mistake on his own system.”

Laura thought for a moment. She turned toward him. “You’re right. Someone else. Someone else made alterations.”

“Raeder. Or someone who works for him.”

Another moment’s thought. “No. . . . I don’t think so. . . . He would’ve said so, said Raeder’s name, at least. He said ‘miscalculation.’ He knows who it is.” Pain. That’s what had flashed across his face when the alarm went off. Pain at betrayal.

“Carl.”

She nodded.

“So Carl was in on it with him from the beginning and set him up for the fall.”

“Or Mr. Steele was set up from the beginning and was never involved.”

“Then why wouldn’t he just tell you he thinks it’s Carl?”

She drummed her fingers on the dashboard. “Because he’s not sure. Carl is his friend, or he thought he was. He’ll protect him until he’s sure.”

“Even if he didn’t steal the stuff, he’ll just run now. No one’s going to believe he was burgling Raeder’s safe to prove he’s not guilty – ”

“We have to find Carl. And go back and interview Wallace’s crew. What was Mr. Steele preventing them from telling me about Carl?”

“That they’d pulled jobs together – ”

“Obviously Carl knows his stuff. Up to now he’s only been doing manual labor. Why? And we were there enough on the other security work, Murphy. Why didn’t we see any indication the two of them even knew each other? What changed?”

“They saw they could pull this job if they worked together, so they renewed their friendship.”

“What caused them to break it off before? And is it the reason for the betrayal?”

“Goldschmidt.”

She shook her head. “He seemed certain Carl wouldn’t set him up over Goldschmidt. Even after you told him Goldschmidt said, ‘O’Leary will get his.’”

Murphy threw a hand up. “Laura, these guys are thieves! Do you really buy into them having ‘codes of honor’? What movies has Steele been taking you to? They’ve obviously warped his brain. Maybe he wouldn’t betray Carl if they pulled the job together. I can even see if Carl pulled the job alone, Steele wouldn’t turn him in because he’s his friend. But thinking that Carl, therefore, wouldn’t betray or set up Steele? It’s a little farfetched – ”

“They worked recoveries together after Goldschmidt – ”

“You’re even talking like him. They stole stuff together – ”

“If they had a falling out, it wasn’t until sometime after that. And whatever it was about, Mr. Steele still trusted him – up until that alarm went off. We’re missing something here. I know it.”

“Maybe. And maybe this falling out among thieves isn’t important to the case – ”

“And maybe it is.”

****

It didn’t take long – within the hour, bulletins filled the news with the story of the break-in at the Raeders, of how Erich Raeder had caught Remington Steele fleeing from the scene, of how Steele had managed to escape. Later bulletins described how Raeder’s car had been found, abandoned, blood in its interior. It was also announced that the million-dollar ruby necklace had been found, hidden in a men’s restroom at LACMA, near the theater where Steele had been attending a movie with his secretary the previous night; the police had been waiting for an accomplice to pick up the drop, but figured the man had decided not to show. An unidentified member of the police department was quoted as saying: “We don’t need the accomplice. We’re after the mastermind. We’ll get him.”

****

Why, why, why?

Unable to sleep, Laura lay on the couch, tracing the golds and pinks and browns and greens of its flower pattern with a finger. Every so often she’d pad into the other room and turn on the TV, compelled to check if some bulletin announced Steele's capture.

She heard a faint knock at her door. For one wild, irrational moment she thought it might be Steele, and she raced to answer it. “Oh, hello, Bernice.” Bernice, white-faced, gave her a tight smile of understanding as Laura listlessly gestured her inside.

“I heard it on the news. I thought maybe you could use someone to talk to, and I was afraid our phones might be tapped.”

Laura ran a hand through her hair. “Well, if they’re not now, they soon will be.” She led Bernice to the couch and sagged into the armchair adjacent to it. “I was so stupid.”

“What happened?”

Laura filled Bernice in on the evening’s events, starting with Murphy’s discoveries about the Braque painting and Goldschmidt and ending with Steele’s flight from the Raeders.

Laura got up and started pacing. “Why did I listen to him? Why didn’t I insist he let himself be arrested? Why didn’t I force him to be arrested, if I had to, and do this the way I was taught? We have plenty of players who have motives, who could’ve orchestrated the opportunity, who had the means or the wealth to have bought the means. All I needed to do was connect the dots. By doing legwork, by performing surveillance, by locating records, by interviewing, by following the evidence, by going systematically from one thing to the next – by following standard operating procedures, for God’s sake. Which certainly doesn’t include swooping down ropes and breaking into mansions. Why did I follow his lead?” Laura looked upward, raised her hands, and asked whoever up there was listening, “Why?”

“Because you like playing with fire,” Bernice said quietly.

“What?”

“You’ve always liked to play with fire. Remember how you told me your mother punished you over and over again for playing with matches?”

Laura’s screwed up her face. What did that have to do with anything? She plopped back down into the armchair.

“And during your third year at summer camp, you got permanently expelled for setting a fire in the middle of the night.”

Figuring Bernice was trying to distract her from the pointless self-recriminations of a moment ago, Laura humored her. “I had that fire well under control, almost.” Despite herself, Laura smiled at the memory. “Me and the other kids just wanted to toast some marshmallows and make s’mores to fortify ourselves during our all-night pinochle tournament.”

“Which you organized. You told me the counselors couldn’t figure out why all of you were dragging through your hikes and nearly drowning during your swim workouts until they caught on to your little all-night card games.”

“Yeah, well, the fire was just the excuse they needed to get back at me for that.”

“And what about your calc professor?”

“Calc professor?” Now Laura was really lost. She didn’t recall using any matches on her teachers, though there were a few she would’ve liked to.

“The one you tried to seduce at Stanford? The one you nearly drove to distraction with your attempts to – how’d you put it? – differentiate your parts and then integrate by them?”

Ah, that kind of playing with fire. Laura gave a soft snort as she thought of the prof. Somehow, he’d managed to get her transferred out of his class by mid-quarter. She’d gone to his office to use all her persuasive powers to get him to change his mind, but he’d rejected her advances, telling her he could lose his job. He’d opened his office door and not budged until she’d left. She’d thought, at the time, that some people just didn’t know how to live.

“And what about that big dance with little fans on that bar in Acapulco?”

Laura’s breath caught. “Are you trying to hurt me, Bernice?” That dance in front of all the members of Wilson’s bank had been the last straw for Wilson – he’d left her.

“I’m just saying that, well, you like to play with fire, Laura. And like your mom told you, when you play with fire, you risk getting burned. But that’s what makes you who you are, that’s what makes you come alive. You can’t tell me this past year hasn’t been exhilarating for you. Whatever happens now, you’ll bounce back. Just look at what happened after Wilson left you.”

“I decided he was right – I was too impulsive, too uninhibited, too passionate, too out-of-control – ” ‘Far worse than Steele,’ she wanted to add.

“You decided you weren’t going to become the woman your mother became after your father left, you weren’t going to become one of those women dependent on a man for either her happiness or her economic security. Unlike me.” Bernice smiled self-deprecatingly.

“I threw myself into my career – ” Laura said softly.

“And when your career stalled at Havenhurst, you blew on those embers again and formed your own agency. And it flopped. But you didn’t let that stop you. And this won’t stop you, either. Nothing can stop you, Laura.” Bernice reached over and patted Laura’s hand, then got off the couch and knelt next to her to enfold her with a hug. “Try to get some sleep. You can tackle this again in the morning. You’re not alone. You’ve got Murphy and me to help you.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll let myself out.”

Laura was barely aware of Bernice’s leaving, still thinking of their conversation, of where the failure of Laura Holt Investigations had led her, of where she was now. Her failure had only fueled her professional ambitions. She’d decided to fight fire with fire: if they wanted a man, she’d give this tinsel town the man of their fantasies, its ideal PI. He’d be suave, sophisticated, bold, a man of action. But her fiction had taken on its own life when he’d arrived. He’d fleshed out the myth with his disarming good looks, his eminent approachability, his skill in making the public believe he solved the most devious crime without ruffling a hair. His ‘Remington Steele’ had let her use her talents ever more fully.

He’d rocketed them to the top in a blaze of a glory.

She stirred and got up to check the TV, keeping the sound low, only to see yet another bulletin about the break-in. No capture. She turned it off and went back to lie on the couch, melancholy again overtaking her. He’d rocketed them to the top, and now they were going down in flames.

‘You can go with me, leave me to do it alone . . . ’

Some choice he’d given her. She had no proof he wasn’t the thief – she hadn’t been about to let him do it alone.

‘. . . or tell the police where to find me when they get here.’

If she had, he’d never trust her again. He’d leave. Maybe she’d be better off. She’d start over, again. Yeah, right. How could she ever top the success of the Remington Steele Agency, even approach it? But what alternative did she have? This agency was doomed. The public’s trust had been lost. Even if she could prove him innocent, people would now always associate him with the thefts. Doubt would always exist – did he really do it? – and they’d go elsewhere with their business.

Laura pushed herself off the couch and shuffled into her study. She stared at the framed copy of her agency’s license that hung on the wall above her desk, wondering if she’d have to soon consign the license to the flames. She took it down, turned it over, and pulled out a photo she’d hidden inside the frame’s backing. It was a picture she’d snapped of Steele, his perfectly sculpted features in repose as he lay asleep on the couch in his office; behind him was the wall filled with his publicity shots. She’d thought it quite ironic at the time. She looked at the date she’d scribbled on the back: it’d been taken shortly before the Dillon case.

She turned the photo back over and traced a finger over Steele’s features. Was he like that summer camp fire, something she’d thought she could control, something that had seemed under her control but, when her attention had been elsewhere, had revealed itself to be something that mocked those beliefs, something with the true nature of a sweeping wildfire whose only purpose was to aggrandize itself, not caring what it destroyed in the process?

She looked again at the license and then at the shot of Steele amidst the publicity photos. Suddenly, another image of him superimposed itself, the image of him running toward the Raeders’ dog, away from her and Murphy; she heard his cry again, saw the dog take him down. She found herself gripping the frame so tightly her hand hurt.

She stared down at the publicity photos.

For once, damn the public. Damn her agency’s reputation. If he was innocent, she’d prove it. And then, as always, they’d make it appear ‘The Great Remington Steele’ had solved the case. If anyone could manipulate the public into believing in him again, he could. And if he couldn’t, it’d have to be enough for her that he’d tried. They could look each other in the eye, know they’d given it their best shot, and build their lives from there. Hopefully, he’d still want her to be a part of his life. She’d want him in hers. She looked one last time at the photo of him sleeping on the couch and again traced a finger over his features before putting the photo back in the frame.

She marched into the other room and snapped on the TV. Steele’s face looked back at her; then came footage of the glowing ruby and the shimmering royal lavulite mosaic. Another bulletin. She punched the TV off and straightened. Yes, if he was innocent, she’d prove it; on the other hand, if he was guilty, she’d rip his heart out and use his bones for kindling her next fire.

But first, she had to find him. Where was he?

****

Where was he? He struggled up through layers of pain. He was being restrained. . . . No. He forced his eyes open, blinking in the bright midday light filling the tiny room despite the attempts of a threadbare cotton curtain to keep it at bay. The cot he lay on, sagging with his weight, had given him the illusion it held him trapped. It was much too small and his feet hung over the end. Fortunately, he was thin; otherwise, he was sure he would’ve tumbled to the floor over the narrow sides. A wisp of a cotton blanket covered him.

Where was he? A spider web of cracks decorated the white plaster ceiling above him, a single naked bulb entrapped at its centre. Some of the plaster was peeling off, hanging like tiny streamers of tissue paper. A cheap metal office desk stood to his left, blocking his view of the door. It must’ve been pushed over to make room for his cot. He supposed he could lift his head to further inspect the room, but if he could just lie still enough for a while, maybe the pain wouldn’t be so bad, and then he’d explore.

He could hear sounds not too far away. Rolling and crashing. Rolling and crashing. Sounds like ocean waves made as one lay on the beach at midnight. No. Not like that. Not with that crash at the end. And the smell in the air was not of salt and kelp. The smell was of . . . old shoes.

A bowling alley. Now he remembered. He remembered making his escape from Raeder.

He’d fished in the unconscious man’s pockets, looking for the keys. He would’ve dearly loved to have taken the Horch and crashed it through the gate, but he was practical: that car would draw too much attention, even in L.A. He needed something inconspicuous. He took the Bimmer , flying down the roads as fast as he dared – Doheny, Schuyler, Mountain Drive. Before hitting Sunset Boulevard he ditched the car, stole another one, a nondescript one, and made his way into the city. Just to be safe, though, he soon abandoned that one too, outside a chemist’s he’d broken into for something to plaster his arm – the adrenalin had worn off and he was starting to hurt, not to mention bleeding all over the place. He continued on foot, keeping to the shadows. He thought it safest to get to Thelma, the ‘traveller’s aide representative for itinerant pickpockets’ he’d been directed to when he’d first come to L.A. Somehow, just before first light, he made it to the bowling alley she managed.

His route, which would have taken him seven minutes by car, had taken him nearly seven gruelling hours, hampered as he was by both his injuries and the need to remain undetected. He picked the rear door using the slim pick he always kept taped to his lower leg, gimped his way to the back office, and collapsed on the floor.

He’d been brought round a lifetime later by the searing pain of his forearm being stitched. He hadn’t been able to see who was there – he’d been blinded by the morning light, full and bright, streaming through the window. He’d passed out again – there’d been no anaesthetic.

God he hurt. He gingerly felt his left forearm under the bandage. It was swollen and streaks of red extended down to his hand. His back felt like it’d been shredded by the nails of the dog as it’d leapt on him when he’d lunged at Raeder. He’d been bitten on the leg and the triceps, too, but not as deeply as on the forearm. He lifted his right hand and ran his fingers lightly under his jawline. It was slightly swollen where the dog had nipped him and was no doubt the same exotic shade of red as his arm.

He heard a key at the door.

He struggled to get off the cot but stopped when the door opened and a voice said, “Hey, hey. It’s just me.” The elderly woman came into his sight and moved next to the cot.

“Hello, Thelma.” He was panting a bit, and his voice sounded weak in his ears.

“Brought ya some pills. From Otto. The man who stitched ya up.” She held out the vial in her papery hand, a small diamond sparkling on her pinky.

“Is he a doctor?”

“Are you a detective?”

He gave her a look of playful annoyance. “Uh, well, no thanks, love. They’ll turn me into a zombie.” He needed a clear head. Besides, he wasn’t sure he trusted their . . . provenance.

She set the pills on the desk. “Well, you should eat something.” She turned away and went out of his view. He heard the sound of what he guessed was a small refrigerator being opened. A few moments later she returned and stiffly knelt down by his cot.

He gazed at her worn, wrinkled face, framed by greying dark hair. The kindest – and cruelest – of people were found in this part of the city.

“You’re all over the news.”

“Mmmm.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

He bit his lip, touched. “Well, some clothes would be nice.” He grinned at her.

“Had to take the old ones off you. All tore up, bloody. Don’t worry, no one’ll find ’em.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

She squeezed his shoulder, grabbed the desk to push herself up, and again went out of his sight. He sniffed the air. She was heating something on a hot plate. She returned moments later with a steaming bowl of soup and some crackers and set them on the desk.

“Ya want me to help prop ya up, so’s ya can eat? I got some jackets and things in the Lost and Found over here I can use as pillows.”

“Thank you.”

She got the clothes, put an arm under his shoulders, and, with difficulty for both of them, helped him sit up enough to get the clothes underneath his back. He almost wished he’d said ‘no,’ but how could he refuse her kind offer of food? So instead he put his energy into not letting on how much this hurt, and only one gasp escaped him.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he whispered through clenched teeth. He squeezed his eyes together and tried to calm his breathing.

She dug out more clothes from the Lost and Found box and folded them at his waist. She set the bowl on top of them, opened a pack of crackers with her teeth, then shoved the plastic wrapper into the pocket of her oversized checked smock. “Good thing ya gotta flat waistline.”

He chuckled quietly, grabbing at the bowl. “Don’t make me laugh, Thelma. I don’t want this soup spillin’.”

“Yeah, then ya’d really be screaming. We had to stuff a rag in your mouth a couple hours ago. When Otto stitched ya up. I practically had to sit on ya.”

He didn’t remember. He dredged up every ounce of sincerity in his body. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

“Dozens. . . . Ya want me to feed ya?”

“No, no. I’ll be all right. You go along now.”

“Okay. I’ll be back with the clothes, leave them by your cot there if you’re asleep. Basic black, right?”

“Right, Thelma.”

“Well, I’ll do the best I can, but I don’t know any tall, skinny boys like you, and they’ll certainly not be de rigeur for ‘Remington Steele.’”

He suppressed a smile as she pronounced it ‘dee rigor.’ “Don’t worry about it.” All amusement left him. “Besides, it would appear that ‘Remington Steele’ must slip off into the night.”

She squeezed his shoulder again. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

As long as it wasn’t another day like this one. With apologies to Scarlett O’Hara.‘Gone with the Wind.’ Clark Cable, Vivien Leigh, Olivia de Havilland. MGM 1939.

He tried to eat the soup, then poked at the carrots. Homemade vegetable. It looked good, it smelled good, but he couldn’t get it down.

With a sigh he set it on the floor under the cot. He carefully pulled the clothes out from under his back, set them in a neat pile on the floor – or as neat as he was up to at the moment – and settled back down on the cot.

What was he going to do now? He’d recognized the ring that had lain squarely in front of him, mocking him, when he’d opened the safe door. Carl’s ring. Carl had installed the internal alarm. Carl had anticipated him.

That was the problem working with a partner. If you used the same one too many times, he got to know you too well. You became vulnerable. Always better to remain obscure. Come from nowhere. No past. No plans for the future. No name. Exist for yourself. Dole out just enough bits of truth to cop the flash and move on. No self-revelations, no attachments, no expectations. That way you didn’t get hurt.

Oh, there’d been times when he’d bent his rules just a tad, people he’d partnered with for more than just a time or two. People who didn’t press him with questions. People who knew not to ask of him what he couldn’t give. His partners in crime. Daniel, of course, who’d taken him off the streets and no doubt saved him from ending up just another cold, dead body in a gutter. Felicia, Monroe. People who shared his philosophy. Get it while you can. Enjoy it while it lasts. Quick! before someone takes it away from you.

Carl had also been one of those exceptions. And like Felicia, ultimately not one of his better judgement calls, apparently. Was this about Wallace? Carl had taken Wallace’s death badly, but this, this revenge directed against him seemed too extreme. Still, could this be Carl’s idea of meting out justice? Wallace’s words on their fishing trip came back to him: ‘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.’ But those words had been spoken seven years ago. Carl was a different man now. Wasn’t he? Hadn’t those words they’d spoken in Starnberg when the Goldschmidt deal had come crashing down around their ears been an unbreakable vow between them? Steele let his thoughts drift back to Starnberg.

Carl, who’d worked steadily for Goldschmidt, had contracted out Steele – or rather, ‘John’ – to find Goldschmidt’s painting, but later decided to do the actual recovery himself, which was fine with John. John had done his job: he’d located the painting, gotten all the specifics Carl would need, and then met with Carl in Starnberg. He took Carl for a sail around the Starnberger See to point out the essential landmarks for Carl’s assault. Mixed with this business was great pleasure – the view was breathtaking, a white-and-blue splendour. Perfect white clouds fluffed out in bas relief against a perfect blue sky. To the south, Alpine peaks in shadow smoked blue, while those in the sun glistened white. The white of the sails of boats swirled around them, set off by the deep blue of the lake. Clusters of oak and beech and spruce trees in resplendent green adorning the countryside and myriad small castles and beautiful houses dotting the lake area completed this paradise. The lake area had always been a playground of Bavarian kings and aristocracy, and John felt like a royal himself to be privileged this view.

He manoeuvred among the throng of sailing boats and excursion steamships, gliding over the water to Obermühltal. There, he and Carl sat under the ancient trees with the six hundred other visitors to the Biergarten, listening to live jazz, eating Schottisches Lachsfilet auf Keta-Kaviar-Sauce, Blattspinach und Kartoffelgratin , and putting the final touches on Carl’s ‘liberation’ plan. As night began to fall, John left Obermühltal for Starnberg, taking his leave of Carl for other business.

Near the railway station in Starnberg, he found an ice cream café. It’d been a hot summer day, the weather still hadn’t cooled off, he had some time before his forty-minute train trip to Munich, so he gave in to the temptation. ‘Always give in to temptation’ was his motto – one never knew when the opportunity might arise again. As he was trying the Zitronenwasser – fresh lemon juice with one ball of lemon ice in it – he saw a sight that made his blood run cold. Three men, dressed in identical grey suits, with identical dark blue ties – the ‘Palermo Brothers,’ not from Palermo and not brothers but three of the most ruthless thieves on the Continent – were coming from the direction of the train station. And of course they would head towards the café – the Italians loved their gelato. John managed to conceal himself, and his suspicions proved correct: he overheard the leader, a baby-faced, mustachioed man with large brown eyes, mention Carl and the Hals, but not John himself, in any of his incarnations, which was a small relief. Somehow, though, Carl’s plans had been uncovered. Well, it happened, even to the best. The Palermo Brothers seemed remarkably well informed, and as they wore slightly oversized jackets with suspicious bulges on this summer day, they were remarkably well equipped. These things told John someone big was financing them, bigger, perhaps, than Goldschmidt. No opportunity to take out the Brothers directly – nonfatally, of course – immediately presented itself, so he set off to intercept Carl.

He didn’t know what Carl’s exact route to the old castle would be, but he had no time for subtility, anyway. His only hope was to go to the castle directly and warn Carl. Luck ran against him: as John hotwired a car, he heard the chop-chop of a helicopter – it must’ve come from Munich. He kept his eye on it as it clattered its way over the lake and saw it land on Rose Island, a fragrant rose paradise, now deserted of inhabitants except for one old hermit. Rose Island had been one of ‘Mad King Ludwig’s’ favourite places, the place where he would secretly meet Empress Elisabeth for romantic walks; John doubted romance was the purpose of the current visitors. He had a feeling Carl was in serious trouble indeed. This was a trademark assault tactic of the only people John knew who ever worked with the Palermo Brothers, the Brothers Grimm – also not brothers, and whose specialities were the ghastly stuff of nightmares, not fairytales. Assuming this was them, and he was quite sure it was, they now had an insurmountable lead over him. With dread in his heart, he pushed the accelerator as close to the floor as he dared.

He barrelled down the road to the southeast of Starnberg and screeched to a halt in a little village. It was a clear night, and he had enough starlight to climb the steep shoreline without too much difficulty. He crept through what had been a royal’s garden. He felt his way along the old wall of the castle. In the daylight the baroque-style little castle, modelled on an Italian mansion, had evoked sensuality, grandeur, drama. Now it spewed coldness, darkness, malignancy.

He stumbled. He had tripped over Carl’s broken, battered body. He choked back his fear he’d find no pulse, stooped, and felt for the carotid artery. He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. There was a beat, thank God. He scooped up Carl as gently as he could and began to retrace his steps. As John was descending the hill, Carl came to and began clawing at him instinctively, nearly taking John’s eye out, and nearly sending the two of them tumbling.

“It’s me! I’ve got you, I’ve got you!”

“Don’t let me die!”

“You won’t! I promise. I’ve got you.”

“And you never break your promises.”

“Never.” John completed the descent. He laid Carl in the car.

“I couldn’t see who hit me. I thought you’d betrayed me.”

John brushed away the tears on Carl’s cheeks. “Never. I would never betray a friend.”

Carl laughed weakly, bitterly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, John.”

“I don’t. I’ll always find a way.”

“You know what?” Carl whispered. “I believe you.”

“You should.”

Carl started to reply, and John bent over him to hear the faintest of whispers. “I want you to know something.”

“Yes?” John rested his hand lightly on Carl’s arm.

“I’d never betray a friend, either. I’ll always find a way, too. I promise.”

John had taken Carl’s hand into both of his and held it as his friend gave him a soft grin. Carl had then slipped into unconsciousness.

He’d believed Carl, but he’d known even as he’d held Carl’s hand, he still would always have a plan B.

And apparently now was the time for it. Had Carl only spoken those words in the heat of the moment? Had his promise, heartfelt at the time, become null and void at Wallace’s death? The ring in the safe seemed to indicate so.

He had to find Carl. And he knew where to start looking. If Carl wasn’t still in town, it’d be more difficult, but he’d track him down. If it was the last thing he did. First, though, he needed to get a little rest. His injuries made that difficult. He began to employ a technique he’d used since he was a small child, a technique to disconnect from the pain of this world, no matter its type, and offer him respite: he’d think of a film, immerse himself in it, become it, become every player. . . . Unfortunately, all he could think of was the movie he’d just seen with Laura.

‘I'm young, I have no particular responsibilities, I don't intend to cultivate any, either. One is freer without,’ said Judith Traherne, early on in ‘Dark Victory.’

‘For the first time I wake up in the morning with something to live for,’ said Judith Traherne, later on in the film.

‘Before, women have never meant anything to me. I'd never met anyone like her. I was all set – I had plans, made arrangements,’ said Frederick Steele.

‘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,’ said Michael O’Leary . (He takes her in his arms and ardently kisses her). . . .

But no cinematic kiss, no matter how passionately portrayed, could be a match for the kisses of a certain feisty, petite, chestnut-haired, brown-eyed, freckled beauty. Laura. Laura, for whom he’d made his biggest exception. Laura, who’d been his partner in crime-fighting, not crime. Laura, who’d probably tear his heart out if she ever saw him again.

He bounced his head back against the cot. Laura, who’d apparently stolen his rule book. He didn’t want to leave this name, this place, her – what had she done to him? It’d never mattered before where he was, who he was, what he was doing, who he was with. Nothing had ever been lost when he left.

Damn her. She’d made him forget to be diligent in his practise of expecting nothing. He felt a dull, empty ache that had nothing to do with his injuries.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. C’mon, mate. No use thinkin’ like this. Can’t afford it. The carnival’s movin’ on. Time to pull up the stakes. This place is no different from any other. There’s nothin’ for you here. It’s a character flaw in you – never could keep yourself from lookin’ for a place where you belonged at each of your stops. Isn’t it clear by now? You belong nowhere, to no one. You like it like that, remember? You’ll remember, in time. Now let it go. Think of somethin’ pleasant. You’ve many a pleasant memory.

He blanked his mind for a while, focussing on his breathing, until he felt calm again, without expectation, accepting what was.

A pleasant memory.

Her scent, the taste of her mouth, how it felt to touch her and be touched by her . . . . He wrapped himself in Laura’s phantom arms and drifted away, comforted.

****

Laura stared at the Braque painting, idly wondering if Steele had been telling the truth last night when he’d said he didn’t like the style. At any rate, if the picture contained a secret message, she was missing it completely.

She looked around and once again quelled the urge to pace. She was at LACMA. She was in the Robert O. Anderson Building, which housed the two floors of the Department of Modern and Contemporary Art. She was on the upper floor, which featured modern European and American art through about 1970. She was in the gallery devoted to Paris and early modern movements such as Cubism and Fauvism. And she was beyond restless.

For the n^th time she wished Steele were at her side. All he would’ve had to do was give one of his flashing smiles and turn his baby blues on the appropriate female, and he would’ve been seeing the Registrar. As it was, she was having to feign interest in Goncharova’s ‘Religious Composition: Archangel Michael (1910),’ Kandinsky’s ‘Untitled Improvisation III (1914),’ Picasso’s ‘Portrait of Sebastian Juñer Vidal (1903),’ Matisse’s ‘Tea (1919),’ Léger’s ‘The Discs (1918– 19),’ Kirchner’s ‘Two Women (1911– 12),’ Magritte’s ‘The Treachery of Images (c.1928– 29).’ If someone were to hand her a brush right now, she’d cover the place in expressionistic strokes of frustration.

“Ms. Kunstler will see you now, Miss Holt.”

Finally. Laura walked with her guide to the Registrar’s office. She avoided his attempts at chitchat and attempted to push their pace. Steele would’ve done exactly the opposite, the better to cultivate a future contact – or maybe just because he had a genuine interest in people – but she simply didn’t have the patience for that now, and, not to put too fine an edge on it, people were his forte, not hers.

At that thought, she forced herself to slow, to smile, to respond to the man’s pleasantries. Maybe she had something to learn from Steele after all – right now her agency could use all the goodwill it could get.

A few minutes later her guide pointed out the door to the Registrar’s office, then turned back down the hall. As Laura neared the office, she heard a vaguely familiar voice. Jenkins, of the BHPD, cannonballed out the door, nearly knocking Laura down. His grin, that of a shark at feed, metamorphosed into something more appropriate to a public servant. He nodded at Laura and then spurtled down the hall.

Laura walked into the office to see a woman seated behind a desk, a man, who looked like a lawyer, seated in a chair across from her. They both rose as she entered. The woman put out her hand. “I’m Thea Kunstler, and this is one of our lawyers, Steven Carselli.”

“Laura Holt.” As they shook hands and seated themselves, Laura realized why the woman seemed so familiar. Ms. Kunstler was a trim five foot nine with wheat-blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes, and she was one of the women who had in the past graced Steele’s arm. Funny, Laura had been under the impression Steele only dated ditsy airheads. No, not true. Felicia had been no ditz; her artful cunning had matched her exquisite beauty. Of course, Felicia had been no casual date. “I’d like some information on the provenance of a painting you were recently loaned. The artist is Georges Braque – ”

“The painting was loaned anonymously, Miss Holt. I can’t divulge the lender’s name to you.”

“What about the name of the previous owner?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give that out either.”

“You gave this information to Detective Jenkins?”

“He’s a public official.” Ms. Kunstler smiled, not unsympathetically, and, evidently reading Laura’s mind, added, “Miss Holt, the provenance is ironclad.”

Laura felt herself deflate, but then she took herself in hand. She’d get nowhere at LACMA with this particular line of questioning, but she’d get what information she could before moving on. “The painting went on exhibit when?”

“Yesterday.”

After Steele had supposedly put the ruby in the washroom. So, circumstantially, it would look like a payoff. Laura grimaced, then continued. “Do you know who actually found the ruby in the washroom? Someone in the cleaning crew?”

“You know, it’s odd. No one here has made that claim. You’d think someone would – there must’ve been some kind of reward out on it, wasn’t there? Or at least, they would’ve gotten a lot of publicity!” Ms. Kunstler shook her head. “I haven’t heard anything about an employee or some good citizen finding it and calling the police.”

Laura nodded. That fit into her theory that somewhere along the line, Steele had been set up.

****

After speaking with various other members of the staff and cleaning crew and getting no further information, Laura found the pay phones in the museum and called the office. “Murphy. Who in the Burglary Unit got the tip that Mr. Steele owned that Braque painting?” She groaned at his reply. “Jenkins? Oh, that’s great. That’s just great. Like he’s going to cooperate with us. Work on him, will you, Murph?” She smiled sadly at Murphy’s pledge to do what he could. “Thanks, Murph. Gotta go.”

Her next stop would be to see Mr. Coxworth, owner of Coxworth Art Gallery. He was the person who’d hired the Remington Steele Agency in the ‘The Five Nudes of Cairo’ case. She wasn’t going to take at face value Ms. Kunstler’s word about the provenance of the painting. Steele himself had told her how fraught with fraud the art world was. For the n to the n^th time she wished he were around. Surely he had ways to uncover the painting’s provenance more easily than she.

She strode out to her car. She started it, gunned it, and scorched out of the parking lot.

****

Mr. Coxworth wasn’t in, so Laura went to see his gallery’s curator. She handed a photo of the Braque painting to him and thought about the man who’d previously held that position, Achmed Khalil. Khalil had dropped dead in her living room, a knife in his back, while in the bedroom Laura’s mother fumed over some supposedly rude behavior of Laura’s to her and Steele. Laura’s mother chose that particular time to come out to apologize to Steele for her own behavior, and though Laura rushed toward her to persuade her it wasn’t necessary, she wouldn’t be stopped. They entered the living room only to find Steele ‘conversing’ with Khalil, who was propped up in a chair facing away from her mother, a lit cigarette in his fingers. Her mother had made her apology and turned in for the night, never suspecting a thing. It would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been so tragic.

As the curator looked up from examining the photo, Laura spoke to him. “Mr. Whiting, I’m certain this painting has never been exhibited before in a museum. At least, not in one where the provenance documentation is readily available.” No, that would be too easy. No, this would be tedious work.

“Provenance research from scratch is slow, Miss Holt. I’d have to look through exhibition catalogues, sale catalogues, collection catalogues, catalogues raisonnés . There might be clues in photo archives – or in scholarly articles about Braque or any prior owner I might turn up. Papers and business records of collectors and dealers might also be very valuable sources of information, but . . . ”

“But?”

“They’re often limited by the availability of the records and by the willingness of dealers to reveal their sources.” Laura had no doubt that willingness would be nil in this case. “I might even have to resort to looking for wills, insurance inventories, and other personal documentation,” Whiting added.

Laura pressed her lips together. If Steele were here, assuming he’d want her to know, he’d suggest the fastest way to get the information they needed would be to simply break into LACMA’s records. At this point, she’d seriously consider it. Actually, as the alleged owner of the painting, he could probably get a look at the LACMA files; he could almost certainly cajole Ms. Kunstler into letting him see them. Those files would contain the correspondence between the curator and the lender – supposedly him – the loan contract, all the research into the provenance of the painting, and the proof of the owner’s legal title to the painting. She could then check that correspondence for clues that it was or was not from Steele. She could check to see if his signature had been forged – putting aside for the moment that his ‘Remington Steele’ signature was a forgery of her ‘Remington Steele’ signature. She could take the file to other experts to check for any irregularities in the documents.

She pulled herself from those fruitless thoughts. All she could hope for now was to find the last owner before Steele in the provenance chain and hopefully break their link – and find out who had forged it. “Will you research the provenance?”

Whiting tapped his fingertips on his desk and regarded her a long moment. His thin, angular features softened. “Mr. Coxworth told me Mr. Steele saved this museum from a major embarrassment. Yes, I’ll do it. But it’ll take time.”

And time was the one thing she was running out of.

****

Someday she’d have to come here when her reasons weren’t so grim.

Laura pulled up and parked in front of the Lost and Found Mission on Main Street – Wallace’s old mission. The only reason this place had remained open after Wallace’s death was because of Steele’s $50,000 donation. ‘That was nice,’ she’d told him. ‘He was a nice man. And a hell of a burglar,’ Steele had replied.

She stared at the graffiti-marred edifice. The first time she’d been here, she’d nearly been strangled in the back office. If Steele hadn’t come along when he did . . . . He’d been so sure Wallace had been set up to make it appear he’d stolen Dillon’s research material. . . . He’d been so angry at that morgue attendant. . . . Steele.

She took a deep breath, got out of the car, and strode up the mission steps. Determined to get some answers from Wallace’s crew, she’d arranged for them all to meet here.

She entered the hall, noting with surprise and relief the roomful of men – she’d been afraid she’d be met by empty chairs. She strode up to the podium on the small stage at the front of the hall and spoke into the microphone. “I’m sure – ” She stopped when no amplification came out of the mike.

“Uh, we never use that, ma’am. I’m sure we’ll hear you fine.”

Laura nodded at the man who’d spoken, stepped to the front of the stage, and started again. “I’m sure you’ve all heard on the news about Mr. Steele – ”

“Ma’am, if he’d wanted them trinkets, you can be sure he’d gotten them clean from the start. There’s some funny business going on here.” The same middle-aged man had spoken up again.

Laura looked around at the sea of nodding heads. “I want to ask you about Carl.”

This time her words were met with the sounds of the men shifting around in the cheap folding chairs. “Look,” she said. “It’s important. I know there’s something Mr. Steele didn’t want you to tell me about Carl, but I think Carl may be the one behind this ‘funny business.’”

“Oh no, ma’am. Can’t be.”

She again looked down at the man who seemed to have taken on the job of spokesman for the group. “Why not, Mr. – ?”

“Call me ‘Steve.’ Carl is a ‘True Believer,’ Miss Holt.” That seemed to be all the man thought necessary to say.

“But there was some trouble between him and Mr. Steele. I know there was. Carl didn’t associate with Mr. Steele on your earlier jobs with us. Why not?”

Steve leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking long bony fingers. “Well, ma’am – ”

“Steve – ” a voice called out in warning. Laura looked around but couldn’t place its source.

Steve held up his hand. “This lady is only looking for the truth. I think it’s time we honor that.”

Laura noticed some of the other men looking extremely uncomfortable. A number of them got up and left. Steve took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Finally, he replaced his glasses and peered up at her through their thick lenses. “Ma’am, Carl took Wallace’s death hard. Wallace turned his life around, brought him into the Light. Wallace showed him the way to our Heavenly Father. . . . When Wallace was killed, Carl . . . well, I guess he blamed Remington for it. It just took him awhile to let go of that. He’s only a man. . . . I see that look in your eye, Miss Holt. You’re thinking revenge. ‘“Vengeance is Mine,” saith the Lord.’”

“Sometimes humans take it upon themselves.”

Steve sat back and shook his head emphatically. “Not Carl. He just wouldn’t do something like this. It’d go against everything Wallace taught, everything he stood for. If Carl’d done this to Remington, it’d be like he’d done it to Wallace himself.” The remaining men murmured agreement.

Steve seemed so sure. Was this what Steele hadn’t wanted her to find out about Carl, knowing it would elevate Carl to the top of her list of suspects? Had Steele merely been trying to protect his friend? She let out a breath. “Carl and Wallace must’ve been very close.”

“Like father and son.”

Father and son. An image of Steele at the morgue, grabbing the attendant who’d slandered Wallace, popped into her head. ‘. . . He had a daughter . . . .’

Run with it, Holt. “Wallace’s daughter. Where’s she? Anyone know?”

Steve shrugged.

Laura looked around the room. The men were of all ages, dressed in faded jeans or work pants and simple cotton shirts, some frayed at the collar or sleeves. They got by. Had Carl been here, he’d have seemed out of place. Though he’d dressed simply on the other security jobs, jeans and work shirt, she’d noticed they’d been designer jeans and a quality cloth shirt, like something she imagined Steele might wear if he ever deigned to dress down.

The men were all shaking their heads.

“Never seen her. Didn’t even come to the funeral,” Steve supplied.

Laura ran a hand through her hair. “Okay, one last question. Can any of you tell me where to find Carl? I know I’ve asked you before, but please, it’s important. I understand you don’t think he’s involved. But he worked closely with Mr. Steele on this job, and he’s been missing ever since the thefts occurred. He must – he may know something. Please. Help me help Mr. Steele.”

But all she got were shrugs and murmurs of apology. Chairs creaked as all the men got up to go about their business – except for one young man who had started to rise, but now sat in his chair at the end of the third row, one leg bouncing up and down, eyes cast down, fingering the cap in his hands. As she moved toward him, he got up and started to skitter off. “Wait! Please.”

He paused, bouncing up and down a bit, then turned back toward her; he started to bite his thumb but then quickly lowered his hand and played with his cap. About seventeen, she guessed. Very thin. All arms and legs. Long, dark hair and a growth of beard, or what passed for a beard at that age. “What’s your name?” she asked softly.

“J-Jim.”

“Jim. Do you know where I can find Carl?” She kept her voice gentle.

The boy swallowed and wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Jim, if you know where he is, you’ve got to tell me. Help me.”

“I don’t w-want Carl to get in trouble – ”

“And what about Mr. Steele? You heard on the news. He’s out there somewhere,” – she gestured toward the street – “injured. The police are after him. If they find him, and he tries to run, he could be killed. For nothing. Because you held back some information that could prove he’s innocent.”

The boy’s eyes darted around, and he twisted his cap. Finally, he looked at her, eyes blinking rapidly. “Carl’s my ‘Big Brother.’ O-on the program Wallace set up. Me, me and him spend a lot of time together. Carl called me. Said he’d, he’d been out of town. B-but he’d be here tonight. He wanted to see me, see how I was doing. Di-didn’t want me to think he run out on me like m-my old man. Like his old man. We’re supposed to, supposed to meet here tonight.”

“What time?”

The boy ran the back of his hand over his mouth. “N-nine. In the b-back office.”

She touched his arm.“Thanks, Jim. You’ve done the right thing.”

“I h-hope so.”

“Jim, don’t tell Carl you’ve told me where he’ll be. I want to see him tonight. And stay home.”

He bit his lip and looked at her with fear still in his eyes. “To be honest, if I knew h-how to get in touch with him, I don’t know wh-what I’d do. But I don’t, so I’ll just have to, have to trust you. Funny,” – he laughed in a way that showed he didn’t think it funny at all – “until today I’d of tr-trusted them both with my life. Remington’s a real, a real nice guy, and Carl . . . . Now you make it s-sound like they’re against each other, and I-I don’t know who’s right.”

She squeezed his arm sympathetically. “All I’m saying is, maybe Carl can help me.” She gave him an encouraging smile, took one last look at the ‘Where there is Love there is God’ poster that hung over the stage, and left the mission.

As she went down the front steps, she heard a voice call, “Miss Holt.”

She turned and saw a man slip into the alley next to the mission. She hesitated, then walked over. One of the men from the crew stood leaning against the wall just a few feet into the alley’s shadow. He was tall and broad and she was glad it was daylight. She shifted her purse under her arm and strode in. She stopped in front of him and looked him square in the eye.

He put his hands in his pockets, gave her a knowing smile, and said gently, “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Miss Holt. I’m Tom, by the way. Thomas Coburn. I wanted to tell you Carl knows Wallace’s daughter, and I think it was more than casual.”

Laura felt a chill up her spine. It could mean nothing, but . . . . “How do you know?”

“We – Carl and I – were cleaning out Wallace’s stuff from the office after the funeral and everything. I came across an old picture in one of the drawers. I showed it to Carl and he said it was Noley. The way he stared at it . . . . So I said, ‘You know her?’ and, well, I don’t remember exactly what he said. Something on the order of, ‘Oh, yeah. I know her all right.’ He sounded, I dunno, like she was special to him. Anyway, I just think there was something there.” He shrugged.

“Do you still have the picture?”

“Nah. Tossed everything out. No one to give it to.”

Laura nodded, disappointed.

“Miss Holt. I don’t have Steve’s faith in human nature. . . . I’m not saying Carl did anything. I just thought you should know about him and Noley, and I didn’t want to say it in front of the other guys.”

“I understand. Thanks. Thanks a lot, Mr. Coburn.”

“Well, if it’ll help Steele. He’s always been all right in my book.”

She wanted to ask him to read her that chapter, but he straightened abruptly and walked out of the alley.

She walked back to her car. So. Some good may have come out of their break-in attempt at Raeder’s after all. Carl and Wallace’s daughter. This might still be a dead end, of course, but if Steele had been more forthcoming, she could’ve gotten to this point a heck of a lot sooner with a great deal less pain all around. Steele. Highly regarded by thieves, cons, and the down-and-out everywhere – 

She whirled and ran after Coburn’s departing figure, catching up to him. “Mr. Coburn. I recognize you. You were one of the men who tried to break into Dillon’s after Wallace set up the security system there. To test it and show how well it worked.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How far are you willing to go to help Mr. Steele?’

Coburn raised an eyebrow.

****

       TO PART 4                                       HOME                     E-MAIL

http://webpages.charter.net/drpeg/cspart3w.htm

Original content copyrighted by Margaret Daniels 2004

WGA Registration Number 1022262