PART 5

****

Laura checked her watch. 5:30 p.m. “I wish he’d wake up. We only get a half-hour to see him.” Medicinal smells, disinfectant smells, assaulted her.

“Well, they’ve been questioning him since three this morning. He’s probably zonked.” Murphy slouched in the chair next to hers, going through Steele’s medical charts. “On top of that he’s got a fever of over 102.”

“I thought he was babbling at UCLA.” She laughed quietly, sadly, looking over at the figure in the bed. While at the UCLA Medical Center, Steele had undergone not only medical treatment for his injuries but also a prebooking inspection and interview by the police. She’d tried to hover as close as she could, and as they’d readied him for transfer to the Medical Center at the L.A. County Jail, she’d overheard him recounting seemingly every single jail movie he’d ever seen. He’d ranged from ‘Birdman of Alcatraz’ to ‘Stir Crazy.’ On the way, he’d made a stop for an oration on ‘One of the last great men-in-chains films, “Cool-Hand Luke.” A man refuses to conform to life on a prison farm, to compromise with authority . . . .’ – she hadn’t thought him very circumspect, given his audience. He’d then taken a detour through ‘Of course one of Newman’s greatest films is “The Sting.” Two gentlemen set out to fleece a racketeer in 1930's Chicago, pitting brain against brawn and pistol. . . .’

“Anything else on the chart?”

Murphy replaced the clipboard at the foot of the bed. “They took cultures. No results back yet. He’ll be on intravenous antibiotics four times a day. The wound on his arm has to be kept elevated and immobilized for five days.”

She looked over at the bed’s occupant. “I wish he’d wake up.” Still, she spoke softly. He did need his sleep. But . . . she wished he’d wake up.

“When’s the next time we can see him?”

She almost smiled: Murphy, asking when he could see Steele. “Monday. If he’s still here. Visiting hours are Saturdays and Mondays, 10:30 - 3:30 and 5:30 - 6:45. But . . . inmates” – how she hated using that word for him – “only get two thirty-minute visits per week, at most two visitors at a time.”

“What’d Detective Chritz have to say?”

“You’re not going to believe what Mr. Steele directed him to.” She showed him the notes she’d taken during her conversation with Chritz an hour ago:

1.‘Water Lilies, 1904.’ Monet. Taken from French art dealer Paul Rosenberg, whose gallery represented major masters of the School of Paris. The painting was part of a collection amassed for Nazi Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop in 1941.

Estimated worth: $11-14 million.

2.Walter Scott novels, stolen by Hitler’s army from the study of Tsar Alexander I in the Yekaterinsky Palace.

Worth: ?

3.‘Portrait of Christ.’ Jacopo de Barbari. Originally stolen from Schwarzburg Castle in Germany, allegedly by American soldiers who were part of a unit ordered to guard the castle. Hundreds of works of art from the Weimar city museum had been sent there for safekeeping during the Allied bombing of Germany.

Estimated worth: $2.8 million.

4.A Dürer drawing is also suspected to be a stolen item, but this has not yet been verified. Since, however, it was well hidden, it’s a good bet it is.

Estimated worth if authenticated: $5.6 million.

5.Not yet recovered: the amber-and-royal lavulite mosaic. Mr. Steele believes it was originally stolen by Nazi troops from the famed eighteenth century “Amber Room” of Peter the Great’s Yekaterinsky Palace.

Murphy gave a low whistle after reading the list.

“The recovery fees are going to be a couple million dollars.” Laura shook her head in amazement.

Murphy raised his voice. “He’s not getting them, is he?” Murphy glanced around and then, straining with the effort, lowered his voice. “I mean, even if he didn’t steal the other stuff, still, he didn’t tell us about this stuff. He was probably going to steal them from Raeder and get his recovery fee. Just like he was going to do with the royal lavulite,” – his voice rose again – “if we can believe that story, that is.”

Laura shushed him and started to speak, but stopped, held her breath.

The figure on the bed was stirring. “Check out the ventilation system,” he mumbled. “‘Dr. No’ . . . .” His voice trailed off without completing the annotation, and he settled back down without waking.

“Great. All we need is him trying some ‘James Bond’ escape through the air ducts.”

Laura couldn’t help chuckling. “Can’t you just see it? Mr. Steele crawling through the ducts, dragging his IV tubing behind him. . . . ”

She elbowed Murphy, and he finally, reluctantly, unleashed a smile, even gave in to a chuckle of his own.

“Anyway, about the fees,” – she winked at him – “Remington Steele will do the right thing, believe me.”

“What’ve you got up your sleeve?”

“These beds have ears, Murph.” She returned his evil grin, then shifted in her seat. “There’s something that’s still a mystery, though. Apparently Samuel Goldschmidt offered the use of his own firm’s lawyers to Mr. Steele for his defense, and Mr. Steele accepted. Goldschmidt’s sending one of them, a Mr. Cohen, out to meet with me tomorrow. We’ll see the D.A. together on Monday, if charges are brought. No explanation of why Goldschmidt’s so eager to help a man he thought crossed him or why Mr. Steele would accept.

“Not only that, Mr. Goldschmidt said he’s sending $36,000 along with Cohen to give to Mr. Steele for recovery, and I don’t think he meant medical recovery.” She nodded toward Steele. “He’s still got quite a bit of explaining to do.”

Murphy snorted. “Think he’ll tell you?”

“If he wants to regain the use of his arm.” She checked her watch again. “Well, I’ve got to get back. I want to go over the tape again, look over the case file, and prepare some more notes for my meeting with Cohen tomorrow.” She got up to leave, looked again at Steele and started to reach out a hand, but then turned and strode out of the ward.

****

Laura rolled over and glowered at the clock. 1 A.M. and still no sleep. Twenty-six hours before the D.A. was required to make a decision. Sighing, she threw back the covers. She missed Steele.

****

Laura, dressed in a purloined nursing outfit, stared down at Steele. He was asleep but shifting about in the bed and shivering. She didn’t know where the extra blankets were kept. She reached out a hand but stopped just before contact. She could feel him afire with fever. She shouldn’t disturb him. She wanted to touch him. She had to do something, or she’d draw attention. She lightly grasped his wrist and pretended to take his pulse.

He stirred and woke, blinking his eyes and squinting up at her. She was afraid he’d be too tired or drugged to focus on her, but he smiled. He started to speak, but she placed gentle fingers over his lips. He started to move his right hand but was stopped – a handcuff secured him to a steel bar.

Both arms immobilized. Oh, how she hated this. He looked like a butterfly pinned to a board.

He kissed her fingers. She pretended to adjust his pillow and let her hand brush his face, avoiding the now purplish-blue bruise. The sounds that had reverberated over the earphones came back to her: Lona striking him. Suddenly overwhelmed, she put her hand to her mouth and blinked back tears. He was looking at her, his brow furrowed, his eyes questioning. She shook her head. Sweeping a silky, damp lock of hair from his forehead, she bent down to plant a kiss –

Someone entered the ward and came toward her. Curses. Foiled. Again. She wondered if Steele knew a film annotation for that one. She straightened up and strode toward the night nurse. She nodded curtly toward Steele. “He needs another blanket.” She exited before the bewildered woman could utter a sound, before this crazy escapade of hers could be exposed.

Steele followed Laura’s sylphlike figure with his eyes for as long as he could, then he tried to lift his head so he could continue to follow her progress, so he could make this delightful hallucination last a little longer. But his head was too heavy, and he let it drop. Maybe she had been real – the part where a kiss had been interrupted certainly reflected reality. He gave a tentative smile to the night nurse as she arranged another blanket over him, but apparently the staff here was immunized against charm: she performed the task efficiently, took his pulse, without warning popped a thermometer in his mouth – nurses loved to do that – read the results, recorded everything on his chart, and left, never directly looking at him. My, what an enchanting place this was. Still, he didn’t expect to be here long. If plan A didn’t work out, there was always plan B. He was just too muzzy from fever to recall the details right now. Something about the ventilation system. Or had that been another hallucination? Murphy had been helping him with the intravenous tubing, so it must’ve been.

Though he categorically hated drugs, he wished the antibiotics would work a little faster. First he was hot, then he was cold, then he was hot again, his eyelids felt like coarse sandpaper rasping across his eyes, his head was pounding, he was thirsty and he couldn’t find a call button – did jail wards have those? – and he was so damned tired –

“Harry, you are the biggest baby when you’re sick,” Daniel said to him.

“Am not.” Hold on. Now he really was hallucinating. Daniel couldn’t possibly be here. God, he hoped he hadn’t said that out loud. Next thing he’d know, they’d be carting him off to the loony bin. But Daniel was wrong. Carl held the distinction of being the most obnoxious person to be around when he was confined to bed. Take that time of the Goldschmidt fiasco. Those animals – the Palermo Brothers and the Brothers Grimm – had beaten Carl within an inch of his life, just for fun. John had nursed Carl back to health with the aid of an old friend in Munich, a doctor, an old German Jew who’d survived the war. And though John could be patient when Carl was muttering his complaints while squirming with fever, it’d gotten a little trying when Carl was out of danger but still demanding John be at his beck and call. Yet, it’d been all right. ‘He whinges , therefore he is.’ That was all that had mattered.

It’d probably seemed far worse than it was because he’d also had to contend with Goldschmidt. While Carl was recuperating, John had found out, as expected, that the Hals had again gone missing. He’d found out, as not expected, that Goldschmidt blamed him, believing he’d arranged it. Or rather, Goldschmidt blamed Michael O’Leary, since that was the name Goldschmidt had known him by. John/Michael had been insulted, believing his reputation should speak for him. He’d had an urge to tell the man, using an equivalent, rather coarse Irish idiom, that he didn’t bite the hand that fed him, but Carl had intervened and had managed to at least smooth things to the point where Goldschmidt accepted that Michael would do no such thing. All John/Michael had gotten out of the whole affair was the promise that Goldschmidt wouldn’t have him hunted down, a promise evidently given to Carl reluctantly, since Goldschmidt had wanted his retainer fee returned. John and all his incarnations had never seen how that could possibly be a fair request. . . .

Steele shifted uncomfortably in the bed, not entirely because of the fever. Though his holding back the full extent of Carl’s role in the Goldschmidt debacle surely hadn’t affected this case in any way not already covered by his other obfuscations, it reminded him that Laura had yet to have her full say on this Raeder thing. He chewed his lip. What was in store for him when she did? Perhaps he should ask the warden to revoke all his visitor privileges for the duration of his incarceration. . . .

****

Laura stood staring into Steele’s wall-to-wall closet, mouth open, body slack. She straightened up, shook her head, and gave a sigh. “No wonder no one can find any skeletons in his closet. They can’t dig them out from underneath all these suits! What does one man need with so many suits?”

“Beats me,” Murphy called from the living room. “I could think of better things to spend my money on.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Beer and pizza.”

Laura laughed. “I don’t think so, Murph. You’d rival the Goodyear Blimp.”

“Yeah, guess so. Did you really get hold of those furniture guys? Today? On a Sunday?”

“Yep. Money really does talk. The whole place’ll be redone by the time he gets out of the hospital.”

There was a silence for a moment. It might be out of the hospital bed into the jail cell. If charges were brought, she doubted he’d be granted bail. She sighed. Twelve more hours.

She gathered up an armful of suits and laid them on the bed – good thing it was king-size. “Anyway, I gave Bernice the job of tracking down his posters. I hope she can get them. They’re the only things in this place that say . . . um . . . ‘him.’” Well, she didn’t have a name to fill in there. That was the best she could do. Without the posters the place could’ve passed for a very elegant model apartment, as empty of him as the top of his office desk. Well, not quite true – the contents of his refrigerator still identified the place as his.

“The whole place’ll look just like new.” She took another armful of suits, pausing, a wave of wistfulness washing over her as she caught the lingering scent of his cologne. “I don’t know how long it’ll take his tailor to repair all these.”

“You think he’d actually notice if he was missing a couple?”

“He might.”

Murphy chuckled and came to the bedroom door. “Well, I’m all finished cleaning up the mess out here.” He came and helped her, each grabbing another armful of suits. “I just hope he appreciates all this.”

“He should. He’s paying for it for once.”

“And that’s not the half of it.” He kept a straight face for as long as he could, as did Laura, then they abandoned themselves to laughter. The more they tried to stop, the more it got away from them. They collapsed onto the bed with their armloads and ended up on the floor, leaning back against the bed, side-by-side, rag-doll limp.

Murphy wiped his eyes. God, it was so good to see Laura laugh again. “Too bad you couldn’t get your hands on that money from Goldschmidt. Boy, I’d love to be there when you tell Steele about the recovery fees.”

“I think I’ll make sure you are. I’ll need back-up protection.”

Murphy glanced at her, and the grin left his face.

“What is it, Murph?”

“I was going to tell you later, but . . . well, I might as well tell you now.” He puffed out his lips with a breath. “Look. I’ll stay until he’s cleared. Longer, if you need me to help nail Raeder. But . . . I’ve decided to go back to Denver. Be around my family, open my own agency . . . .”

“Oh, Murphy . . . .” Laura touched his hand, but no more words came out. Finally, she touched his hand again. “Please don’t go. How will I ever run this agency without you?”

He took her hand in his own. “I’m sorry, Laura. But I just can’t stay. You’ll do fine. You’ll do brilliantly, as always. Other detectives will be knocking down your door to work for ‘The Great Remington Steele.’”

She pulled her hand from his. “You know I can’t do that. We may be able to fool the public, but another detective working right here in the agency? They’d find him out. I can’t trust anyone else.”

Murphy sighed, dropped his eyes, shook his head. “I’m sorry, Laura. But I’ve got to leave. I broke a cardinal rule of investigating. ‘Don’t let your emotions affect your judgement.’” He looked into her eyes. “The one I was accusing you of breaking.”

“I think we both broke it.”

“No. You were willing to believe he was innocent until proven guilty. I wanted to believe he was guilty. If it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve gone out of my way to prove he was.”

She shook her head. “I don’t believe that, Murphy. You’re not that kind of person. You would’ve found the truth.”

“Maybe. But I would’ve tossed him in the slammer and thrown away the key first.” He got up, helped her to her feet, and faced her directly. “I doubt he would’ve stuck around after that. Good-bye ‘Remington Steele.’” His voice turned soft. “And I would’ve hated myself for the rest of my life. Because of what it would’ve done to this agency. And to you.”

She put her hand on his arm and rubbed it. “That didn’t happen. I don’t believe it would’ve, either. You don’t need to go.”

“Laura, I’m never going to trust him.”

“Maybe that’s good. Maybe that’s what’ll keep him honest.” They both grimaced at the word. “Well, you know what I mean.”

Murphy shook his head. “No. I have to go. There’s one thing he’s stolen. Something most precious. I have proof. And I can’t do a damn thing about it. And I’ll never forgive him for it.”

Laura’s eyes widened. “What? What’s he stolen?”

Murphy felt a flash of jealousy at the intensity of feeling the con man – all right, Steele – aroused in Laura: the waves of apprehension that surged through her iron grip on his arm were hardly only due to her concern for her professional standing. But then he sighed at the inevitable. He’d never had a chance. He’d been as noticeable as a candle lit during a supernova.

He reached out a hand to her face, his lips forming the silent word, “You.”

****

Surely it was past midnight now. Laura looked up from the paperwork she’d been trying to distract herself with and scowled at the clock. The second hand was deliberately moving slower, she knew it. And it looked like the D.A. was going to use every second of his forty-eight hours to make his decision.

The morning meeting with Goldschmidt’s lawyer had gone great – what a shark! She was certain they could fight this thing successfully, but it’d be so much better for the agency if Steele wasn’t charged at all. She gave a rueful smile: no doubt Steele would also think it better not to have to spend any time in a jail cell.

She turned her eyes to the phone, willing it to ring. She turned her eyes back to the clock. Move, dammit.

At 2 A.M. the phone finally rang. She leapt from the kitchen table to answer it. The picture hanging next to it clattered to the floor. The glass broke.

“Miss Holt?”

It was Goldschmidt’s lawyer. “Yes, Mr. Cohen.”

“Good news. The D.A. has decided not to charge Mr. Steele with any crime at this time.” Laura felt like shrieking with joy, but let the man continue uninterrupted. “I’ve arranged for him to be transported back to the UCLA Medical Center.

“You’ll also be pleased to hear the matter of the Braque painting has been cleared up as well, at least as far as Mr. Steele is concerned. There is a man, Jack Ritt, a forger – a quite brilliant one, as a matter of fact – who loots museum libraries and national archives for materials he can use to create seemingly ironclad provenances . He specializes in works by Braque, Picasso, and Klee, but he has changed and fabricated the records of a wide variety of artists.”

“So this Ritt faked the entire history of ownership of ‘Mr. Steele’s’ Braque painting?”

“It’s up to the experts to sort that out. But the most important person in this chain, as far as Mr. Steele is concerned, is the person who supposedly transferred ownership to him, a Lionel Ackerman. Ackerman was long suspected of criminal activity involving the acquisition and disposal of stolen artwork, though nothing could ever be proved. But it made a plausible story that Mr. Steele stole the ruby and the mosaic for Ackerman, or used Ackerman’s connections to fence them, and got the Braque painting as payment. But, we’ve been able to show conclusively Mr. Steele never received ownership of this painting. Those documents were forged.”

Oh, Mr. Steele. What a web they wove for you. “What put the authorities onto Ritt?”

“Ritt has crossed Mr. Goldschmidt’s path before. When Mr. Goldshmidt heard the details of Mr. Steele’s predicament, he suspected Ritt’s involvement, not only because of the nature of the posited forgery, but because Mr. Goldschmidt has long suspected Erich Raeder is a client of Ritt’s.”

“Ritt gives fake provenances to Raeder’s stolen art.”

“When he can. He certainly couldn’t have pulled it off with ‘Water Lilies, 1904.’ But you can see that, though not his usual thing, taking on the project of Mr. Steele for Raeder was well within Ritt’s field of expertise. Unfortunately, it will be difficult to prove it was Ritt who forged the documents, let alone prove a Raeder-Ritt connection.”

Another challenging project. Well, one step at a time. “Thank you, Mr. Cohen. Thank you for all you’ve done. Now we can put full focus on getting the evidence the D.A. needs to bring charges against the Raeders.” The confessions at the mansion didn’t constitute proof.

“I’ve told Mr. Steele that Mr. Goldschmidt’s resources are at his disposal. My employer has a keen interest in this case.”

And she had a keen interest in knowing the full story behind that. “Mr. Steele will give the matter his complete attention, I assure you. We’ll definitely pay a visit to this Mr. Ackerman.”

“Ackerman conveniently died Saturday.”

Laura gasped, then gasped again as she remembered where she’d heard his name before. “Foul play?”

Cohen’s voice shrugged his answer. “Many of Ritt’s forged provenances involved old men who were either dead or no longer had their full faculties by the time the forgeries were discovered. Mr. Goldschmidt is of the opinion that either Ackerman was in Erich Raeder’s pocket and died of natural causes – the man was terminally ill – or the documents making him the former owner were forged as well, and he was murdered to cover it up. The police are now taking a closer look at the circumstances of Ackerman’s death.”

“We’ll aid them in any way we can.”

“I’m sure you will. It’s been a pleasure to work with you, Miss Holt.” After they bade goodbye, Laura hung up the phone and made a beeline for her study. She returned to the kitchen with the case file and paged through it until she got to Officer ‘Mac’ McCarthy’s notes. ‘Tailed subject (Lora Raeder) to residence of Lionel Ackerman, age 93.’

Had ‘Loralei’ been sweetheart scamming Ackerman? Had she seduced him into being part of the plot against Steele? Had she been part of a plot to hasten Ackerman to the grave? Laura fully intended to report the visit of ‘Loralei’ to Ackerman to the police, but for now, she sank down in a kitchen chair, slid her arms along the table, and rested her forehead upon it.

Steele was free.

****

Jack Ritt looked out of the aeroplane window and stretched. It was a shame he’d had to cancel his meeting. He, as Professor Ritt, was to have met with a New York dealer at the N.A.L. in order to confirm the authenticity of a Giacometti the dealer had purchased and was now trying to sell. The director of the Alberto et Annette Giacometti Association, who the dealer had first contacted, wouldn’t vouch for it. But Ritt would. He had, years ago, created a London business, Art Research Associates, through a middleman. Through this business he hired himself out as a professional archivist. The middleman had connected the dealer with Professor Ritt, and Ritt had been planning on showing the dealer the photograph of the Giacometti, which appeared, plain as day, in the Ohana catalogue. It would then be obvious the provenance of the painting was not in question. He had plenty of documentation to back him up – a letter from its last owner before the dealer, Ackerman, now conveniently dead, correspondence from a number of previous owners, not all of whom existed, and a stack of concocted invoices tracing the path of the painting out of Giacometti’s studio.

Ritt sighed, pulling at his moustache. He’d been so looking forward to regaling the dealer with a lavish lunch and tales of how he spent his time researching art lost to the Nazis in WWII, while secretly revelling in the irony. But, he’d received word that it was best he lay low for a while. Ritt wasn’t worried. Things would blow over – they always did.

****

“Laura, when can I get out of here? Five days. Five days. For five days they’ve not let me move my arm. For five days I’ve not been able to eat – those damn drugs have ruined my palate. And that insipid mess they claim is food is enough to put anyone’s appetite off. Death to all the dieticians of UCLA! Long live the French chef – ”

“Mr. Steele – ”

“Five days of putting up with all the moaning and groaning about me. And that’s just the nursing staff. I’ve been poked and prodded and positively perforated. Hospitals are no place for the sick – ”

“Mr. Steele – ”

“Five days of soap operas. If I have to watch one more episode of ‘The Search for All My Children All the Days of Our Lives,’ I’ll go nutters – ”

“Mr. Steele!”

He stuck out his lip. “Jail couldn’t be worse than this.”

Laura looked at him and humphed, popping one of his gift chocolates into her mouth. “Speaking of moaning and groaning . . . . If you’d just let me get a word in edgewise – ”

“Payback, Miss Holt.”

“That’s it! I should just let you stay in here! I should just not tell you they’re releasing you now! I should just tell the next nurse that walks by to get the biggest needle she can find and stick you in the butt!”

They glared at each other.

Steele registered her words. “You mean I can go now?” he asked softly.

She shook her head at him, but a small smile formed on her face. She caressed his good arm. “We’re just waiting on the paperwork.”

“Oh, that took twelve hours at the jail hospital,” he groused, but without his former vehemence.

“It won’t be long. And then we can make up for lost time.”

“That sounds promising, Miss Holt.” As she leaned down, he closed his eyes in anticipation of a kiss.

“Ready to leave, Steele?”

He sighed in frustration at the intrusion of the voice of the bane of his current existence at this most inopportune time. “Yes, Nurse Ratched.” ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.’ Jack Nicholson, Louise Fletcher. United Artists.1975.

“It’s Rafferty, Steele.”

“Yes, of course. I apologize. I’m not good with names. Just ask my receptionist, Miss Wolfe.”

“Foxe,” Laura corrected.

“I rest my case.”

Laura brought his suit out from the closet. She patted the coat pockets. “What’s all this?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been flat on my back.”

“And busy while there, it seems.” She pulled out stacks upon stacks of little note cards. “Emily, Samantha, Elizabeth, Jessica . . . . ”

He saw her go scarlet as she read something on that last one. “Laura – ”

“Well, you’ll be much too busy catching up on your caseload to bother with these. I’ll just take care of them for you, sir, while you get dressed.”

“Laura – ” He made a grab, but the nurse deftly blocked his way, and Laura scooted out the door, defiantly scooping up a few more of his chocolates on her way.

He squeezed his eyes closed – if they were open, he’d scorch Nurse Ratched with their glare. He’d heard they needed an iron hand in the psychiatric ward down at the County Jail. Perhaps he could get her transferred. She’d be a natural.

****

“Laura, I’ve been thinking. Perhaps I should move to Brentwood. Or, if ‘Remington Steele’ smells of old money, Old Pasadena, or Palos Verdes, or Malibu, or – not Beverly Hills though – ”

Laura continued to tug Steele down the hall to his apartment.

“I could stay in a hotel until suitable accommodations are found – ”

She pushed him through the door. At first he just stood at the entrance, agape. She followed after him, watching those long slender fingers brushing at this and that as he took a slow tour of the place. She laughed when he got to the kitchen, rushed over to the refrigerator, and threw the door open with alarm. “I tossed out everything that looked like it might spoil.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

In the bedroom he went first to the closet, full of the newly repaired suits, and stood there, giving it a long, silent survey. Finally, he went to the posters on the wall behind the couch. Bernice had found originals for them all: ‘Thin Man,’ ‘Notorious,’ ‘Casablanca,’ ‘Hotel Imperial.’ He ran his hands over the frames, imperceptibly straightening them.

During his entire circuit of the apartment, he’d never once looked at her. Finally, he turned to her, swallowed heavily, and said simply, softly, “Thank you.”

She smiled and closed her eyes in anticipation as he bent his head down toward hers. She opened one eye and then the other at the unaccountable delay. He had straightened back up and was looking off into the distance, a puzzled frown on his face.

“Laura, you amaze me. First you arrange for me to have a private room at the hospital with nary a plea on my part. And to totally restore this apartment in these few days – let alone get my tailor to restore my suits to sartorial splendour – must’ve cost you a small fortune. Normally your pennies are practically howling from the grip you have on them.”

And things had been so peaceful. “You know the stolen artwork at the Raeders you helped the police recover?”

“Yes?” His smile was one of anticipation.

“Well, the recovery fees are yours – or rather, Remington Steele’s,” she added hastily as his face started to light up.

The light was put out. “‘Remington Steele’s.’ Why do I get the uncomfortable feeling you have a specific reason for making the distinction.”

“Remington Steele has decided to donate the fees, in his name, to the Beverly Hills and Los Angeles Police Departments. And especially to the Art Theft Unit.”

His jaw dropped. He pushed his jacket back and put his fists on his hips. “What? Laura. You’re not serious. I make the biggest score of my life – legitimately, mind you – and you expect me to, to give it all away?”

She glared right back at him, putting her own hands to her hips. She tried to keep her voice under tight control. "I’d be a lot more convinced you’re entitled to use the word ‘legitimate’ if you’d told me about Raeder’s stolen art back when you first knew of it. But that was just one more thing among many you kept from me." All her frustrations with him gathered, gained force, rose up, and exploded out of her. "Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

“The truth? The truth? I got tired of telling you the truth. I told you I didn’t steal the ruby or the mosaic. What did that truth get me, eh? You didn’t believe me. You wanted to keep an open mind. I was just one of the suspects to weigh your evidence against. I was just a, a, a circle on your legal pad – ”

“Why should I have believed you? When your past rears its head, how am I supposed to know when you’re telling the truth? You hide in evasions, half-truths, lies by omission, outright falsehoods. Truth isn’t a tool to be selectively applied when you think it will ‘get’ you something! You’re damn right I wanted to keep an open mind. That’s more than you d – ” She broke off.

Hot black eyes flashed. He began to turn away, toward the door.

She reached out an arm to stop him, gently for once. “I didn’t mean . . . . You were never just . . . . I wanted to believe you. I hoped to prove you were innocent.” That’s why she’d swooped down those ropes, why she’d let him proceed with his final scheme against the Raeders. Would it be enough for him?

He stood there a few moments, his face turned away from her. Finally, he turned back and searched her eyes. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his features losing their flinty look.

She squeezed his arm lightly. “But I need some explanations, Mr. Steele. Let’s back up, start this conversation over again.” At his nod, she continued. “When did you know this was Wallace’s daughter’s plot – the Raeders’ plot – against you?”

“Friday night, not too long before I called to ask for your help. Carl told me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the real plan you and Carl cooked up to trap them?”

He shrugged slightly. “I thought it’d just be simpler that way. You do tend to want lengthy explanations, and we were rather short on time.” He raised a hand to forestall her retort. “My doing, I know. I didn’t want to have this hanging over my head any longer. I saw a way to resolve it.”

She decided to let that pass for the moment. “Why didn’t you follow the plan you told me? For one thing, why didn’t Carl just keep Lona out of the way? True, it’s a stronger case with her confession, but why’d you risk it?”

“Carl knew Lona well enough to convince me – and my experience of her backed this up – that if she was face-to-face with me, she’d certainly want to gloat over how she’d snared me. She was an easy mark.” He gave her a crooked smile.

“You said you were going to use the Monet against Erich, threaten him into telling you how he’d set you up. Why didn’t you just do that? Instead of you being in control of the situation, you ended up with a gun on you – ”

“Raeder has a need to be the conqueror. I believe he would’ve preferred seeing the loss of the Monet rather than give in to a threat to report it. Even had I been able to follow up on that threat, I’m sure he would’ve made the case I’d set him up – the police would’ve been happy to add the Monet’s theft to the charges against me. We would’ve gained nothing and stood to lose a lot more. Or if instead I’d threatened the Monet’s destruction . . . . Raeder is the most dispassionate man I’ve ever met. The most . . . amoral. I believe it likely he would’ve said ‘go ahead.’”

Laura was stunned. “So if you’d made that threat, and he’d refused to give in – ”

Steele laughed without humor. “I’d have been in quite a bind.” He took a few steps away from her before turning around to face her. “Raeder’s Achilles heel is his need to dominate, to control. Throughout that night, in every way I could think of, I tried to incite his desire to vanquish me. By doing that, and by being in the position where he physically controlled me, dominated me, I, paradoxically, controlled him. Do you see?”

She did now. “He’d want to make sure you heard the full story so he could relish your total humiliation before killing you.”

Steele smiled uncertainly. “Good plan, eh?” When she didn’t answer, he walked back to her, looking her directly in the eyes. “There were the secret passageways, and I knew you and Murphy would be highly attuned to the proceedings. . . .” he reminded her soothingly. “In case I haven’t said it before, thank you.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “You still could have told me – ”

“And would you still have agreed to let me do it? Knowing I was giving physical control of the situation over to the Raeders and relying on the art of the con?”

How could she answer that? How could she say with certainty what she would’ve done at a time already past? In principle, he’d done what a good PI would do – he’d found out what would motivate his suspect to confess and used that, but in application – “I would’ve evaluated the risks – ”

“When I called, your first reaction was to have me turn myself in. So you could proceed in an orderly fashion. To my mind, that was a far greater risk if our goal was to expose the truth. Justice sometimes drags its feet – or even collapses – when weighed down by the chains of standard operating procedure, Laura. Lona would have disappeared. Raeder would’ve covered his tracks. Your agency would’ve turned up its toes to the daisies, and my good name would’ve been buried along with it – ”

“It’s not your good name. You could’ve left – ”

“It is my good name. In more ways than one. Do you think me so without conscience? Do you think it wouldn’t affect me to know the name ‘Remington Steele’ – which carries my face – had become synonymous with betrayal of the public’s trust? To know you’d think I’d played you all along, or at the very least, left you to clean up the mess behind me?”

“I’ve no answer for that. I don’t really know you – ”

“What do you imagine I’d have done if I’d left then? Hooked up with Daniel? Stolen paintings with Felicia?”

“They’d take you back – ”

He gave a humorless laugh. “They probably would. But other people are always involved. There are supplies to be obtained, payoffs to be made, other players, contacts, buyers and sellers and all their intermediaries. I’d have been excommunicated from that community. Word gets around. I could no longer have been in the life with the kind of reputation I’d have left with. They wouldn’t have trusted which side of the street I was working, or they would’ve viewed me as having stabbed my colleague in her back – not the best card to come calling with – ”

“Unless they thought it one big, long con.”

Steele blew out a breath. “Yes, I’m sure some would be willing to believe that – though I’ve never been made in quite so spectacular a way. And maybe after a long, long time, I could’ve convinced myself of that too. . . . Then again, maybe not. . . . In time, I probably could’ve made proof again – ”

“What?”

“Proved my reliability.” He tilted his head and gave her a slight smile. “So, you believe a tarnished Steele would’ve still been accepted back into the life.” He turned and again took a few steps away from her before turning around to face her. He lifted his hand out to the side, palm up, and swept it through the air from the top of his head down toward his feet, saying, “I’m here.” He walked back to her. “I stayed. Why?”

‘Do you think it wouldn’t affect me . . . .?’ his eyes asked her again. Had 'Remington Steele' really seeped into his bones? Had she crawled under his skin? She desperately searched her mind for another explanation, there had to be a logical explanation – she found it. “You wouldn’t have been free of Raeder if you’d left. You would’ve had to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder – ”

“Yes. I would’ve had to keep a profile so low life would’ve hardly been worth living.” His eyes became distant, sad. He focused on her again, giving her an ironic smile. “Give me the luxuries, I can do without the essentials. . . . No, the only way to be free of Raeder was to walk into the lion’s den and beard him. But the flaw in this argument of yours, Miss Holt, is that I didn’t know until we were in the midst of our sting that I wouldn’t have been free of Raeder if I’d left. I didn’t know Raeder had a personal interest in seeing me take the fall and intended to pursue me to the ends of the earth, if necessary – ”

Not now, not now. She couldn’t deal with this right now. “We’ve digressed.”

He gave her a knowing smile. “So we have. Okay, back to my prevarication concerning my plan that night. I was confident it would succeed. The only stumbling block would’ve been if you’d vetoed it and prevented me from carrying it out. So I minimized that possibility by . . . feeding you half-truths, lies by omission, and outright falsehoods. I took it out of your hands.”

He walked around the couch, flopped down onto it, and rubbed his face with his hands. “Oh, this seemed so right at the time.” He patted the couch next to him, and she accepted the invitation to sit. She knew from the subtle slackness of his movements and posture, from the faint tremor of his hands when he’d raised them, that the ‘discussion’ was tiring him. Out of the hospital bed into her fire. Still, something drove her on.

“Promise me something.”

He stiffened and eyed her guardedly. “If I can.”

“When it’s my agency’s reputation, the name of ‘Remington Steele’ that’s at stake, don’t take it out of my hands. You have no right to do that. No matter how justified you think you are.”

He looked away. Finally, he nodded. “You’re right. My apologies. It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

“And the word of Remington Steele is his bond.”

“And so is mine.”

Laura sighed, turning to look at the filmy curtains across the room. They were drawn, obscuring the balcony and the starry night that lay beyond. White curtains. Gray walls. Gray chairs. White lamp. Black coffee table. Gray couch. Black and white and gray. The color scheme of the apartment. Shades of gray dominated. To some, gray was a neutral color. To others, a way of life. “Why didn’t you tell me about Raeder’s stolen art?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “It was mostly suspicion. I was discreetly checking into their provenance. Raeder’s a powerful man. I didn’t want to take the chance of accusing him without being sure of my facts. Detective Chritz expedited matters in that regard.” He grinned apologetically. “I’m afraid it hadn’t occurred to me to go through legitimate channels.”

“But you knew of the Monet.”

“I never saw it until that night we broke in, the night when the alarm went off. I checked that panel right after you left to see if they’d hidden the mosaic in there – that was the place I’d told you about, remember?”

She nodded. “Something about it originally being built during Prohibition – ”

“Right. The Monet wasn’t there when I looked before, I swear.”

“I believe you.” She leaned against him. Sighing, they leaned back on the couch together. “But you have one more thing to explain.”

“What’s that?”

“The $36,000 from Goldschmidt. You’ve been dodging that question long enough.”

Steele dropped his head back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. He was silent a long moment. “I found his painting. The painting I’d been trying to recover for him years ago.‘The Portrait of Pastor Adrianus Tegularius,’ by Frans Hals. I told him about it Friday night. Goldschmidt obliged me by calling Raeder to insist Raeder personally meet with one of Goldschmidt’s representatives. Immediately. With the painting in hand. I don’t know what Goldschmidt threatened him with, but that was what lured Raeder out of the mansion.”

“I’m surprised Goldschmidt agreed to that. Putting himself in direct conflict with Raeder – ”

“Think of the painting’s history,” Steele said softly. “It was his father’s. Stolen by the Nazis. Ending up with Raeder – not only a business rival, but the nephew of a grand admiral in the Nazi fleet. A man who keeps an armoury flaunting Nazi memorabilia, a man who, you told me, Goldschmidt suspects is funding neo-Nazis. I hoped Goldschmidt wanted his painting badly enough, or resented Raeder enough, that he’d consent to help me.”

Steele glanced at her. “To further fuel his resentment against Raeder, I also told him Friday night about the other items I suspected were Nazi plunder. I told him we had a chance to nail Raeder for it, thinking that’d make it even more likely he’d help me. For whatever reason, he came through for me.”

“Layer upon layer, Mr. Steele. When Goldschmidt called Raeder, Raeder had to have suspected you told Goldschmidt about the Hals – ”

“Yes.” He smiled slightly. “And just to make sure, I had Carl tell Lona that. That was part of my plan for the night.”

“So Raeder knew it was actually you luring him out of the mansion so you could make your move on him when he returned, supposedly to rob him.”

Steele nodded. “And he went along with it without hesitation, thinking he was the one luring me – ”

“So he and Lona could . . . finish you off.”

“Yes.”

“Was Goldschmidt involved with Lona?”

Steele shrugged slightly. “I don’t know. I rather doubt it. We’ve only got the word of some New York gossips and of a maid who never saw the man in question. Lona may have been setting that situation up as well. And if the two of them were involved, who was playing whom? I don’t know the truth of that situation. It’s all a bit too twisted for me.”

“I thought nothing was too twisted for you.” She held Steele’s eyes as he looked at her uncertainly. She quirked her lips into a bit of a smile, and he gave a slight smile back. She was kidding. Half-kidding. “And the $36,000 is your recovery fee for the painting?”

He shook his head and widened his smile to a half-grin. “Believe it or not, Miss Holt, I didn’t ask for it.”

She gave a soft snort. “I do find that hard to believe. I’ve always pictured you wheelin’ and dealin’ up until you drew your last breath.” Her grin vanished and she looked away, swallowing hard, thinking of the Raeders and their plans for Steele. She turned her head to look at him and found him gazing at her intently. His smile, too, had disappeared. She touched him lightly to make sure he really was there.

Steele looked down at the spot where she had touched him, then into her eyes. “I needed his help. His help in exchange for the return of his painting seemed a more than equitable trade, given what was at stake.”

For a short time, she was lost in his gaze. She straightened – she wasn’t through with her questions yet. “Why have you been avoiding telling me about Goldschmidt’s role in this?”

Steele shifted on the couch, hesitating before answering, looking away from her. “I found Goldschmidt’s painting the night of the ‘thefts.’ It was the one thing I knew without a doubt was stolen. Raeder had hidden it in a display case with Admiral Raeder’s dirk – so he could get to it easily and gloat over it, I imagine. Anyway, I didn’t act on that knowledge until it served my purposes. I was caught up in other matters.”

She put her hand to his face and turned it toward her. “Like being suspected of a crime you didn’t commit. An understandable preoccupation.”

He kissed her palm, then took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze before releasing it. “So. Remington Steele is now a major donor to police departments and art theft units, eh?” He affected a Cockney accent. “I fink me card at me ol’ union’s bein' pulled.”

They both exhaled a laugh.

“Well, there are two consolations.”

“What’re they, Miss Holt?”

“One is your newly redecorated apartment, your repaired suits, and a small commission for a job well done.”

“Mmm. And two?”

“The mayor’s having a media event for the occasion of your donations on Friday. You get to have your picture taken shaking his hand on the steps of City Hall.”

“Oh?”

Laura tried to hide a smile as he perked up and sat a little straighter, adjusting his tie. There was one thing – well, maybe two, but she wasn’t ready to go there yet – that could seduce Steele from thoughts of fortune, and that was fame. Curious, for a man whose previous existence was marked by total anonymity. “Yes. And you can display your inimitable charm at the reception afterwards and win back the hearts of Angelenos once more as ‘The Great Remington Steele.’”

“Inimitable, eh?”

“Inimitable,” she assured him. “And Bernice has been going crazy with calls and telegrams from around the world congratulating you on the art recoveries. Reporters from Art World News, Art in America, Art Insight – even BBC News – are all waiting to interview you. Nurse Ratched – I mean, Rafferty – helped us keep them at bay while you recovered in the hospital.”

“Oh, my.”

Laura couldn’t hold back her smile any longer. He’d been puffing up as she spoke.

He turned to her, narrowing his eyes. “Actually, Miss Holt, I think you were withholding that information so you could use it to smooth over the fact you’re depriving me of a couple million dollars.”

“What a suspicious mind you have, Mr. Steele.”

“Hmmm. With good cause, I believe.”

“You still have the $36,000 from Goldschmidt.”

“Gone. Pfffffffffft.” He jerked his head from one side to the other.

“What? Already? What did you do with it?”

“Gave most of it to Wallace’s Mission and Th— , uh, a friend who helped me in my hour of need.” As she raised her eyebrows at him, he jutted out his chin and frowned. “I kept some of it for a new suit, made-to-measure, handmade, finest wool!” As she stifled a laugh, he muttered, “Damn thing is, I can’t have it fit until I regain some weight.”

She reached out and pretend-straightened his tie.

****

Baron Leopold von Regelheim stood on the spacious grounds of his current home, an eighteenth-century mansion. Across the road from him was his former home, the abandoned Regelheim Castle. He stared at the old photo in his hand, a photo of some British soldier in front of the castle, a photo inscribed ‘Regelheim, Northeim,’ a photo that had been used to trace the antique silver back to him. He ripped away the wrapping from the silver and addressed the man who’d identified himself as ‘Weimar.’ “My mother, the refugees who had found a home with us, and my young wife had to leave Regelheim Castle when the Nazis came. Later, the British occupied the castle. This was stolen from us. It had been in our family for hundreds of years.” The baron watched his wife, now no longer young, touch the antique silver with shaky fingers. There were five plates, two water pitchers, several small pots and pans, a tray, and sixty-six pieces of cutlery. His wife lay her right hand open on her breast, just above her heart. There were tears in her eyes.

The baron turned back to Weimar. “And you say he wants no money for this?” Weimar shook his head. The baron’s voice trembled as he said, “It is astonishing he would think like this. . . . I wish I could meet him.” The baron raised a glass of sparkling Riesling . “At least, tell me the name of who it is I drink to.”

“He said that, as poetic justice, you may call him ‘Nevan.’” Weimar shrugged.

****

Steele fingered the telegram he held and read the words again.

TO FIND A NEW MASK FOR WHAT I WISH TO BE, OR TRY TO BE A MAN WITHOUT A MASK – JOHN HEWITT

CONGRATULATIONS LITTLE SAINT

****

Laura leaned back against the counter in Steele’s kitchen, sipping her wine, reflecting on the previous day’s events. It’d been glorious. First had been the morning edition of the Los Angeles Tribune – headlines of ‘Steele Gets His Man and His Monet!’ and a long article about the case, the donations Steele was making, and the Art Theft Unit.

As usual, he’d made quite a splash at the media event that followed. Every last vestige of his previous negative publicity seemed to have been erased. The only slight glitch came when he was supposed to hand over the check to the mayor. For the first time that she could ever recall at such a public event, his smile looked somewhat forced. Worse, the mayor practically had to pry the check from his hand.

At the reception that followed, she saw him looking around the room, obviously searching for someone. She was touched when, his gaze alighting upon her, he broke into a huge grin and beckoned for her to join him. She’d raised her hands slightly in a palms out position. He’d tilted his head to side, gave a bit of a frown, then smiled in resignation. Seconds later he’d been whisked away by another rabble of reporters. Yes, yesterday had been glorious.

Laura took another sip of her wine. She watched Steele’s hands as he stirred the pot on the stove in the center island, an artist at work. Hands were not a feature she usually noticed in a man, but his were beautiful. They looked like the hands of an aristocrat, hands that had never seen a hard day’s work. She found it hard to reconcile those hands with the story Daniel had told her of finding ‘Harry’ on the streets. Of course, Daniel had probably only told her that story to gain her sympathy. And what was the significance of the gold pinky ring? He’d been wearing it the first time she met him, when he was ‘Ben Pearson.’ He’d worn it as ‘Johnny Todd.’ Did he wear it regardless of his identity? And if so, why? Even a little detail like that could blow his cover. More questions he’d be unlikely to ever answer.

She tore her gaze from his hands and studied Steele critically. He looked a lot better now, though still too thin. Well, he should get a good start on putting the weight back on tonight. He was preparing another one of his gourmet feasts: bay scallop and asparagus risotto layered with herbs, served with a salad with marinated tomatoes and a drizzle of sweet basil vinaigrette.

“The risotto smells good.”

“Mmm. What pasta is to the south of Italy, risotto is to the north. Americans have made it elegant and upscale, but basically,” – he grinned at her – “it just makes you feel good after you eat it. I got the rice in the Po Valley, from one of the mondine – women labourers from the hills. Her boyfriend turned out to belong to a band of tomb robbers.” Steele launched into a saga of how they’d tried to draw him into their illicit activities. “I declined. Ghosts. I’m not good with ghosts.”

Recalling Steele’s behavior during the death investigation they’d undertaken at Murphy’s college class reunion , Laura wasn’t sure how much of his statement was tongue-in-cheek.

Steele paused reflectively. “The mondine lead terribly hard lives. . . .” He shot another grin her way. “As immortalized in the film ‘Riso Amaro’ – ‘Bitter Rice’ – Silvana Mangano, Doris Dowling, Vittorio Gassman, Raf Vallone. Lux Film.1949. A thief, Walter, steals a precious necklace and entrusts it to his lover, Francesca, telling her to flee to the rice fields and hide with the workers until he can safely meet her. She is befriended by the voluptuous Silvana, who has discovered their secret. Not only does Silvana want the necklace, she wants the magnetic, arrogant Walter, preferring him to her good-hearted suitor, the soldier Marco. The four become involved in a plot involving betrayal, love, and murder. Oh! the sultry, tempestuous Silvana, dancing in the fields . . . . You’ve not seen it?”

As she admitted she hadn’t, he shook his head in sorrow. “We really must expand your horizons, Miss Holt.”

Only he would think expanding horizons meant watching old movies. Laura stole another look at the counter to her left, trying not to drool. For dessert he was serving a chocolate torte with chocolate ganache glaze. Chocolate. She hadn’t yet managed to bring herself to tell him she really shouldn’t have it. Too bad he’d finished baking it before she arrived, though. Her favorite part of watching him cook was when he bent over to open the oven. Cute butt.

She glanced over at the coffee pot, smelling the aroma of fresh-ground beans. “I thought you weren’t a coffee drinker.”

“That’s for you. I’ve never gotten into the coffee-drinking habit, especially at dinner. I apologize, this may be one culinary skill that lies beyond me. I fear the essayist Sydney Smith’s observation applies to me as well.”

“Oh? What did he say?”

“I quote: ‘We English have never mastered the art of telling the truth, discriminating good from evil, or making a good cup of coffee.’”

“Let me have a taste.”

He stopped stirring the risotto and poured her a cup.

She took a few sips. “Well, you’ve mastered the last.” She stared into her cup. “As for the middle . . . from what I’ve observed, your compass seems pointed in the right direction – plus or minus a few degrees of deviation.” She smiled in response to his grin at her double meaning. “It’s your method of travel that’s a bit dubious at times. And as for the first, well, you just made a start.”

“Oh, how so?”

“You were honest about your dishonesty.” She shared his chuckle, shaking her head. She set down her cup, turning serious. “Let’s give you more practice. Explain to me about Carl. You’ve never given me the full story.”

“Practice makes perfect, eh?” He glanced at her as he added a bit more stock to the risotto and stirred.

“Why did Carl suddenly become chummy with you on this job?”

“Ah, another twist of the knife in both our hearts. I’m not sure if the Raeders anticipated that or not, given Lona’s knowledge of us both, but it certainly played into their hands. It was I who approached Carl. I thought we’d pair well on the project, him designing, me finding the vulnerabilities, each building on what the other could do, until we’d created a, a – ”

“A work of art?”

Steele gave the pot another stir. “Something like that.” He faced her. “And I thought it the perfect opportunity to get him to work with me again. I thought if we could just work together, we could . . . mend the rift. He’s a good person.”

“Fortunately for you, in the end. How much did he know of what was going on?”

“Nothing of the set-up until the day before the party, the day Lora Raeder first put in her appearance. She knew that the media would have a feeding frenzy once the thefts had occurred, and that with all the publicity she might very well be recognized by him. She’d had quite a bit of ‘work’ done over the past year, but, well, they’d been lovers, after all – right up until the time of Carl’s conversion. At least . . . Carl had been in love with her – she broke relations off when he converted, just as she’d done with her father, according to Carl. . . . Anyway, her voice, some mannerism, something, could’ve given her away to him. That’s also, by the way, why they never hung Lona’s portrait in the library until that day, so Carl wouldn’t recognize her from that beforehand.”

“And you never recognized her?”

He shrugged. “I hadn’t seen her for over ten years. She was a child – ”

“Wait a minute. Wallace told Murphy you met in ’79.”

He snickered. “Ah, yes. ‘The Diplomatic Corps. Rats in the Seine, big as Volkswagens.’ ”

Laura rolled her eyes. They should’ve known any friend of Steele’s would be about as likely as him to give them a straight story when it came to his past.

“Actually, I did see Wallace in ’79. He didn’t talk about Lona much when I asked after her. I thought there might be some trouble there, but I didn’t pry. I wonder now if his story about having sent her off to college was just that. Or at least a bit of angling off from the truth – it’s hard for me to imagine her completing college.”

She joined him in a laugh of disbelief.

“Given what you unearthed about her activities in recent years, I can understand why Wallace would choose not to correct my misconception when we met again on the Dillon case.” He shook his head. “She was a troubled child at twelve, but I never dreamed . . . .” His eyes unfocused as he lost himself in private thoughts.

He blinked and focused on her again. “Anyway, she couldn’t count on Carl not recognizing her. And if he did recognize her, he would naturally suspect it was her set-up. She had to make sure he wouldn’t give her away to me, so – ”

“She blackmailed him into silence, ” Laura guessed.

Steele pointed the wooden spoon at her in agreement and turned back to the stove to stir the pot. “Indeed she did. She told him she could implicate him in this as easily as she could me, if she wished. And expose his past. She said she would, too, if he somehow caused me to slip from their grasp. She suggested he take a nice little trip out of the country for a while.”

“But he could’ve exposed her past, too – ”

“That she’d been married to old men and lived extravagantly at their expense, which they didn’t seem to mind?” He shook his head. “I hardly think she worried about that. No, Carl had much more to lose. He’s made a new life here. He has people he cares about here. This is his home. He’s the guiding light of the Mission, a pillar of the community. He’d lose everything he holds most dear. Raeder described Lona quite accurately in saying she excelled at using one’s vulnerabilities against one.”

Steele turned to her. “Laura, I know you were angry with me when I stopped Wallace’s crew from speaking to you about Carl. I was quite certain Carl was not the thief. I wanted to prevent you from finding out about our rift and all it entailed, since he would seem to have a strong motive for setting me up. I feared that if you knew, your desire to clear your agency, to clear the name of Remington Steele, might at some point lead you to bringing Carl to the attention of the police; whereas as it stood, they seemed quite happy to be focussing all their attention on me.” Steele hesitated a moment before continuing. “There was more than just his recovery work that could’ve been exposed. Carl grew up here, on the streets. Wallace rescued him from that. But taking a boy out of the streets is one thing. Taking the streets out of that boy is quite another. Carl made mistakes, serious mistakes, in his teens. I saw no good reason to subject Carl to the possibility of having his present ruined by whatever the police could uncover about his past. I knew you, me, one or both of us, could uncover the truth without sacrificing him in the process.”

And would one day her present be ruined by whatever was uncovered about Steele’s past or by the pasts of his friends? He clearly wasn’t inclined to give up his loyalties to them. Fire, Laura, you like playing with fire. “Why did you believe so strongly Carl hadn’t set you up? The way he turned on you after Wallace’s death . . . .”

Steele gazed at her steadily. “Sometimes you don’t know why you believe in another, when to all appearances that belief doesn’t seem warranted.” Steele put a hand to his chest. “Sometimes you just know, deep inside, that the other person is worth that belief,” – Steele smiled slightly – “although your faith in them may temporarily waver. But, if the friendship can’t survive those ripples, it’s not worth having.” They held each other's gaze, then Steele turned back to the stove and added just above a whisper, “Besides, there’s always plan B.”

Laura shook her head slightly. How easily he spoke of falling back to a ‘plan B,’ of discarding this life and assuming another. Or was she wrong about that? She watched him as he stood at the stove, unmoving, staring at nothing. She thought back to the words he’d been trying to tell her a couple of days ago in his apartment, the words about why he hadn’t left, the words she hadn’t been quite willing to believe, the words expressed in a typically British understatement that had been belied by his tone, ‘Do you think it wouldn’t affect me . . . .’ Laura swallowed. “I, I can see your reasoning for trying to protect him, but perhaps if you’d explained it, I would’ve seen it your way – ”

Steele started when she spoke. He gave another stir to the pot. “But perhaps not. I know what your agency means to you.”

“Carl should’ve come to you from the start, instead of leaving the country, leaving you to your fate.” Her words came out sharper than she’d intended.

He glanced at her. “He came back, told me of her plot. And once I finally knew who was behind it, I was able to do exactly as she’d feared – formulate a plan to clear myself. With your help, of course.”

Laura noticed he suddenly became very interested in stirring the risotto, clearly knowing his initial less-than-forthright outlining of his plan to her was still a sore point.

The spoon stopped its movement. “Lona was wrong. In the end what was important to Carl was his principles.”

“Then why wouldn’t he help me when I went to see him?” Carl had purposely reacted to those photos to deceive her. Not so shabby a trickster, after all.

Turning to her, Steele smiled slightly. “You made him feel quite guilty, you know. But it was simply a matter of not knowing if he could trust you.” Laura grimaced, and Steele’s smile widened. “He feared you’d thwart his plans. He was going to ‘right this wrong’ in his own way. He was merely misdirecting you.”

“Like any good con man.”

He gave an acknowledging nod. “Touché, Miss Holt.”

Laura took a sip of her wine. “Who rigged the safe, do you know?”

“Probably Lona. She is the daughter of a first-rate burglar. It was probably child’s play to her, literally. She also took Carl’s ring and gave it prominent display in the safe. When I opened it, I thought Carl had played me false.”

“I’m sure that was her intention.”

He nodded. “It led to her downfall, though.”

As Steele turned away and took a sip of wine from his glass by the stove, Laura had a sudden thought. “Why didn’t the Raeders expose you?”

Steele choked on his drink. He grabbed a linen, dabbed at his mouth, and avoided looking at her.

Damn it. He’s doing it again. She got impatient. “John Robie? Cat burglar?”

“Um. They know they’ve been bested by ‘The Great Remington Steele’?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve still got something big on them, don’t you? Something that makes you feel safe. And that’s why Carl feels free to stick around, too – ”

“Laura. How could you think such a thing?”

She left her perch at the counter and circled around him, crowding him at the stove. “You still haven’t told the police about all the stolen artwork, have you? You’ve got the royal lavulite mosaic – ”

“Risotto’s almost ready. It becomes glutinous if it sits.”

“Then we’re going to have a big soggy mess.” She grabbed his arm to force him to look at her, letting go as he winced. She didn’t apologize. “Answer me.”

He sighed. Turning to her, he said quietly, “Do you remember Raeder’s parting words to me?”

Mostly she remembered the thin lips curling into a smile that still made her shiver. “‘Auf Wiedersehen.’”

“Precisely. ‘Until we see each other again.’ The game isn’t over, in other words. I’ve made a powerful enemy, Laura. And apparently, powerful friends. Or at least, I’ve earned the protection of enemies of my enemy. Goldschmidt called just before you came tonight. He told me he and . . . others, all victims of Nazi pillaging, have . . . taken care of the situation for me and Carl, that the balance of power has been deposited into his account. He’s confident we’re in no danger. I didn’t press for details. Of course there’s still Lona. She’d probably not go for a direct attack, though. She’d lie in wait.”

Steele bit his lip. “I apologize. I’ve been trying to think of the best way to broach the subject tonight. Guess I was hoping I could get you plastered first.” His laugh came out strangled. He started to reach out his hand to her but let it drop. “Laura, there are no guarantees. Raeder is not a man who takes well to being bested. He – or Lona – may still come after me. Expose your Remington Steele.”

He took a deep breath and let it out. “Perhaps it’s best I – ”

She put a hand to his lips. “My Remington Steele never runs from a fight he didn’t start.”

He took her hand, kissed her fingers, and touched his lips to hers. “Then neither shall mine.”

As he turned to get an oven pad, Laura felt herself sag. Words from ‘Dark Victory’ came to her mind: ‘He didn't go away. . . . It must mean something.’

Steele removed the copper pan from the heat and beat in butter, a little olive oil, Parmesan, and lemon zest. “Oh, the parsley.”

She watched in puzzlement as he exited the kitchen. She went out into the dining room only to see him return from the direction of the balcony, stalks of parsley in hand.

“You’re growing it?” She asked in amazement, following him back into the kitchen.

He began to strip the leaves from the stalks. “Thought I’d give it a whirl. I’ve got a little bush basil out there, too. I used it in the salad. I’ve, uh, even been thinking of trying to grow a little cherry tomato plant. Nothing like homegrown tomatoes.” He added the parsley leaves to the risotto and mixed them in.

“You’ve grown them before?”

“No. But I’ve eaten them.” He gave her a wink. He stirred vigorously, making the risotto creamy and wavy – “all’onda,” he informed her. “Would you bring the wine?” He removed his apron and carried the pan into the dining room. They made a return trip as Steele brought back heated shallow soup plates and she brought the salad.

Steele seated her along the long end of the table. Looking at the white dishes, black cups, gray walls, she sighed. Gray. The color Murphy despised. “Murphy’s still leaving.”

Steele paused in putting his jacket on and adjusting his tie. “I tried talking to him, telling him it wasn’t necessary – ”

“I know. Thank you for that.” She touched his arm as he seated himself next to her.

“He was merely protecting your interests.”

“His bark was worse than his bite, you know.” At Steele’s wince, she touched his arm again and smiled apologetically. “What I mean is, Murphy could’ve refused to take part in the break-in at the Raeders, or in the laying of that last little trap for them. He could’ve turned you in to the police either of those times. He even came to visit you at the jail hospital and helped clean up your apartment.” And despite what he’d said, Murphy had come to trust Steele’s intentions toward this agency – and her. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have left. ‘No,’ he’d protested, ‘I trust you to keep him in line.’ Laura cast her eyes down and picked up a fork, playing with it.

Steele leaned over and said softly, “I’m sorry. I know he was your good friend.”

She gave a small smile, putting a hand over his. “He’s still my good friend.”

Steele nodded and cleared his throat. “Well, shall we try the risotto?”

The risotto glistened with a transparent sauce and had a wonderful taste of grain – tender, with just a slight firmness at its center. The meal passed in pleasant conversation, filled with friendly laughter. Laura felt intensely aware of the man beside her, as sensitized as the sandpapered fingers of a safecracker, registering each touch of his elbow or foot as he shifted in his chair, each touch of his hand as he passed her the salad, the risotto, or her wine glass.

God, he was sexy. A man just didn’t have the right to look that good. But it wasn’t only that. He was charming, intriguing, engaging . . . heart-robbing. And for each of his virtues she could name ten of his faults. But not tonight, not tonight. Tonight, she didn’t want to work on the puzzle that was him, the most complex one she’d ever encountered, let alone the conundrum of why she was so drawn to him. Some things just are. Tonight, she wanted to celebrate. Tonight, she wanted to indulge herself, and he was an expert on indulgence. She smiled to herself.

“Ready for dessert? Coffee and torte?”

“Oh, I really shouldn’t . . . . ” At his hurt look she relented – not that she’d thought she really could’ve declined. “I’d love some.”

She helped him clear their plates and brought out the coffee as he began cutting them generous slices of torte at the table. She moaned. She was in heaven. Three layers of dark chocolate and almonds, the layers separated by a filling of milk and Gianduja chocolates. The glazing was spread evenly over the top and sides, with more piped on as a decorative edge. It was finished with a small rectangular bittersweet thin.

He pooled some red raspberry puree onto their dessert plates and set the slices on top. Edible art.

“It’s stunning.”

“Prepare yourself to be transported to the heights of ecstasy.” He sat back down next her, put her plate in front of her, and picked up her fork. Turning toward her, he smiled and rested his hand on the back of her chair, barely touching her, as he fed her the first chocolatey bite.

“Oh.” She closed her eyes. “Oh.” She should say something a little less monosyllabic. “Oh.” She was hopeless.

She opened her eyes. He didn’t seem to mind her lack of eloquence. He sat there, wearing a delighted smile, feeding her bites, absorbed in watching her chew. She ran her tongue slowly over her lips, trying to extract every last essence of chocolate. He brought his napkin to her mouth, dabbing at its corners. Surely those crumbs were imaginary? She could’ve sworn she got them all. He slowly moved his head toward hers.

She straightened. “I have a surprise.”

“You always do,” he said in a teasing voice, sitting back in his chair.

“Finish your dessert.”

“That’s what I was tryin’ to do, Miss Holt.” Picking up his fork, his eyes lit with amusement, he started in on his torte.

Thank God he never pushed. She was the aggressor, despite his occasional sexual innuendo. She was the one who at unexpected moments literally seized him and pulled him into a kiss. But much as her body screamed at her to follow through, she never could. She’d told him many months ago, and despite what she’d told him at the Federal Reserve Bank, she still worried. She’d get in too deep. He’d go. She’d be left. In too deep. And whenever she’d think, just this time, just this time, it’d be alright and it’ll all work out, her words would come back and haunt her. And she’d stop. And he wouldn’t push. Sometimes she’d wish he’d push. But not really. Sometimes she thought he purposely didn’t push because he knew that made her even . . . itchier, and he was just waiting for her to go over the edge. No, that was uncalled for. He just accepted what she gave him, honoring her body language while enjoying the communication, never complaining about her seeming ‘hit on, then run’ seduction strategy.

She gave him a sidelong glance, heat flooding her body as it insisted on making known its desires. Now his courting moves were like an orchestrated dance, never the same but always with a gentlemanly flow, a gentle manly flow. How well he read her moods. One time his approach would be a romantic slow waltz, the next a flirtatious rhumba. He knew when it was time for a sensuous samba, a thrilling tango, a hot salsa. And how would he be as a lover? He’d adapt to her responses, stopping when she wanted to stop, going when she wanted to go, doing less when she wanted less, more when she wanted –

“More?”

“What?” She dropped her fork.

He pointed at her plate. “Dessert. Do you want another piece?”

“No. Thank you. It was exquisite.”

“Thank you. I’ll wrap some up for you to take home.”

Damn. She really was going to have to tell him about the chocolate. Next time. She took his hand and led him to the couch. “Sit.”

As he removed his jacket and loosened his tie and collar, she pulled out a few carefully gift-wrapped items she’d hidden underneath the couch. Handing them to him, she seated herself next to him.

His eyes widened. “Thank you. What’s this?”

“‘Welcome home’ presents.”

“Laura, you shouldn’t have.” He tore into the biggest one as if afraid she’d agree.

“Actually, that one’s not from me. I found it at your door.”

They stared down at the book, ‘The Unicorn Tapestries.’ Steele opened it to the bookmarked page, featuring the last tapestry. The caption read: ‘“The Unicorn in Captivity”: the unicorn, miraculously alive and whole again, lies chained to a circular wooden gate in a lush garden, a happy pet, tamed by the maiden, enjoying the Garden of Eden.’

Laura ran a finger along the border of the page. “All I can see is a unicorn all tied up, fenced in, on public display, wounded.”

She glanced sideways at Steele and then turned her head to look at him more fully. His face was frozen into an expressionless mask, his eyes distant. What was wrong? She touched his hand. It felt like ice. As the long moment of silence continued, she put her hand on his knee. Suddenly, like a spring uncoiling, he relaxed beside her.

He touched her hand and smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. Some say the wound is really just the juice from the pomegranate tree he’s lying under, symbolizing rebirth.” He shrugged. “Even if he’s truly wounded, he survives. And see? The chain isn’t sturdy, the fence is low, and I think he rather enjoys the public attention. He could easily escape if he wanted to.”

“Why do you think he doesn’t try?”

He shrugged again. “He has the maiden for a companion, and . . . he’s in paradise.” Dropping his eyes, he cleared his throat and reached for the other gifts, setting the book on the table before them. “Now, what have we here?” Giving her an excited grin, he ripped the wrappings off the other ones as well, one after the other, like a child at Christmas.

Laura tried not to wince. She’d have sworn he’d never gotten a present before. She’d managed to re-use that wrapping paper through several occasions of gift-giving and had been planning on asking him if she could have it back. Her annoyance faded as she took a look at his face, lit with a thirty-two-teeth smile.

He fingered the videotapes in his hands. “Laura . . . thank you. ‘Casablanca,’ ‘Gaslight,’ ‘The Maltese Falcon’ – ”

“I replaced them all. I just couldn’t lug them all up, not to mention stuff them under your couch. You can carry the box up from my car, later.”

“Thank you.” His eyes asked a question and she answered with hers. He leaned toward her and gave her a kiss.

She broke it first, saying, “I have another one here. I thought we could rent a player and watch it tonight.” She got up and retrieved it from under the couch as he set the others on the table.

He grinned at her and once again tore the wrapping off. “‘To Catch a Thief.’” He chuckled. “Have you seen it?”

“No. I’ve been too busy trying to catch one of my own.” She smiled.

He smiled in return. He put the tape with the others, turned to her, and took her hand in one of his, moving close. He reached out with the other hand, gently brushed her hair back off her shoulder, and lightly trailed his hand down her arm. “It’s a wonderful film. . . . There’s a scene, a classic. . . . Fireworks burstin’ outside the window. . . . Frances Stevens, sittin’ on the couch, tryin’ to bait John Robie into revealin’ his past . . . seducin’ him into a kiss. Perhaps we should re-enact it,” – he cupped her chin and dropped a light kiss on one cheek – “put us in the proper mood” – he kissed the other temple.

Irish. This time it was clear as a bell. That undertone to his speech was definitely Irish. She put her hands on his shoulders and closed her eyes, sighing as he continued to plant tiny kisses across her eyelids while leaning her back against the couch. The kisses slowly trailed down her cheek, across her chin and up the other side. Oh. . . . Soft, warm kisses. Chocolate kisses. She could smell the chocolate on his breath. Chocolate. So addicting. A forbidden pleasure. Oh . . . morechocolatekissesplease.

“Is this . . . is this how the scene goes?” she finally managed.

“The action’s off-screen. I’m improvisin’.”

She moaned as he folded about her, tangling his fingers in her hair, placing kisses above and below her lips. She encircled his lean, willowy body with her arms, feeling the beat of his heart . . . it was fast . . . not too fast . . . feeling the heat of his body . . . it was hot . . . not too hot. A different kind of fever this time. “Fireworks . . . .” She lost her train of thought.

“Yes,” he whispered.

She felt him reach behind the couch cushions. His lips pulled into a grin. Puzzled, she opened her eyes . . . to see him dangling a pair of purple plastic handcuffs, each wristlet embossed with ‘Take Me, I’m Yours.’ His blue eyes sparked mischief.

She laughed, shifted her weight, pressed him back against the couch, and covered his mouth with her own.

****

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