PART 4

****

As she watched Coburn break into Carl’s safe, Laura had a greater appreciation for Steele’s ‘talents.’ It was all she could do to keep herself from hovering over Coburn’s shoulder and urging him to hurry. What if Carl came home before going to the Mission?

To distract herself, she mulled over her private conversation with Steve. After arranging to meet Coburn here at Carl’s, she’d gone back into the Mission and sought out Steve – he had a forthrightness she’d never before encountered in an acquaintance of Steele’s. They’d sat in Wallace’s – or rather, Carl’s – office, their chairs facing each other in the cramped space between the desk and the filing cabinets.

“Steve, as part of my investigation I’ve had to run background checks on you and the rest of Wallace’s crew – sorry,” – Laura smiled apologetically – “I don’t know how I should refer to all of you. That’s what Mr. Steele calls you.”

“I’m sure we’d all be proud to be known as ‘Wallace’s crew.’”

“Yes, well, to be blunt, up until this incident, I’ve been willing to trust all of you because of the word of Mr. Steele. Now his word isn’t good enough for me.”

Steve gave a small smile, showing no resentment. “I’m not sure how I can help you, Miss Holt. What is it you want to know?”

“A significant number of you, including Wallace himself, Carl – and you – have huge gaps in your histories.”

Steve smiled and leaned forward, once again resting his elbows on his knees. His hands pressed together in the prayer position. “Ma’am, the only gaps I would, or even could, fill in for you are those in my own history. We don’t discuss our pasts with each other – we’ve been washed clean by the Lord. I assume – but don’t know – that the others are like me. Skilled enough – or lucky enough – not to be caught with our pants down. And by whatever route, we all received God’s Word and decided to devote ourselves to spreading that Word and helping others.”

It was hard not to believe the sincerity of Steve’s words, much as she would’ve preferred to unearth an enclave of thieves involved in a Byzantine plot to rob an upstanding citizen and pin it on Steele. Still, she could always hope someone in this den of Thieves Anonymous had fallen off the wagon. She just hoped that ‘someone’ wasn’t Steele. “How’d you end up here? Did you know Wallace from your, uh, past life?”

Steve sat back, shaking his head. “No, not personally. Heard of what he was doing here through the grapevine, you could say. And I wanted to be a part of it. Don’t know about the others. Probably the same story for those of us who aren’t local.” Steve gave an ironic smile. “Most of us, I suspect, were loners in our ‘past lives.’ You probably won’t find too many connections between us.”

Laura nodded and gave a tight-lipped smile in return. She started to rise from her seat but was stopped by Steve’s words, “Do you know the story of Saul’s conversion?”

Was she now going to have to listen to a sermon? She settled back warily and replied, “A light from heaven blazed around him while he was on the road to Damascus. God spoke to him and he became ‘Paul.’”

Steve smiled at her kindly. “If only it was as simple as a change of name. Saul was literally blinded by that light. He had to first go through a journey of darkness and uncertainty, of wrestling with his past, before the scales fell from his eyes and he became the man he was meant to be, Paul.

“When a man wants to change, it doesn’t happen in a flash of light. It takes courage and persistence. I’ve found in my work here, the best way to lend a hand in helping someone change is to be patient, give him room, walk the path of change with him, show him another way of being by your example and by sharing how you see the world differently, but not in a self-righteous way – ”

“Nothing will help if the man has jumped the path.” Laura got up abruptly. “Thank you for your time, Steve.”

Laura was yanked into the present as the safe clicked open. She sprang up from her perch on the desk, pulled out the contents of the safe, and scanned them. Money, a few pieces of jewelry, financial documents, stock and bond certificates, insurance policies, titles and deeds. Nothing caught her eye until she got to the last items. Passports – plural, just like Steele. The key to a safe deposit box – she slipped that into her purse. A list of numbers: bank accounts, investment accounts, social security numbers. She hadn’t uncovered any of these accounts during her background check. The list went into her purse.

She looked at the last items. Several thick tomes. Journals. She kept them out, too, but everything else went back into the safe, as neatly arranged as she’d found them.

“Thank you, Mr. Coburn.”

He shrugged. “I owe Steele. Big. ’Course, I may’ve just lost myself a lot of friends.”

Laura placed her hand on his arm. “I’ll do my best to make sure no one finds out you opened the safe.”

****

“Oh, my.”

Bernice came sprinting into the office and skidded to a stop in front of Laura’s desk. “What is it?”

“What were you doing? Hovering at my door?” Laura smiled at Bernice’s sheepish look, then snapped upright in her office chair, pushed her reading glasses back up her nose, and picked up one of the journals lying on her desk. “Carl,” she said, answering Bernice’s question. “He may be a ‘Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’ – ”

“Fredric March, Miriam Hopkins. Paramount Pictures. 1931.”

“Bernice.” Laura frowned. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by thoughts of Steele right now.

“Sorry. Guess he’s kinda rubbed off on me.”

Laura gave her a sad smile. “Well, anyway, as I was saying, Carl’s public record this past year is exemplary. He’s not only continued the substance abuse program Wallace started, but he’s greatly expanded the youth program. Depending on their needs, the boys are provided with food and clothing and taught everything from the 3 R’s to the skills needed for getting jobs. They’re mentored by volunteers, all men who converted.”

Laura thumbed through one of the journals she’d obtained just a short time ago. “Listen to this. It’s dated a couple of weeks after he joined the Mission last year, before Wallace’s death. It’s the rough draft of a speech he evidently gave to a group of boys. ‘There is no hope on the streets. I know that from personal experience. Wallace took me off the streets when I was a boy. He gave me hope. And years later when my hope again faltered, he was there to show me The Way, to show me the way to Our Savior, Jesus Christ, the source of Infinite Hope. I owe Wallace. I owe God. With the help of Jesus Christ I want to repay my debts in kind by offering you hope. You can be free of drugs and alcohol. You can be free of the gangs. Jesus will set you free. I look forward to working with you, with this community we’ve formed here. I want to give back to this community what I took from communities like it.’”

“That’s beautiful.”

Laura nodded. “But there’s more in these journals. He didn’t keep regular entries, but when he did write, he was very open” – she gave Bernice an ironic smile – “except about any criminal activities. Steve was right about his relationship with Wallace. Wallace essentially raised him during his teen years, and there was a very deep bond between them.” She pointed to one of the journals. “Wallace disappeared about six years ago. As you can imagine, Carl was grief-stricken, thinking Wallace dead. Then Wallace reappeared about four years ago. Evidently he’d gone through a period of being a hard-core alcohol-and-drug abuser and had overcome his addictions after embracing religion. From then, up until about a year ago, the entries in Carl’s journals reflect a lot of pain – what comes through is his deep love for Wallace mixed with feelings of guilt about his own life. He speaks of how Wallace never turned away from him, continued to love him like a son. And he credits Wallace’s love and support with finally enabling him to surrender to God and turn his life around.”

Laura met Bernice’s intent gaze. “But he didn’t make that conversion until about a month before Wallace’s murder. He was devastated by Wallace’s death.”

Bernice sat on the corner of the desk. “He was finally making something of his life when the man responsible for that, a man he idolized, a man he thought he’d lost before, was murdered.”

Laura leaned back and steepled her fingers. “And he laid the blame for that squarely at Mr. Steele’s feet. After the murder, the entries are filled with bitterness against Mr. Steele. How ‘that con man should be taken at his own game.’”

She sat back up again and clapped the books shut. “And Carl knows Wallace’s daughter quite well.”

Bernice leaned forward as if she were about to impart a juicy piece of gossip. “The two of them – the daughter could’ve taken the ruby and slipped off, while Carl stole the mosaic.”

****

It was dark now. Laura sat with Murphy in the Rabbit about a half-block down from the Lost and Found Mission, shining her penlight on the five photographs in her hand, studying them one after the other while munching on trail-mix. They’d caught another possible break in the case in the afternoon. Mrs. Coxworth, whose husband owned the Coxworth Art Gallery, had come forth with some information. She was terribly sorry she hadn’t told them before, but she hadn’t wanted to get involved. Now, though, with that nice man Mr. Steele being accused of such horrible things, and him being such a patron of the arts and such an invaluable help to her husband in ‘The Five Nudes of Cairo’ case, well, she just couldn’t hold back any longer.

Laura felt like wringing the woman’s neck. Mrs. Coxworth had been fairly close to where Steele and Ms. Raeder were standing at the party. She recalled seeing a woman serving drinks heading toward them when the power went out. Bernice showed her the pictures of the help, and though she couldn’t be sure, Mrs. Coxworth narrowed the field to five.

But background checks on the five hadn’t turned up anything. Nor could they find any information on Noley. Laura hoped that one of these women was Noley and that she could get Carl to confirm it. She also intended to show the pictures to Mr. Coburn the next day and ask if he saw any resemblance to the person in the old picture he’d seen.

She taped up copies of the five photos to the window visor, in case Murphy needed them later. “I have a good feeling about this, Murph.”

“I still think you’re reaching.”

“I’m exploring alternatives. Pursuing leads.”

“And ignoring the obvious.”

She smiled at him with affection. “I’m not ignoring it. You won’t let me. But you know as well as I do what’s obvious isn’t always true.”

“Especially where he’s concerned.” Murphy reached over and took her hand. “Laura, don’t mistake his relationship with you for something it never was. You can’t trust him.”

Could she trust him?

“You can’t let your feelings get in the way of the truth.”

Could she trust what her feelings told her? “No. I won’t. I can trust my ability to find the truth.”

“That’s my Laura. Keeps it all in perspective. Objective, thorough, accurate.”

She couldn’t help but recall Steele’s more poetic analysis of her skills, stated during the Dillon case. “I’m a skilled, resourceful, often brilliant investigator. I’m practical, yet intuitive. I can see the large canvas without missing the small detail – ”

“What?”

“Never mind, Murph.” She removed her hand from his and checked her watch. Carl wasn’t supposed to meet Jim for nearly another hour and a half, but she wanted to be here in case he came early. “Time for you to blend in with the scenery.”

Murphy groaned.

****

He was at the party, mesmerized by Lora Raeder in that slinky black dress, watching her finger that luscious ruby, the colour of a pomegranate seed – or of a fresh drop of blood. He focussed in on the ruby. It was so beautiful, sparkling with life. A woman was like a ruby. His vision pulled back, and he took in the surrounding guests in a way that hadn’t registered in his conscious awareness. He could see all the faces: a gallery owner and his wife, a woman coming towards him with drinks . . . . Then the faces changed, the bodies changed. Odd. They looked like people he’d known in the past, long ago. Who was this little girl? Before the name came to him, the scene switched, and he was in the morgue with Wallace’s body, grabbing that insensitive attendant. ‘. . . he had a daughter he put through college . . . . That stiff was my friend.’ He moaned, tossed his head, and the scene changed again. A dog. He was terrified. It was going to rend him limb from limb. But – mustn’t let them find Laura. He turned towards the dog, kicked at it with his hooves, and leapt over it. He was a unicorn, magical and free – but no! he’d been betrayed by a lady, and dogs still pursued him. They leapt on his back, tearing his flesh with their teeth. A spear was plunged into his throat. More were driven into his body, on all sides, impaling him. He could not move. He could not scream. He was drowning in his own blood. The little girl with the face from the past came towards him and smiled at him, a smile of triumph. She turned into the lioness that had been observing him at the fountain. She sprang at him, tore his face with her claws, ripped his throat and chest open, and drank of his blood.

“Lona!” he gasped. “Lona.”

A talker appeared. . . . ‘Step right up, folks, step right up. See the amazin’ unicorn – one of its kind! A small prize, not worth your effort, to the one who can ease its only-ness. What? You there! Did I hear you say he’s not real? Oh, ye of little faith. Well, tell ya what I’m gonna do, friend, tell ya what I’m gonna do – ’

“Hey, you all right?”

Steele shot bolt upright on the cot. He was shaking, but whether from his dream or from the cool air hitting his sweat-drenched body, he couldn’t tell. The small lamp on the desk was on. Outside the window it was completely dark.

Thelma pointed to the desktop. “I got you some clothes.”

“Bless you, Thelma.”

“Well, I’ll let you get dressed. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Always. . . . Thanks, love.”

She nodded at him and left the room.

He dried himself with the blanket and then pushed painfully off the cot. Wrapping the blanket around himself, he went to the door and cautiously peered out of it. He hitched his way to the small loo just down the hall to wash up in the sink, then returned to the office. Leaning against the desk to support himself, he started to dress.

Briefs. T-shirt. Carefully, he pulled the long-sleeved tee over his head and inched it up over the bandage on his forearm. It didn’t fit too bad.

Trousers. The trousers were another matter. Too short and too wide. Too short and too wide – how many years had he put up with that? He’d taught himself to mend and make alterations, but a kid could do only so much. Even after he’d run away, lived on the streets, he’d had to watch what he nicked. He’d had a helluva time avoiding the gangs as it was – he hadn’t wanted to snuff-it over a too nice shirt or a too good pair of shoes. . . .

He hiked up the trousers and cinched the belt tightly. There was something in one of the trousers’ pockets. His watch. Bless Thelma. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d taken it.

Socks. Sneakers.

He checked the watch. Time to go. He needed to break into a shop and get better clothes. He couldn’t afford to be in a one-down position if he found his quarry.

He carefully rubbed his hand over his face. He needed a razor. Maybe not. It might be better to have some stubble to camouflage the bite a little, though he hated to not be clean-shaven. He breathed out a laugh. Maybe he should call and have the limo brought around – he always kept a small electric shaver in it for touch-ups before client appointments. He sighed.

In any case, he was going to need a straight razor or knife – he’d lost his somewhere.

Thank God, he could get out the back door without attracting attention. He didn’t exactly want to start off the night by squeezing out that window. He was stiff from the cot and limping a bit from the dog bite. The stiffness would wear off as he got used to movement again. At least he hoped so. He had the feeling he would have plenty of opportunity for movement tonight.

****

Carl deboarded Alaska Airlines Flight 1906 from Fort Lauderdale/Hollywood International and entered Terminal 3 of LAX. He bought a paper, shouldered his carry-on, and headed toward a restroom, trying to avoid the full-court press of the nubbly-scalped, saffron-robed, tambourine-shaking devotees eager to send him to Krishna Consciousness. He changed into old faded jeans and a plain cotton shirt. He reached into the inner pocket of the linen jacket he’d just taken off and pulled out his return ticket stubs. He paused before throwing them into the trash, looking at the one from the Bahamas: ‘Chalk Ocean Airways Flight 502, “Your Direct Flight From Paradise.”’ Truer words had, perhaps, never been spoken since the devil had booked Adam and Eve on their direct flight from Paradise. He stowed his carry-on in a locker, exited the airport, and got into a taxi. He settled back for the seven-minute ride and unfolded the newspaper. The man currently known to the L.A. public as ‘Remington Steele’ stared back at him, the eyes accusing. Carl tossed the newspaper aside. What was done, was done.

He looked out the window. They passed Hollywood Park. That made Carl think of the Turf Club inside the park. That made him think of Steele. They passed the Jack Thompson Golf Course . That made Carl think of Rembrandt’s ‘The Golf Player.’ That made him think of Steele. Carl closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift back in time . . . .

They moved quickly, furtively, silently past the monastery herb garden, went down Baumgartenstrasse to Rheinuferstrasse, and crossed it, heading toward the river. They turned west to begin the three-kilometer walk along the secluded northern Wanderweg to Neuhausen. There, they’d once again become tourists who’d come to see the Rhine Falls, Europe’s largest waterfall. Their mission now accomplished, they would catch the 5 a.m. train to Winterhur.

They walked the straight, level path in the darkness; the moon – and the sun – had set at 9:15. The path was easy to feel under their feet, and they navigated with only short bursts of a penlight, as sure-footed as cats. The landscape baffled all noise except the sound of the rushing water – the Rhine ran very fast here and would soon turn into whitewater rapids.

Fifteen minutes into the walk, Carl broke the silence. “I wish we’d had time to explore the place. I hear there’s a roomful of early medieval religious art and a restored Gothic chapel.”

“Yes, well, we weren’t exactly there for a tour.”

Carl tapped the roll-tube inside his friend’s knapsack. “This one was a piece of cake.”

“The woman and her child will soon be back in the proper hands,” Carl’s companion, who called himself ‘John,’ agreed, referring to the painting they’d just liberated.

“It isn’t worth much.”

“No. But how could I resist when I heard the butler did it?” John snickered, and Carl joined in.

“How’d he do it?”

“One day he showed up at a custom lab with the painting, sans frame, had them photograph the painting, then enlarge the print to the exact size of the painting. He substituted the photo for the painting.”

“And you just pulled the same switch.”

John laughed quietly. “Yes.”

“I can’t believe it took the owners so long to notice.”

“I hear the fence around their estate alone costs over a million dollars. A half-million-dollar painting is hardly the centerpiece of their collection. And the photographer did a very fine job.”

“How’d the painting end up here?”

“It’s ironic, really. The butler is Swedish and an art lover, and he thought any painting by a Swedish artist belonged back in the homeland. He brought it to Sweden, and it was auctioned off, with the butler collecting the money. When the theft was discovered, the Swedish government refused to return the painting – according to Swedish law, the auction buyer had purchased it in good faith . But the buyer moved here and ended up giving it to Museum zu Allerheiligen.”

“What happens now?”

“You take the painting back to the States, to the owners. The owners anonymously contribute half-a-million dollars to the Museum and also pay you. You pay me. Everybody’s happy. Except maybe the butler.”

As they continued the walk in the cool and the damp, Carl could distinguish the faint murmur of the falls. Soon, it would become a deafening roar.

Thirty minutes into the walk, John broke the silence. “Are you thinking of changing occupations, mate?” he asked softly.

“What makes you say that?” Carl knew he sounded defensive.

“Well, let’s see. In Romont you insisted we see a dozen churches – ”

“They all contained glorious examples of stained glass.”

“In Zurich you spent most of your time viewing the fifteenth century religious art in the Museum of Fine Arts – ”

“Oh, and you would’ve preferred we tunnel down to the bank vaults of gold and silver and art works stolen by the Nazis – ”

“In Basel, a city of thirty museums, with a variety of art that takes your breath away, from Greek and Roman antiquities to the modern giants, you spent all your time looking at the religious art in the city’s historical museum – ”

“So, what’s your point?”

“Just noting a pattern. Wondering if it has something to do with Wallace. You’ve seemed . . . troubled.” In John’s tone Carl could hear the gentle offer of a listening ear.

After a long stretch of silence, Carl’s despair burst forth. “Do you think there are some things God can’t forgive you for, Sean?” He purposely used the Irish equivalent of ‘John,’ a reminder of the few times they’d shared confidences in the past.

Carl got no reply for a while. Finally, John spoke. “I’m not exactly the person t’ be askin’ this of, mate.” With relief, Carl noticed the increase of Irish in John’s voice, a sure sign he’d acquiesced to Carl’s unspoken plea, relaxing his habitual guard and loosening his tongue.

“When I was a child,” John continued, “I was told there was one Unforgivable Sin. Unfortunately, I never figured out what exactly that was – I just figured I’d probably committed it. I gave up prayin’ for forgiveness one winter when I was about eight. I would run through the streets in the mornin’, m’ breath coming out in puffs of white. In the windows I passed, I would see children with their mothers and fathers all snug in their kitchens, the tables laid out with their breakfasts. I would smell their fried eggs and rashers , and m’ mouth would water and m’ belly cry out. I would see them bow their heads and pray and the Sacred Heart of Jesus ablaze on their walls would bless them and they would scoop into their food. And I would run t’ the back of a shop where the bread van was parked and the driver was inside with the owner havin’ biscuits washed down with lashin’s of tea, and I’d nick me a loaf of steamin’ hot bread. And I would run t’ a street where quality lived hopin’ t’ find a delivery box with butter, or cheese, or, oh God, jam. I’d nick the whole thing. And I would run into the farmers’ fields and lay on m’ back under their cows and steal milk. And sometimes when feelin’ bold I would break into their root cellars and nick a cabbage and eat potatoes raw. I kept tellin’ m’self I’d go t’ a church and light a votive candle and make a confession. But I kept puttin’ it off and the sins kept pilin’ up and I finally figured God would have no use for a repeat offender who had no intention of reformin’ and starvin’ to death in the streets in a state of grace. I stopped worryin’ about such things.”

“But you’ve never killed anyone.”

John’s step fell out of sync with Carl’s, then resumed its rhythm. “No, I’ve never killed anyone.”

“I killed my father – ”

“Carl, you don’t have to tell me this – ”

Carl pressed on. “In some ways I wanted to be just like him – his buddies looked up to him. And he was so loving toward my mom and me during the day, but at night – ” Carl broke off as he felt the bile rising from his guts at the memories. He swallowed it back and continued, his voice becoming harsh as he lost the detachment he’d been striving for. “If my mother breathed wrong some evening, he’d beat her. When he’d come after me, my mom would try to shield me with her body. He’d pull her off me and start in on her. After he’d knocked her around until she couldn’t move any more, he’d often come after me anyway. When I got old enough, I stayed out of that house as much as I could, and when I got to be about eleven, I lived as much on the streets as I did in that house. I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle anything anymore. I felt nothing, for nobody. I started doing drugs, joined a gang, and started pulling stuff with them – petty stuff at first, but then I got into the heavy sh–– ” – Carl stopped himself from saying the obscenity, having adopted John’s more gentlemanly language – “stuff. One night – I was almost thirteen then – I came home about midnight to crash for a while. I’d had a real close call with a cop and thought I’d be safer there.

“Maybe an hour later, I heard things starting up in my parent’s bedroom – he was beating my mother again. And this time, I snapped. I charged in there, pulled him off my mother, and started beating him – I was already nearly six feet tall, bigger than him. My mom tried to stop it – she was trying to protect him, for God’s sake – and he hit her so hard she fell against the dresser and was knocked out cold. I thought he’d killed her. When he went at her again, I grabbed him, threw him against the wall, pulled out my knife, and stuck him. It must have gone through his heart. I’d killed him. I ran and I never looked back. And you know what? I’m not sorry I killed him.” Carl palmed his eyes, then dried his hands on his pants. John walked beside him in silence. “What I’m sorry for is never going back and seeing my mother.”

Carl knew John would never ask him what had happened next, so he continued the story on his own. He had to get this out. He had to get this all out. “I spent my days getting high and gang banging . One day a few of us decided to pull a burglary. One of the gang’s older sister was a call girl who’d gotten in with a rich dude and had a plan to burglarize his house while he was out. Well, none of us were too bright at the time, so we went for it. The night we chose for it to go down happened to be the same night this crew of professional burglars had chosen to do the same place. Not only did we mess up, we messed them up.

“The other gang bangers split and ended up getting caught. My one bright idea was to stick with the professionals, with this one old guy – he must’ve been in his thirties. I figured if he’d lived that long, he must know what he was doing. Turned out that ‘old guy’ was Wallace. I don’t know why, but he got me away, too. And then he didn’t just dump me – said I reminded him of himself at my age, though I find that a little hard to believe. He didn’t take me into his home then – I was too screwed up to fit in with his family – but he found me places to stay, tried to help me in every way he could. He told me if I worked at straightening myself out, he’d take me in and train me. Well, that took me another couple of years, and during that time he literally saved my life a couple of times when I’d OD’d, and got me out of some other serious scrapes. I think, I think on some level I was trying to kill myself with the drugs or get myself killed with the gang just to get out of my mess of a life. But with Wallace’s help I finally straightened myself out enough that he was willing to take me into his family, and – wouldn’t you know it? – his wife up and left him and took his daughter, too. I was sure that was my fault, even though he insisted it had nothing to do with me.

“Anyway, I finally got my act together with his help. Or at least, I thought so, though it got rough those years I thought he was dead. But then he came back, and I thought everything would be as it was before . . . but it’s not. Since he turned religious, Wallace and I have grown apart.” Agony welled up in Carl. “I feel like I’m losing him all over again. Not his fault, mine. I, I want him back. I want to share everything like we used to. I, I even want to help him with his Mission and help kids who are going through things like I went through.” Carl hid his desperation in a laugh. “I’ve, I’ve even fantasized I could find the peace he’s found through God. But how can that be mine? I’d, I’d have tell him about my father – I couldn’t hold that back from him any longer. But how, how can I tell him? How could Wallace, let alone God, accept me if he knew what I really am, what I really feel?” Carl again raised his hands to dry his eyes, and he choked back a sob.

He could sense, but not see, that John had turned to him. He felt a light touch on his arm, and then John’s handkerchief was pressed into his hand. “Wallace would forgive you, mate,” came the soft voice. “And with Wallace intercedin’ for you, how could God do otherwise?”

And he, Wallace’s prodigal surrogate son, had indeed been welcomed back into Wallace’s life, welcomed back with an intensity of love that had nearly overwhelmed him. He and Wallace had grown even closer, as close as seemed possible for two human beings. And then Wallace had been murdered.

Carl had loved deeply only three people in his life. His mother, for one, and he’d killed the man who beat her, the man who was ultimately responsible for removing her from Carl’s life. Noley, for another. And Wallace. Carl stared at the newspaper picture next to him on the seat of the taxicab, looking into the eyes of the man responsible for Wallace’s death, the man responsible for removing Wallace from Carl’s life forever.

The taxi pulled up at Grand and 60^th. Carl got out of the taxi and handed the driver a bill. “Keep the change.” He slammed the door shut and made his way to Main Street.

****

There he is.

As she spied Carl approaching the Mission from down the street, Laura hunkered down a bit in the car, more as an automatic response than out of need – she was too far away for Carl to make her. He was dressed down in jeans and a work shirt, a cap pulled low over his eyes, but Laura was sure it was him. He was built a lot like Steele, tall and slight of frame. The bums at the mouth of the alley, regular fixtures here at night, standing around a fire in a barrel and handing around a bottle in a paper bag, made no acknowledgment as he passed them to use the back entrance. Then again, they’d be so sloshed even at this early hour they wouldn’t recognize their own mothers.

She took one last look at the photos in her hand, put them in her purse, and closed it with a decisive snap. Time for some answers.

She got out of the car, went in the front door of the Mission, passed a few sleeping bodies lying across the metal chairs in the back, and stealthed her way to Wallace’s old office. The overhead light was shining through the translucent glass. She opened the door and strode in. “Hello, Carl. Jim’s not coming.”

He looked up in surprise. “Miss Holt.”

He was probably in his late twenties, a couple years younger than Steele, she guessed, fair-haired and brown-eyed. Like Steele, he could’ve graced the cover of any male fashion magazine.

She put her hands on his desk and leaned toward him. “Listen, I’ll come right to the point. Mr. Steele is in trouble, and I think you’re involved.”

Carl laughed softly, tapping the pencil in his right hand against the other palm. He leaned back in the chair and gazed up at her with an amused smile. “He said you were direct. . . . How is Remington?”

He spoke as if they were having a polite conversation, without any real concern for Steele’s well-being – not that she’d talked to him enough on the past security jobs to be certain she was interpreting him correctly. During those casual conversations, he’d been gentle in manner, somewhat formal, courteous. Again, he’d struck her as a lot like Steele, though with an American accent to Steele’s apparently British amalgam.

How to proceed? Test his sympathies, provoke him, get a reaction – for or against Steele. Risk lies. With Steele out on the streets, it was too late in the game to keep things at room temperature or simmering. It was time for full boil. Time to blow off the lid.

She stood tall. “I don’t know, Carl. Last night he was trying to break into the Raeders’ safes, trying to find evidence to prove he didn’t commit the thefts. An alarm inside one of them went off. An alarm he hadn’t installed. An alarm you installed.”

No reaction. No confirmation or denial. Just that amused smile and a quizzical raise of an eyebrow.

Turn up the heat. “The last I saw him, he was barreling down their driveway in one of their cars. After having just been viciously attacked by their dog. In case you haven’t been watching the news, the car was found. Abandoned. Covered in his blood. I don’t know how badly he’s hurt. I don’t know if he’s dying or already dead.” She hoped to God she was exaggerating.

She saw it then. Carl drew back slightly and averted his eyes. His smile disappeared. She leaned toward him over the desk. “I don’t know where he is. I can’t find him. I can’t find anything to clear his name and make it safe for him to show himself. Help me help him, Carl. He said you are his friend.”

Carl slowly sat up in his chair, looked down at the desk, then back up at her. “I’ve known Remington for several years, Miss Holt,” he said softly. “When we worked together, it was like working with my doppelgänger. I, however . . . saw the error of my ways. Wallace’s message of redemption worked a change in me. I gave up that life. I’ve been trying to do the right thing ever since. I’m trying to right a wrong.”

Appeal to that sense of justice or goad him to admit revenge. “Carl, if you’re blaming him for Wallace’s death – ”

“Ohhh,” – Carl leaned forward, emphasizing his words with the pencil, his voice turning hard – “because of him, Wallace, who meant more to me than anyone, was murdered.”

“He wasn’t responsible for that, Carl, he – ”

“Not responsible? He decided to play ‘Remington Steele.’” The pencil in his hands snapped in two.

“He would’ve never knowingly jeopardized Wallace’s life. You might as well blame me. I let him play ‘Remington Steele.’”

Carl looked at her a moment, then tossed the pencil halves onto the desk. He leaned back again in the chair. “You’re very good, Miss Holt. You almost convince me.” His voice was controlled again.

“Is it the ‘right thing’ to let a man pay for a crime he didn’t commit? Because you want to make him pay for another crime he also didn’t commit but you hold him responsible for?”

“Are you so sure he didn’t commit it?” He eyed her coolly.

She wouldn’t let him see her doubt. He’d prey on it. Full steam ahead. “You set him up. Admit it.”

“I admit nothing.”

Laura let out a breath in frustration and straightened. Time for another tack – exploit his relationship with Wallace and tie it to Steele. “You’re of the old school, aren’t you?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Something Mr. Steele said. He said he knew Wallace was innocent of the burglary in the Dillon case because Wallace was of the old school – he’d never betray a friend.” Actually, Steele had said Wallace would never rip off a fellow miscreant, but that wasn’t quite the effect she was going for. “Surely you’re of that old school, Wallace’s school, too.”

“I apologize, Miss Holt. I can’t help you.” His tone held no hint of apology – it’d returned to one of polite indifference.

All right, Holt. Light another fire. Look at your A-B-C triangle. Noley-Carl-Steele. Say something so B will get in touch with A, flush her out. “Would you at least tell me if any of these women are Wallace’s daughter” – she thrust the photographs from her purse at him, then fanned the photos out on his desk – “or if they’re not, if you know where Wallace’s daughter is?”

She’d seen his eyebrows lift in surprise when she’d mentioned Wallace’s daughter, and there had been a nearly imperceptible twitch when he’d glanced at the pictures out of reflex. So. Not as expert as Steele at controlling his body language – though Steele wasn’t as good at it around her as he used to be. She’d poked a few chinks in that armor over the past year, just not enough of them to help her with this case. So now she had to joust with his friend. Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell which photo Carl had reacted to.

Carl looked at her, his eyes steady. “I know nothing of Wallace’s daughter.”

Ah, you’ve made a mistake, Carl. Press on, Holt. “You’re lying. When the time was right, you renewed your old friendship with Mr. Steele so you could set him up. And he suspected nothing, grateful that you’d finally forgiven him for what you think is his role in Wallace’s death. You set him up from the start. You . . . and Wallace’s daughter.”

Carl stood up abruptly. “Please leave now, Miss Holt.”

A little rattled again. Shake him more. “You know, Carl, for what it’s worth, Wallace’s death hit Mr. Steele hard, too. I know. I was there at the morgue with him when he ID’d the body. I saw his reaction. And I saw his reaction afterwards, his regret for ever having involved Wallace, his vow to find Wallace’s murderer. That was the first time he ever directly involved himself in a case. And from then on, he continued to involve himself in cases.” Not that she’d always welcomed it, and not that his motives were always pure. “I think, in his own way, he’s also struggling to ‘do the right thing’ with his life. Hasn’t this gone far enough? Are you really willing to see him destroyed?” She searched his face, hoping for some sign she could break him.

But he’d composed himself again and gave no sign that her words mattered. He walked to the door and held it open for her to leave.

Could she play on his faith? “You know, Steve said you couldn’t be involved in this. He quoted the Bible.‘“Vengeance is Mine,” saith the Lord.’”

Still nothing.

Before she left, she turned to him one last time. “If you change your mind, give me a call. Anytime, night or day. Here’s my card, with my home number. I will find the truth. It’d be better for you if you cooperate.”

He took the card from her and tossed it in the wastepaper basket nearby.

****

Steele spotted the Rabbit. Was Laura after the same quarry? He waited in the shadows, and soon she came out of the Mission, alone. He saw her nod to one of the bums. She hailed a cab, leaving the Rabbit.

He looked back at the bum. He grinned. It had to be Murphy. Perhaps one day he’d get the chance to compliment Murphy on how well he fit into this milieu, but right now he was in the way. No time to lose – if Laura had found Carl in the Mission, he’d take off in a flash. Steele’s visit to his ‘old friend’ must be paid without delay.

Steele considered his options, fingering the case in the front pocket of his trousers, the case that became the handle for the rigid steel cutting blade of a razor. He looked again at Murphy.

Sorry, old boy. You and the alcos will have to spend a few hours in the nick .

****

TGIF, hah!

Laura sat at the kitchen table, pouring over her case notes, wishing she could drown her sorrows in a bowl of chocolate ice cream. The file was getting thicker. She had photos and sketches and diagrams galore – not only of the crime scenes around the display case and the pool, but of the entire interior and exterior of the mansion. She had all the police reports, all the lab reports, copies of all the film that had been shot at the crime scene by the police and the media. She had the notes of all the interviews with police officers, lab folks, and the guests and hired help at the party. She had records on credit history, employment, arrests, court appearances, financial activities, business dealings, property ownership, most recent places of residence, and so on. For Erich Raeder, Samuel Goldschmidt, the five caterers, Wallace’s crew, and so forth. And now she could start filling in the gaps for Carl, thanks to Coburn and his safecracking abilities. Noticeably lacking was detailed information for Lora Raeder. And Steele, of course. The two con artists. Nor could she turn up any information on Noley. She wished she could ask Steele if he knew where she’d gone to college. That, at least, would give a starting point, something she could use to help identify Noley as one of the women in the photographs. She hoped that tomorrow Coburn could help her there – she hadn’t been able to reach him tonight.

So much to do. . . . She had to investigate the mysteries of how the Braque painting had ended up in Steele’s possession, if it had, and of how the ruby had ended up in the washroom at LACMA. Raeder, Goldschmidt, Carl, Steele – any of them could have arranged those events. . . . So much to do. . . .

She’d never realized before this case how much she’d come to rely on Steele’s help – not with the paperwork, of course, but when it came to peoplework, he was invaluable. Never had she met anyone who was as nonjudgmental, who so easily fit in anywhere and could get along with anybody, if need be. Well, almost anybody. Murphy would probably always lie beyond his charms.

She rubbed her eyes. It was nearly midnight. She doubted she’d be able to sleep. Again. She prayed for Carl, wherever he was, to change his mind, to call.

That had sure been some damned rotten timing, tonight. Some ‘concerned citizen’ had complained about the bums on Main Street in front of the Mission, and Murphy had gotten picked up with the others. By the time she’d bailed him out, Carl had disappeared. She’d just told Murphy to go home, tomorrow was another day.

The phone behind her rang, nearly startling her out of her skin. She knocked the picture hanging next to it off the wall in her haste to answer it. “Yes?”

“The picture by your phone needs checking.”

“Wha – ?”

Click.

She picked up the picture, took it out of its frame, and examined everything carefully. She had no idea what that caller was talking about. She looked at the other ones hanging on the same wall, but further away, on the other side of the recess containing the water crock. She examined them in the same way. Still nothing. She sat at the table. What was the message? She looked at the pictures again: three close-up black-and-white art photos of a rabbit, a duck, and another rabbit. A rabbit. The photo next to the phone was one of the rabbits. Her rabbit needed checking. Her VW Rabbit.

She dashed out to the garage and searched the car. After she’d checked the obvious hiding places, she turned to the unobvious. There, amidst her car service records she found it: entries she hadn’t made, entries incorporating a code she’d taught Steele. But she couldn’t say for sure they were in his handwriting – he could forge anybody’s handwriting, who knew if he ever used his own? His ‘Remington Steele’ signature was identical to hers – focus, she needed to focus. She unraveled the new entries. They indicated an address and a time. She needed to leave now.

She got into the Rabbit and, after some fancy maneuvering, shook what she could only assume was a policeman tailing her. She reached a modest house at the indicated address and pulled into the garage. With her heart in her mouth, she went to the door and knocked. No one answered. She tried the doorknob. The house was unlocked. She pushed the door open and crept into the house.

She called out quietly, “Hello?”

A phone rang. She raced toward the sound and found herself in a dark bedroom. She flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. She snatched up the phone.

“Meet me,” came the soft, accented voice.

A thousand responses came to her mind and cancelled each other out.

“Laura? Are you there?”

“I’m here.” Her voice was equally quiet.

“Laura, I know who the thieves are.”

“Who?”

“Just . . . meet me. I know how to set a trap. But I can’t do it alone. Will you help me?”

She clenched the phone. “No! Not your way. Not this time. Turn yourself in. Tell me where you are. I’ll make sure the police take you safely. Tell me who the thieves are. We’ll build a case.”

Sounding apologetic, the voice said, “Laura . . . I’ve already set this plan in motion. Before my quarries escape. It’s on for tonight – ”

“If your plan fails, you’ll have ruined my life’s work!” She hit herself on the forehead. “What am I saying? You already have with your last little stunt.” She hoped he felt her words like a slap in the face. She didn’t care.

The silence stretched out.

The voice returned, still soft. “Laura, ‘Remington Steele’s’ reputation was already in tatters before that ‘last little stunt.’ I have a way to restore it. Please. Let me try. If I fail, you’re no worse off than before. If we succeed, ‘Remington Steele’ will have once again cleverly solved a most difficult case.”

You ask too much of me. “Why do you need me?”

The pause was so long she thought the phone had gone dead.

“A very good question. . . . I can find someone else to help me, or, if I must, do it alone. But it’s your agency. I thought you might like to be in on it. If my plan doesn’t work, you can easily make it appear you were just tracking me down and trapping me.”

“If it doesn’t work, or you’re lying to me, that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

“I never thought otherwise. . . . So . . . you’ll meet me?”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “I’ll listen to your plan. Where and when?”

She memorized the address.

“Murphy would come in useful, too, if you think he can be persuaded.” Just before hanging up, the voice added, “Oh, and Laura, bring the agency gun.”

Her mouth went dry. She didn’t like the sound of that – she had the distinct impression he didn’t like guns. She walked back out to her car, nervously rubbing her hands along the sides of her legs.

She took a deep breath and let it out. She needed to pay a midnight call on Murphy – she was sure they were going to have a ‘discussion’ over whether to follow Steele’s lead again or arrange for his capture. She started the car, noticing her hands were shaking.

****

He hadn’t bothered telling her if this didn’t work, it was unlikely she’d need to do much to track him down.

If this didn’t work, he’d likely be dead.

No use dwelling on that. Like a true carny, he’d calculated the risks. He still had some ‘shopping’ to do. And he had to work out what he’d do if Laura changed her mind and didn’t meet him, or didn’t go for it, or, worst of all, set a trap for him.

****

Steele adjusted the straps on his knapsack as he watched the gleaming black-and-silver Horch approach the entrance gate to the mansion. So far so good. Goldschmidt had come through for him – Raeder had been lured out of the mansion and was now making his return.

As the car slowed to turn into the driveway, Steele made his move from out of the shadows. The top to the car was down, as usual. He leapt onto the car, just behind Raeder’s seat, yelling "Stop!" at the driver and flashing his razor. He grabbed Raeder by the neck with his left hand, gritting his teeth against the pain. He had a feeling that dog bite had become infected – an unpleasant smell caught in his nostrils. With his right hand he held the blade of his razor at Raeder’s neck. “It’d be a shame to spoil this beautiful interior with your blood.”

The driver had slammed the car to a stop and fastened his eyes upon his employer, hands gripping the wheel in white-knuckled fear. Steele had been surprised Raeder never seemed to use one of his beefy security men as a driver. Maybe they wouldn’t even fit in the two-seater. Or, more likely, he was afraid the hulks would damage the car with their indelicate ways. This little man wouldn’t give him any trouble.

“Ahhhh, Mr. Steele. We meet again. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes, well, you may not think so when I’m through.” Steele had inspected the gate earlier. Changes had been made, and he’d guessed they were to prevent the type of escape he’d made before. “Tell your driver to open the gate, drive through, and stop again. And tell him not to try anything or I’ll slit your throat right here and now.”

“Why do you not tell him? I believe you can.”

Steele’s only response was to press the blade slightly into Raeder’s skin, just short of drawing blood.

Raeder spoke to the driver in German. Shaking, the man got out of the car and entered a combination onto the digital pad. The gate swung open.

When the driver returned to the car, Steele sat on the top of the cushion behind Raeder’s seat, his feet to each side of the powerfully-built man. He was a David straddling a Goliath, but fortunately, he had more than a slingshot. He hunched over, his left hand gripping Raeder’s throat just firmly enough to let him know he meant business, his right hand holding his now-closed razor at the man’s neck. “This flicks open easily, so if we’ll all remain calm, no one’ll get hurt.”

After they’d stopped, Steele snapped the razor open again. “Now tell him to leave the gate open just ever so slightly – so it’s not noticeable from the road.”

Steele kept a careful watch on the proceedings and was satisfied.

When the driver returned, Steele moved to the centre of the car and sat on top of both seats, his feet planted firmly on the white cushions below him. He kept one hand on the driver’s shoulder. The other, clenched in a fist holding the opened razor, was on Raeder. “Fahren Sie vorsichtig!”

The driver did as Steele asked, driving carefully towards the front entrance, which was illuminated by one small lamp.

“What are your intentions, Mr. Steele?”

“You’ll find out. Now be silent.”

They reached the circular turnabout and the point closest to the entrance.

"Halten Sie bitte hier!" Steele tightened his hand on the driver and quietly snicked the razor in his right hand closed.

The driver stopped and shut off the engine. With quick movements Steele turned and struck him on the head, turned back, and flicked the razor open. The driver had toppled over without a sound. Steele thought the poor bloke would probably decide it time for a change of occupation, since he was the same person Steele had accosted on his previous visit.

“Sit on your hands, palms up, and don’t move,” he ordered Raeder.

Steele climbed over the seat behind the driver and opened his door. Keeping the razor at ready in his right hand, he wrapped his left arm around the man, pulled him from the car, and eased him to the pavement. He went to Raeder’s side of the car and opened the door. Raeder got out and gave him the faintest of amused looks.

“You’ll tow your driver to the front door.”

Raeder shrugged, and Steele prodded him towards the driver with his blade. Raeder grabbed the man’s wrists and pulled him around towards the door. Steele followed, a pace back. When they reached the small step-up, Steele said sharply, “Lift his head up!”

“Your concern is so touching, Mr. Steele.”

Supercilious old – Steele clenched his jaw, biting back the retort. “Open the door.” He stuck the razor at Raeder’s ribs.

Raeder let go of his burden and turned towards the door. As Raeder reached for the keypad, Steele stopped his hand. Steele inspected the keypad; as best he could tell, no alterations had been made. He motioned for Raeder to continue. When the door opened, Steele gestured back at the driver. “Bring him in.”

Once inside, keeping Raeder close, Steele disarmed the alarm system. He ripped both the telephone cord and the alarm command console cord from the wall. “Now bring him into the library.”

As they entered the library, Steele flicked on the chandelier. “Pull him to the back.”

Raeder’s biggest concern in life at the moment seemed to be that he not wrinkle the floral motiffed antique rug that covered the entire floor.

Steele tossed the cords to Raeder. “Secure your driver. Use your handkerchief to gag him.”

Raeder fixed him with a level stare.

Steele slowly tapped the razor on his palm.“You don’t want to make me say it twice.”

“You sound so common, Mr. Steele.”

Steele didn’t deign to reply. Raeder bent down to the driver and secured him. Steele tested the bindings. Keeping an eye on Raeder, Steele went to the roll-top desk, opened it, and pressed the button that would give him access to Raeder’s safe. He shrugged off the knapsack, removed a few items, and placed everything on the desk. He motioned with the razor for Raeder to come towards him. Raeder complied, but he’d lost none of his arrogant demeanor and continued to regard Steele coolly.

“Turn around.” Steele pushed Raeder over to the safe. He pulled over one of the tapestried chairs and placed it to the left of and facing the safe, far enough away so he’d feel free to work, yet close enough to be in easy reach should Raeder try anything. “Sit.” He shoved Raeder into the chair. “How is the safe’s new internal alarm hooked up to the monitoring station?”

“Why should I tell you?”

Steele lunged and gripped the man’s throat, again gritting his teeth against the pain in his hand. Bringing the blade to Raeder’s carotid artery, he whispered harshly, “Because if you don’t, I will cut you. It will be a slow, painful death, I assure you. And I will get into your safe anyway.” Steele loosened his grip slightly.

“What do you want?”

Steele let him go and stepped back. “I’m only here on a brief shopping trip. A few easily gained, easily exchangeable baubles to finance my journey to friendlier climes.”

“Please do indulge my curiosity. Why have you not left before now?”

Steele shrugged. “I’d hoped I didn’t have to. I was wrong.”

“You are wrong again. You will be caught.”

“No.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

Steele whirled at the new voice to see Lora Raeder at the library door, the gun in her hands pointed at him – no doubt the gun shown to him in the armoury, the FN Browning with the Nazi proof mark, an eagle with a swastika in its talons.

She looked at him with superior eyes. “Drop your knife, Remington.” He dropped it. “Put your hands on top of your head, fingers interlaced.” That was surprisingly difficult. His left arm ached from armpit to hand. “Kick your knife to the side, toward Erich.” He did so.

Lora sauntered towards him, stopping about a foot away. Erich picked up the razor and slashed at Steele’s face. Steele jerked back, the blade missing by millimetres. Lora laughed, while Raeder, as usual, betrayed no emotion.

Raeder waved the blade calculatingly, then closed it and pocketed the razor. “Not yet, I do not think.”

Steele looked at Ms. Raeder. “No. After all, a cat likes to play with her prey after stalking and capturing it. Isn’t that right, Lona?”

She laughed as if truly amused.

“‘Lona’?” Raeder glanced at his wife.

“It means ‘lioness, ready for battle.’ It’s an acronym of ‘Nola,’ my given name. Something John Robie used to call me when I was a child of twelve. He didn’t take much notice of me then. He’ll notice me now.”

Ah, yes. ‘John Robie,’ the name Wallace and little Noley, his daughter, had known him by – and also the name of a character played by Cary Grant. “John Robie. ‘To Catch a Thief.’ Grace Kelly, Cary Grant. Vista Vision. 1955. The title comes from an old English proverb, ‘Set a thief to catch a thief.’ A supposedly reformed cat burglar sets out to prove himself innocent of a recent crime spree by catching the thief who's terrifying the French Riviera. He teams up with a rich, young American woman, and as they track down the thief, they fall in love.”

“Too bad real life doesn’t play like the movies.”

“Isn’t it,” Steele agreed mildly. “I must admit, I didn’t expect to see you tonight. Carl was supposed to – ”

“Suffer remorse? Come running to the aid of his old friend when things got hotter than he expected? Keep me out of the way while you pulled your little stunt with Erich and robbed us, and then the two of you flee? We met and had a good laugh over that.”

She stepped forward and stroked his cheek with one hand, while pressing the gun firmly into his chest with the other. “Did you know your little associate went to see him, too? She must be quite fond of you. She gave quite an impassioned speech on your behalf. Carl acted it out with such flair. Pity she doesn’t know you’re not worth it. Here you are, betraying her trust. A common thief, hoping to buy his way out of the country at our expense.” She clucked her tongue at him while pursing her lips in imitation of a kiss.

He should’ve recognized those eyes long before this moment. She was no longer a child and, obvious to him now, had been under the plastic surgeon’s scalpel, but he should’ve recognized those eyes. Contact lenses had even altered their colour, but the cruel cunning that lay behind them still shone forth undisguised. He should’ve seen it.

“No, ‘Remington,’” – her voice dripped with irony – “Carl called me after you left him tonight. At first, I was quite angry with him for just not staying out of the country until we were through with you. But he wants his life back now.”

She traced a line back and forth on his chest with the gun. “In the end, that’s what’s important to him. And you stand in the way. He told me your plans. You’ve been set up again. We finish this tonight in a spectacular way. We deliver the killing bite.”

Raeder stepped towards him, and Lona handed the gun to her husband. They were both mere inches away, Raeder on his right, Lona on his left. Raeder held the gun unwaveringly on him. Lona slowly ran her left hand up and down his turtleneck while her right hand fingered the ruby, once again worn around her neck. Her actions brought to mind the party. This woman was like a ruby. He’d certainly found out how this one felt about him. Too late.

“Carl and I were lovers, did you know? Love will always triumph over mere friendship, ‘Remington.’”

Best not to express his doubts that she knew the meaning of either word.

She stroked his cheek, then strolled over to the lady’s writing table and from one of the compartments pulled out a pair of red plastic handcuffs. Dangling them from a hand, eyes ranging up and down his body, she swayed her way back to him.

He refrained from biting his lip. “Not standard police issue.” But not toys, either.

She laughed lasciviously, slowly licked his jawline from chin to ear, then whispered, “I like my men shackled.”

God. He hoped she didn’t mean those poor old men she’d swindled. He kept himself under tight control, directing his eyes to Raeder. “Odd. He doesn’t seem the type.”

If he’d hoped for a reaction, he didn’t get one – Raeder continued to regard him dispassionately. An old memory came to Steele’s mind. He’d glanced out the window and seen Lona, something in her little hands. She’d gently thrown up her hands, setting free a small bird she’d evidently captured. The bird had exploded. She’d tied a banger to its leg and lit it. She’d stood there, simply watching it explode, her expression never changing.

Evidently she’d found a like-minded companion.

She laughed. “Not Erich, my sweet. I find those diversions elsewhere.”

“I thought you had this little prenuptial clause that precluded such activities.”

“Oh, that. Part of the preliminaries, my pet. Just a little something to throw off the scent, lay rumors. I could never be bound by something like that. We” – she gave her husband an amused smile – “get so much more . . . satisfaction . . . from men than we ever could from mere wealth.” She emphasized her words by cupping Steele’s face with her left hand, running her thumb over his lips, and kissing him.

He didn’t respond. She licked him again, began to slide her hand down his body –

He recoiled, started to release his hands, but stopped at the sound of the gun hammer being pulled back and the feel of the gun at his temple. He closed his eyes. He forced himself to remain impassive, though he couldn’t help tensing.

A bead of cold sweat wended its way slowly down the middle of his back.

The gun was removed from his head. He breathed again.

“Before we continue our pleasantries, mein Schatz, put the handcuffs on him.”

“I’d be delighted, my love.” Her tongue moved slowly over her ruby-red lips. She moved behind him. “Give me your right arm and keep your left where it is. Slowly, my darling. Erich can be trigger happy, and I’m not ready to finish the fun just quite yet.”

She locked the cuff on him, cinching it tightly. Too tightly.

“Now for your left arm . . . . ”

He gasped as she pulled it around to his back.

“Oh, did that hurt? Wolfie got you good there, didn’t he? He’s such a good dog.”

There was nothing he could do. The plastic cuffs looked flimsy, but they bit painfully into his wrists. Well, on the bright side, his fingers would soon go numb. Too bad he couldn’t say the same for his entire left arm.

Lona moved around in front of him again and patted Raeder’s arm. “Care to add this one to your collection? He’s so pretty. So lean, so tall. We could even make it a threesome – ”

Oh, God –

“I am afraid, my love, we might find that a little difficult to explain to the police. I am sure his associates will insist on an autopsy. You see, ” – he addressed Steele – “the police will come here to find the body of a thief. ‘The Formerly Great Remington Steele.’ We came upon him, he turned to attack us, and in our terror we shot him and, unfortunately, killed him.”

“You might have a bit of trouble convincing them of the ‘terror’ part,” Steele commented drily.

Lona stroked Steele’s face, then nuzzled his neck and nibbled his ear, finishing with a sharp bite – not enough to break the skin – causing him to wince. “We could let him run. Set Wolfie upon him. Accidentally whisper the ‘kill’ command.” She moved a step away from him.

“That would be most amusing to watch,” Raeder agreed. “But then the dog would have to be destroyed. A waste.”

Steele looked at Lona. “All this on account of your fa – ”

He staggered, ears ringing, eyes tearing, then registered the slap. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. What a wallop. That would leave a mark. The salty, metallic taste of blood was in his mouth. He shook his head again. He felt slightly dizzy. Curiously, he was also feeling a bit hot, yet chilled at the same time.

“My father didn’t deserve to die.”

“No. He didn’t.”

“You’re responsible for his death.”

“Lona. Your father was my friend. Had I thought there was any danger involved, I would’ve never asked for his help. I’m truly sorry he died as a result.”

“You think your regret makes up for his death? No, ‘Remington.’ I want you to pay much more dearly for it.”

She walked a few steps away before turning to face him. “Actually, I would’ve preferred to see your reputation as ‘The Great Remington Steele’ destroyed and have you rot in prison. Prison would be worse for you than death, don’t you agree? You’ve a great need for freedom. But you’ve forced my hand.”

Steele turned his head towards Raeder. “How’d you get pulled into this? Corporate raiding not exciting enough? Stealing artwork got a bit dry?”

The pale grey-blue eyes regarded Steele as if he were a mildly interesting bacterium in a petri dish. “You and I have shared some common interests in paintings in the past, Mr. Steele. A Matisse, a few Monets, Renoir, Picasso, Cézanne. I could name more.”

Steele’s mouth went dry at the implication. So, unbeknownst to him, he had crossed paths with Raeder in the past: Raeder either owned or trafficked in some of the art plundered by the Nazis that he had recovered for their rightful owners. He’d probably cost Raeder millions, maybe hundreds of millions. With a fearlessness he did not feel, he told Raeder, “I’m currently interested in a Monet. A beautiful Monet I found in your collection. ‘Water Lilies, 1904.’ Part of a collection amassed for the Nazi Foreign Minister, if I’m not mistaken.”

Raeder’s eyes narrowed slightly, the tiniest of reactions. “I see I underestimated your talents, Mr. Steele.”

“Yes.” Steele glanced at Lona, then directed his attention back to Raeder. “As have I, evidently, underestimated the wrath of . . . Die Loralei.”

Raeder nodded in acknowledgment. “Loralei. My kindred spirit, a predator, a conqueror. She excels in using a man’s weaknesses against him and leading him to his ruin, does she not? When she asked if I would be interested in destroying a man in a most personal way, I was intrigued, and when I found out who that man was, I decided it would be a worthy endeavour. A change from cold business. I have found it very fulfilling. A new role for me to play. An angel of retribution.” Raeder nodded towards his wife. “And an angel of vengeance for Loralei’s father.”

Steele looked at Lona, who’d come towards him again. “I don’t think your father would feel he needs avenging. And I don’t think it’s your motivation at all. I think your father’s death just brought me to your doorstep, put you in mind of a whole new way to unsheathe your claws – ”

His words earned him another hard blow to the face.

Lona’s eyes narrowed in contempt. “You made it so easy. Hire the illustrious Remington Steele Agency for the security job, insist you handle it personally and know every intimate detail.” She laughed scornfully. “No arm twisting there. You were like a kid in a candy store. Or should I say, like a thief given the key to Fort Knox. As I knew you would be, of course. Part of the fun was seeing if you’d succumb – ”

“Ah, yes. You threw in all the enticements you could. And such attention to detail. Down to the promise of a movie at the party. Though I assure you, I needed no further inducement to attend.” He dipped his head, conceding she had adroitly manoeuvred him. Smiling at him in disdainful triumph, she pressed herself to him again, her right hand on his shoulder, her left running back and forth across his chest. He tried to pull back, but there was nowhere to go. “The night of the party. You put the ruby down your dress?”

“Not original, but it worked.”

“And the mosaic?”

Raeder answered that one. “Yes, that was a nice touch – was it not? – given your fondness for royal lavulite. It was removed earlier in the day. My men had a most difficult time circumventing your security around that display – I had to call in the best. It took them days – or rather, nights – to unravel its secrets. You are most ingenious. I salute you.”

“Not ingenious enough, apparently. . . . I’m surprised, though. You took great care in your preparations, yet you risked having someone climb to the balcony to open the door. Your plan could’ve been ruined before it really got started, if he’d been spotted.”

“No one climbed to the balcony.”

“But . . . the door was unlocked. The alarm went off – ” He almost groaned. “Ahhh, I see. . . . The signal from that door wasn’t originally sent to the monitoring system with the others, was it? Once we’d installed the sensors, your men were responsible for going around and opening and closing all the windows and doors to send their signals to the system.”

“So many windows and doors in the mansion. I thought I would let my men relieve your most excellent crew of that menial task.”

“So they never opened that door. It was left out of the system. You merely unlocked it earlier that day. No one would be the wiser. It wasn’t until I opened and closed it to check for an intruder that it was added to the system. No one would know it hadn’t been connected to it before.”

“Very good, Mr. Steele.”

Steele shook his head. “Hoist by my own petard.” He couldn’t help adding the annotation. “‘Hamlet.’ Lawrence Olivier, Jean Simmons. Two Cities Films. 1948. . . . And as for the alarm . . . ” – he nodded slightly as the answer to that also became clear – “one of the guards hit the panic button on the command console after another had cut the power. The alarm was triggered by the battery back-up.”

“Ah, Mr. Steele. You make quite the detective.”

He knew Raeder was ridiculing him, but he replied sincerely, “I’ve been taught by the best. . . . What if I hadn’t gone to investigate the alarm?”

Lona drew back slightly and looked at him in mock disbelief. “‘The Great Remington Steele’? ” Her lip twisted into a sneer. “Besides, fool, it was only a game. We’d have changed the rules and started a new one.”

He knew that jeering tone. Omadhaun. It’s only a game. But this gamester here intends to watch you burn.

“It is a pity you will not live long enough to pursue your leads and clear the name of ‘Remington Steele.’”

“My associates have a vested interest in that name, Mr. Raeder. I’m sure they’ll continue this matter. They’re very good at their jobs. They’ll uncover the truth. Eventually, someone in your employ will talk.”

“Do not count on it.”

Lona laughed and walked her fingers up Steele’s chest. “Erich’s pockets are very deep. They hold many loyal men, of many talents.”

“Yes, I can see that. Including men who can steal evidence from forensics labs, obtain Braque paintings, and plant rubies in lavatories.”

“Yes. Men who know the value of silence.” Something changed in Raeder’s eyes, and he closed the distance to Steele. “And, Mr. Steele, they dare not cross me. My reach is very long. I can make men disappear. Your friend Carl understands that very well. Even had this robbery succeeded, you never would have escaped me.”

Raeder put the gun to Steele’s temple, then traced it over his cheek, his lips, and plunged it deep into his mouth, mashing his lip to his teeth, forcing his head back. Cold words, neutral tone, hot breath commingled as Raeder whispered in his ear, “And now, Mr. Steele, the lord and lady await the presentation of your corpse. Unlike the unicorn, however, you won’t magically return to life.”

Steele closed his eyes. Damn! His heart slammed in his chest. The gun, the taste of the metal, nearly gagged him. A wisp of despair taunted him – he needed to speak! His voice was his brush, used to paint his own designs on the canvas of others’ minds. He felt Lona’s hand trail down his chest. Lona. The little girl who’d relished telling him lurid ghost stories, zeroing in on his discomfort with that unerring ability a bully possessed. He was Lona’s captured unicorn. The unicorn had been immobilized by skewering spears. The one through its throat would have cut off its cries. He never could understand the story of those tapestries. No one really knew exactly what they meant. What had the unicorn done to be hunted down in such vicious sport? The unicorn was innocent. He wasn’t innocent. He was no unicorn, no embodiment of virtue, courage, righteousness, true and fine. Remington Steele was. He felt Raeder press against him and kiss him on the cheek. The old British nursery rhyme came to his mind, ‘The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the crown. The Lion beat the Unicorn all around the town.’ If only he could speak. Lions and Unicorns and Steele, oh my. The name is Steele, Remington Steele. He’d always gotten completely absorbed in the roles he’d played. That’s what had made him so good. Not only at the confidence game, but at the legitimate – well, more legitimate – roles he’d played in his life. That and his silver tongue. He wished he could speak. He felt Lona’s hand trail down his belly. He’d always soon moved on to the next adventure, though. He hadn’t found the role he’d wanted to live. None of those people were him. But he’d been finding more and more that he couldn’t tell where Remington Steele left off and he began. He laughed silently, hollowly. Laura could tell him. She sometimes did. Still, he was good at this. Even Laura had told him that, once. Laura. She’d held him here as much as Remington Steele had, if not more. Ah, Laura. I’m so sorry our time together wasn’t longer. Got it while I could. Enjoyed it while it lasted. Too soon! someone’s taken it away. He laughed again, silently, mirthlessly. Ironic it should be this role, his heroic role, that was proving to be his undoing. If only he could speak. White-hot fury filled him as hands on his shoulders forced him to his knees, the gun held in place the entire time. He opened his eyes, looked up into Lona’s. He expected to see hatred there, but all he saw were the cold eyes of a cat, intent on the kill. Lona stepped back. Raeder yanked the gun from his mouth and he couldn’t help the convulsive breath that escaped him. How would his world end? A whimper and a bang. He saw Raeder move back, start to crouch down to get the correct angle for the entry wound. He heard a crack like gunfire as he threw himself to the left, into the cavernous fireplace, out of Raeder’s sights, and hit the handle to the false flue with his shoulder. He rammed his body into the false wall at the back of the fireplace, which, released by the flue handle, gave way. Thank God for Prohibition and Raeder’s suspect activities. His momentum caused him to tumble down the now-revealed flight of stairs. He ended up an undignified heap on the floor. Sweet music came to his ears: he heard Laura’s voice boom out from above him, from up in the library, “Stop right there! Drop your gun! Move away from the fireplace!”

The calvary had finally come over the hill. ‘Stagecoach.’ Claire Trevor, John Wayne. United Artists. 1939.

He was surrounded by blackness. He considered the merits of getting up and going into the tunnels – he could thus leave the mansion and put in a triumphant ‘Remington Steele’ appearance back in the library. He rolled from his stomach to his side but stopped further movement, his body voting in favour of staying put a moment longer. He rested his head back on the floor, curled up a little, let himself go limp, closed his eyes, and gave in to the moment. Sometimes the life of Remington Steele wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He was hurting, he was tired, he had a headache, he was cold, and he just might throw up –

A dim light came on overhead. He heard footsteps on the stairs that could’ve only been Laura’s. Still not feeling much like moving, he gasped out his complaint. “Couldn’t you’ve made your appearance a bit sooner?”

“We went in as soon as there were a few seconds of silence.”

Odd. It’d seemed much longer than that. He felt her kneel beside him. He tried to twist around, wanting to look into those chocolate brown eyes, but she pushed his shoulder down, evidently to get better access to his cuffs, and he had to make do without the sight a little longer. “Might as well save the police the trouble and leave them on, eh?” he attempted to joke. He got no reply. In fact, she seemed to be a little rough back there. Not that he could really tell – he couldn’t feel his hands. What was her problem? He sighed. At this point, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’ Rhett Butler to Scarlet O’Hara. ‘Gone With the Wind.’ Clark Gable, Vivien Leigh . . . oh, give it a rest, mate.

After she’d gotten the cuffs off, he sighed again, with relief. Laura went back up the stairs. He rolled over onto his back and looked at what should’ve been his hands. They were an interesting reddish-purple and belonged to a stranger. After he slapped some hot prickly feeling into them and they cooperated, he grabbed onto the bottom stair and hauled himself upright. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. He got up and unsteadily made his way to the top of the stairs. He breathed in deeply, exhaled, straightened his clothes, smoothed his hair, squared his shoulders, then crouched down and crawled out of the fireplace with as much dignity as he could muster.

Murphy was holding the agency gun on the Raeders. The sight of the gun caused Steele to replay the last few moments before he’d gone arse over kick down the stairs; he finally registered that the shattering ‘gunshot’ he’d heard had actually been the sound of the dining room door being flung open as Murphy and Laura had dashed into the library.

Steele looked at Laura. She was removing the bug he’d hidden on the desk when he’d taken off his knapsack. Presumably, she’d gotten the entire conversation on tape. She went out into the hall but immediately returned, a disgusted look on her face. She addressed him: “You pulled out the phone line.”

“Oh. Sorry,” – Steele nodded towards the driver who still lay unconscious on the floor – “needed it for him. There’s a phone in the kitchen.”

She shook her head at him and strode out of the room again.

Ohdeargod. “The driver!” He rushed over to free the man and see if he could pat him awake.

****

Laura hung up the phone and stalked back into the library, seeking her target. The Raeders were seated in their tapestried chairs in the center of the room, Murphy guarding them. The driver was propped up in a chair in the far corner, cringing away from the group, holding his head in his hands. Steele stood leaning against the mantelpiece, head bowed, cradling his left arm. She strode over to him. He straightened up, eyeing her warily.

She poked him hard in the chest with both index fingers. “Don’t you ever do this again.”

He frowned. “Do . . . what again?”

“Don’t hold back information from me that has even the remotest bearing on a case. You knew who Goldschmidt was – ”

“I told you – ”

She poked him again. “Not when I first mentioned his name. Not until I practically forced you to. You knew all along about the Monet – don’t deny it – and you didn’t bother telling me until tonight. I shudder to think why – ”

“I – ”

“You held back about Carl. Even when I pressed you on your relationship, you never told me about what’d happened between the two of you after Wallace’s death – ”

“I didn’t think it – ”

Another poke. “You didn’t want to think it. It turned out to be very relevant to the case, didn’t it?” She didn’t wait for even a syllable. She was just warming up. “And tonight. Tonight. This was the worst! You got Carl to help you, didn’t you? You got Carl to call Lora-Lona-Nola whatever-the-hell her name is and tip her off to your coming here, so you could get her confession too. That wasn’t part of our deal. You didn’t play this out like you said you were going to. No-o-o-o-o, you decided to go for broke and leave me and Murphy in the dark. This could’ve been a disaster. She could’ve caught Murphy and me sneaking in. Or when she came in, she could’ve just shot you dead with no questions asked – ”

“I knew she’d – ”

“Don’t feed me bits and pieces! We can’t operate this way. If we’re going to be a team, let’s be a team. We’re a team, dammit.” She emphasized her last statement by poking him in the chest again, even harder. As Steele lost his balance, she grabbed his right arm to steady him.

She couldn’t let go. She stood there, transfixed. She stared at the black cotton material of his sleeve. She could feel the warmth of life coming through it – too warm? – the sinewy contours of the biceps muscle beneath it, the pulse that beat reassuringly under her thumb – too fast? They stood there like that for what seemed like a long, long time. Finally, she lifted her eyes to his.

Steele seemed to be searching her face for something. Finally, he smiled. “Raeder was wrong. Like the unicorn, I have been reborn.”

What on earth was he talking about? She tried to regain her anger, but after a few moments more of gazing into those eyes, prompted by his raising his eyebrows, she shook her head and smiled in mock exasperation – she’d have to finish his chastisement another time.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Murphy turn away.

Her smile faded – in the background she could hear the wail of sirens.

She started to say something but stopped, taking a good look at Steele – she’d been too angry before. And she hadn’t gotten a look at him a couple of hours ago, either, when he was outlining his plan to expose Noley’s plot against him – well, what had been his version of his plan at the time. She’d started to raise her flashlight toward him; gently, but firmly, he’d pushed it back down. She had noticed he was limping slightly. Now she could see that his face, seen only in right profile and white as paper when she’d unlocked his cuffs, was flushed, with a good-sized reddish mark on the left cheek. She flushed herself, ashamed she’d left him crumpled at the bottom of the stairs. She reached her hand up but stopped as he flinched. Well, with all those pokings, what could she expect? She continued the movement and felt his forehead. “You have a fever.”

He blinked at her as if it were just registering. “Yes, I believe I do.”

She lowered her hand and gently turned his jaw slightly up and to the side. The dog bite wasn’t large, but it was inflamed, with a slight discharge. She looked up at him. He stood quietly in her grasp, eyes closed. She looked down to see he was again lightly holding his left arm in his right. He opened his eyes as she moved her hand from his jaw, wincing as she felt his forearm. She could tell it was swollen, and she caught the foul smell. “Your arm is infected.”

“Mmm. Playing doctor again, Miss Holt?”

Playing doctor. The case where she’d played a doctor at a sleep clinic and he her patient. He’d ended up with a real case of insomnia. She’d thought he’d looked weary then. It was nothing compared to how he looked now. Dead tired. A nearly accurate description. She choked back the sound that almost escaped her as her professionalism slipped, finally registering what she’d seen when she’d come through that door, how close he’d come to being executed right in front of her –

Not now, Holt.

She saw the slight smile on his face disappear, and his eyes fixed onto the library door. She heard the yowls and screeches of police cars coming up the drive. She saw Steele tense, and for a brief moment, she thought he might run, but then he directed his eyes to hers, and his posture relaxed.

Steele turned and looked straight at Raeder. He then reached behind himself to the silver candelabra on the wall and twisted the base of one of the spirally fluted branches.

Outside, sirens clamored raucously. Inside, silence reigned as a panel on the wall opposite the fireplace slid noiselessly aside, revealing a nearly three-foot by three-foot painting.

Raeder stood and turned to stare at Steele.

Murphy shifted warily, gun ready.

Laura looked at Steele. His attention was riveted on Raeder. She looked at Raeder, who was his usual expressionless self. Then, he smiled. Smiled with cold teeth.

“Auf Wiedersehen, Mr. Steele.”

Laura glanced at the Monet. She looked back at Steele. This time his was the face without emotion.

Sounds of the police rushing through the front entrance reached her ears.

“You’d best step away, Miss Holt.” Steele moved away from the wall.

“Keep your hands in full view.” She moved a protective few paces in front of him, but a bit to the side, so the police could clearly see him.

The officers barreled in, guns drawn. There must’ve been a dozen of them. They split into groups. Three of them surrounded Steele as the fourth, Jenkins, quickly patted him down. Steele yelped as Jenkins grabbed his arm to cuff him.

“Be careful! He’s injured! His arm!”

Murphy restrained her own arm and whispered warningly, “Laura!”

The officer in charge, a Lieutenant McCoun, inspected Steele while other officers kept their grip on him. “It’s not serious. Cuff him behind his back.”

Laura shook Murphy off and again started to protest.

McCoun turned toward her. “Ma’am, that’s the procedure. He’ll be taken to UCLA for treatment.”

“But he’ll have to ride sitting back against his arm!”

McCoun scowled. Sighing, he turned back to his men. “All right. Cuff him in front. Use the waist chain.”

Steele threw Laura a look of ‘Thanks, I think’ as the familiar litany began: “You have the right to remain silent. . . .” Jenkins performed a more thorough search of his person, the ‘search incident to arrest,’ looking like he was having a hard time holding back a gloat.

By this time the other officers in the room had finished the usual arrest procedure with the Raeders, and they’d been taken away. The driver was being looked after by paramedics.

When the officers had finished with Steele, he announced grandly, “The painting on that wall” – he gestured with his head – “is Monet’s ‘Water Lilies, 1904.’”

As the officers started muttering and hustling Steele out, Laura had the uncharitable thought that they probably wouldn’t know a Monet from a Mexican velvet painting.

Steele dug his heels in. “Wait! It’s stolen. It’s worth twelve million dollars.”

The officers stopped.

“And the Walter Scott novels in the bookcase. I believe they’re some of the ones stolen from the study of Tsar Alexander I.”

If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Laura would’ve snickered as she saw Steele trying to hold back his renewed dismay with their lack of appreciation for his discourse.

“They’re valuable. And I believe there’s more stolen artwork on the premises. I suggest you make sure you get it before Mr. Raeder has a chance to arrange for its removal. Of course, I can show you where it is. . . . ” Steele added hopefully.

The officers were looking uncertainly at McCoun, who eyed Steele speculatively. “We’ll secure the premises, make sure nothing gets taken out. But we’ll do this right, get a search warrant. I’m sure Detective Chritz will want to talk to you.”

“Detective Chritz?”

McCoun turned to Laura. “Investigator for LAPD’s Art Theft detail, ma’am. Buddy o’ mine.” He nodded at his men. Steele, finally, offered no resistance as they hustled him to a squad car.

****

Once again, John Ritt was alone in the National Art Library. He placed the forged Ohana catalogue in the stacks.

****

       TO PART 5                                              HOME                                    E-MAIL

http://webpages.charter.net/drpeg/cspart4.htm

Original content copyrighted by Margaret Daniels 2004

WGA Registration Number 1022262