A/N: Yes, another AU, but only because what's actually happening on the show right now is so exciting, I don't want to mess with canon (at least not yet). So, I hope you enjoy this little escape into another universe. Some of you older readers might recognize the parallels between this story and the 1980's TV show, Remington Steele. I admit to stealing the basic premise of the show, but the rest is all mine. So if you're unfamiliar with it, it should make no difference in your enjoyment of this fic. At first you might see Lisbon's actions as a bit out of character, but I beg you to just go with it, and I promise you'll soon see her true colors shining through…
Private Eyes
Chapter 1
"This case could show that we're not just a one-trick pony," said Teresa Lisbon, leaning back in the black leather chair behind the big desk of her office. She smiled and closed her eyes blissfully.
Grace Van Pelt, one of her partners in Patrick Jane Investigations, shook her head in wonder.
"I can't believe we'll actually be working for a state senator's son."
"Well, a senator's son's lawyer," Lisbon corrected. "If we get Richard Harper the younger out of this murder wrap, we'll finally be able to pick and choose the cases we want, not take every suspicious spouse or low-rent security job that comes our way." She picked up the tasteful gold nameplate on her desk and studied the bold letters fondly: Patrick Jane.
"Thanks to that stolen diamond case we solved last week-I mean Mr. Jane solved—and our company name on the front page of the Bee, Senator Harper's family is willing to take a chance on us."
"Not to mention the fact that the senator knew you from the CBI…" He'd been a DA back then, Grace recalled. "But what if his son's not innocent?"
"I still have my principles-twenty-five-thousand dollar retainer or no. If it turns out we find evidence the kid did it, well, we drop the case."
Just at that moment, Wayne Rigsby walked in, his eyes going round as he heard his boss's last words.
"You're kidding, right?"
He for one could use the extra money. They'd yet to make a profit since they'd started this agency a year and a half ago, and despite the uptick since they'd made the big name change, it had been a genuine struggle to keep his head above water, and his savings had been depleted investing in this new venture. It was worth it, Rigsby knew, because it meant he could be with Grace. Recovery of those stolen diamonds had been a much needed break, but if things didn't improve dramatically in the next few months, he might have to consider getting back into law enforcement just to pay the bills, or put off his plans to propose to Grace.
"No, I'm not kidding. We agreed when we started this that we would only take cases we really believed in."
Rigsby well remembered; that's why it had taken them so long to come out ahead. Cheating husbands and finding long-lost relatives didn't exactly rake in the big bucks.
"If the senator's son killed his girlfriend," Lisbon continued, "no way am I helping an entitled, murdering playboy stay out of prison."
Rigsby and Van Pelt supposed they could agree with that, but money was still tight. Just then, the phone on the desk rang and Lisbon reached over to answer it.
"Patrick Jane Investigations. Teresa Lisbon speaking."
She immediately sat up straighter in her chair. "Yes, Senator," she said, her green eyes wide as she looked at her coworkers. She paused to listen to the strident voice on the line. "Yes, we'll have all our best people on it, sir. Yes, of course Mr. Jane will have a close hand in all aspects of the investigation…"
She blanched, noting how the couple shared her slight look of alarm. "You want to meet him? Well, sir, I'm afraid Mr. Jane is—yes, I did say he was going to be involved. Yes. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. We'll uh, see you tomorrow then. Good-bye."
She barely restrained herself from slamming down the phone in its cradle.
"Holy shit," said Rigsby. His were Lisbon's unspoken sentiments exactly.
She closed her eyes briefly, willing herself not to panic. She couldn't let her team see how close they were to ruin now. That diamond case had only made a small dent in their debt. But it was a start.
"How the hell are we going to get out of this one, Boss," asked Grace, her own brow furrowed with trepidation.
Lisbon dropped her hands. "We don't, of course. We do what we always do: evasive maneuvers."
"But what-?" Rigsby began.
She waved a reassuring hand. "Don't worry about it. You guys were about to give up on this business before I came up with my last brilliant plan. Now, look at us—working for a senator's son! You two start looking into Harper's story, while I give our current hiccup some thought."
They trusted her implicitly, which was why, when she had decided to leave the California Bureau of Investigation, Rigsby and Van Pelt had gone with her. Well, that and it was against the rules of the CBI for romantic fraternization within a team. A ready-made job where they could work together was just too tempting to pass up.
Lisbon would get them out of this mess as she had always done, and everything would be just fine. Or, so hoped Wayne Rigsby.
When the pair left her office, Lisbon allowed her head to droop forward into her hands, emitting a soft groan of frustration. She picked up the nameplate again and stared at it as if it held the key to this quandary she'd created. Really, she should have known better.
She was only running this detective agency because someone had discovered another lie she'd told five years before, and she'd been drummed out of the CBI by her former boss, Virgil Minnelli, who had kindly given her the opportunity to leave with her honor, dignity, and severance pay intact—if she never worked in law enforcement again. Minelli, her mentor and friend, might have himself glossed over it completely, except that too many others knew about it, namely the new CBI Director, Gale Bertram. As it was, the bureau tended to shy away from scandal, which was why Sam Bosco had been given the same deal. She supposed she should count herself lucky she'd only lost her badge.
The second biggest lie she'd ever told was now back to bite her in the ass, but this lie had come from desperation, from a place of self preservation. Her team had counted on her, had joined her agency out of loyalty as well as for personal reasons, and she hadn't wanted to fail them. But they had very nearly failed until she came up with something unbelievably daring and dishonest—an idea the uncharitable would label fraud. But in these days of the horrendous California economy, she had no idea if she could find another job. This was it—she'd poured all of her savings (as well as Rigsby's and Grace's) into this agency. If they folded, they would lose everything.
So she'd invented Patrick Jane…
Xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Six months before…
Capital Investigations. It was near the top of the list in the phone book, alphabetically speaking anyway. They'd advertised in newspapers too, and sent brochures to old contacts within law enforcement. Few had bitten. They didn't have the budget for television or radio ads, and their website, though beautifully and professionally constructed by Van Pelt, hadn't lured them in as the trio had hoped.
Lisbon blamed the economy, but perhaps she had to face the truth of it: her reputation held the unmistakable whiff of scandal about it. What she'd done wasn't supposed to be public knowledge, but people talked, and she realized with a sinking heart that there would be no business forthcoming from that quarter of her old life. In addition, there was nothing particularly enticing or new in the name, Capital Investigations. Sacramento was the State Capital, so you couldn't swing a cat without a business attempting to capitalize (so to speak) on that fact. Nothing set them apart to the general public, either.
Something had to change.
Lisbon made this realization as she sat in the diner around the corner from the office building housing her floundering detective agency. She sipped her second cup of the bitter coffee, dreading going into work that morning to an empty waiting area and the worried expressions of her coworkers. She could sense they were on the verge of leaving, and she couldn't blame them.
She picked up the discarded newspaper of one of the booth's previous occupants, frowning when she saw that only the entertainment and want ads remained; someone had taken the news and sports pages. With a heavy sigh, she idly flipped open the movie section. Pierce Brosnan was apparently starring in a new movie. She'd always loved the handsome actor, even before he had played James Bond back in the nineties. It was the eighties that had introduced her to Remington Steele. Brosnan had played the suave, sophisticated conman who'd assumed the role of the illusive though brilliant detective, saving the failing agency of a smart female investigator who…
No, Teresa, she said to herself. Don't even think about it.
But once the idea had taken hold, she hadn't been able to shake it. She paid her tab at the diner and walked back to her office, clutching the entertainment section in one damp palm. Laura Holt had gotten away with it, and she'd had to deal with the sexism of the early eighties. Teresa only had to overcome a mildly sullied reputation. What if…?
She smiled in greeting as she walked past Rigsby and Van Pelt in the reception area, the former munching on his morning cruller, the latter already busy at the front desk computer, no doubt trying further to finesse the already perfect Capital Investigations website.
"Good morning, Boss," they called, the moniker an old habit from their CBI days. Technically, they were partners.
"Morning. Any bites today?" she asked hopefully.
Van Pelt shook her head, eyeing her boyfriend in amusement. "Only Rigsby and his fat and carb bombs," she remarked dryly.
"Hey!" he protested, mouth full.
"If the cruller fits," said Van Pelt with a shrug, eyeing his once flat abs. Lots of downtime left lots of time for donuts.
Lisbon smiled, and, leaving them to their flirtatious bickering, opened the door to her private office.
Nothing new this morning. No new case. Each tick of her internal clock seemed to taunt her. No new case meant no new cash. The rent on this place was due next week, which meant dipping further into their dwindling reserves. She sat behind her desk, for the first time in a year wishing for the stack of paperwork she used to hate at the CBI. She tossed the entertainment section on her desk, Pierce Brosnan smiling up at her beguilingly.
And for a moment—just a moment—she allowed herself to dream…
What if they had an untainted name on their masthead? Someone beyond reproach, with a perfect record, brilliant at solving cases? Someone wealthy and charming, who inspired confidence in their clientele? She imagined for a moment a tall, dark-haired man with sparkling blue eyes, who filled out a suit like he was born in one. He would be the guiding light of their agency, a symbol of trust and integrity, their faithful leader.
She shook her head. That isn't exactly what she wanted. Not a leader. Not a boss. While Lisbon was good at following orders, she didn't know if she could trust anyone ever again to have that much power and control over her life, even a figment of her imagination. Then she remembered Remington Steele, and everything seemed to fall into place. It didn't have to be a real boss, or even a real person. A man with all of those characteristics was nearly impossible to find, especially in this day and age. Realistically, such a man would more than likely be arrogant, egotistical, and controlling. No, all she really needed was a figurehead.
But what to call him?
She sat back in her chair, contemplating this dangerous idea taking shape in her mind. If she thought much about the logistics of such an endeavor, the risks involved, she would chicken out. She would flesh out the basic premise and present the idea to her team. Van Pelt was brilliant with a computer. She could plant any kind of information she wanted, make it look real, untraceable. They would artificially build up excitement and anticipation of their new leader.
It wouldn't be fraud, exactly, would it? Was there a real Betty Crocker? A real Mrs. Fields? A real Colonel Sanders? Okay, bad example, she thought of the last. But there wasn't a Colonel anymore, was there? Why couldn't their namesake be a symbolic one too?
She steepled her fingers, elbows resting on the leather arms of her chair. But what to name him? She couldn't be as blatantly hokey as Remington Steele, named after a typewriter and a football team, explicitly designed to sound wealthy and powerful. No, her man's name should sound real, though distinctive, yet imply a sort of everyman. She looked around her office, but all she could come up with were names from furniture and office supplies.
She opened her desk drawer and withdrew the Sacramento telephone book. She set the heavy volume on her desk and opened it to the white pages. She perused a few pages, but nothing stood out to her, and she felt a little overwhelmed. Time was of the essence, and she didn't want to waste any of it over-thinking the details. She closed her eyes, laying her finger upon a thin page. She would leave it to fate. Wherever it stopped, she would live with that name, no matter what, she promised herself. She let her finger wander down the book, then stopped her movement arbitrarily. She opened her eyes. Her finger had landed on a first name: Patrick.
Patrick. Hmmm…It sounded a bit Irish, but then, she was Irish too. The name was a common one, yet a bit old-fashioned and even whimsical. It could work, and besides, she was leaving it to fate, so she felt like this was the name she was meant to choose. Now, for a last name.
She turned a few pages and repeated the closed eye process, alighting on her creation's last name: Jane. Jane? She wasn't as pleased with that, because it sounded like a woman's name, and didn't call to mind a powerful man. She had heard of an actor with that last name, and maybe a rugby player, but no one overly familiar. But maybe that touch of uniqueness would make him seem more memorable, more real.
"Patrick Jane," she said aloud. "Patrick Jane Investigations. It has a nice ring to it."
The rest, as they say, was history.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
They had worked the Harper case for two weeks, managing to put the senator off where Mr. Jane was concerned. Events in the Capitol had kept the senator from hounding them too much about their pretend boss's whereabouts. They'd been lucky, able to fall back on their old games of telephone tag and prestidigitation.
"Oh, I'm afraid you just missed him, sir."
"Mr. Jane just stepped out."
"Mr. Jane was called away on an emergency case. I'll be sure to pass on your message."
Until finally, they'd had this to say:
"Mr. Jane has been hard at work on your son's case, I can assure you sir. As a matter of fact, we just found evidence that should clear him!"
Then, as if really by magic (at least according to the senator) the information Lisbon and her team had painstakingly unearthed had paid off. Richard Harper, II had been exonerated, all charges dropped. There would be a press conference in two hours, and Patrick Jane Investigations was in panic mode. Senator Harper insisted Patrick Jane be present, to say a few words about his son's innocence, to answer questions as to how he had solved the case so quickly and so brilliantly.
He wouldn't take no for an answer.
Lisbon arrived at the diner before Rigsby and Van Pelt. It was pouring rain, and she had successfully avoided any deep puddles as she'd hurried to meet them, her pant suit staying relatively dry beneath her umbrella and light raincoat. The press was camped out outside their office building, waiting for the great Patrick Jane to arrive and give some off-the-cuff comment about the big news, so she'd told her team to meet her here. Just as she went to open the heavy door to the diner, a gust of wind caught her umbrella, turning it inside out while at the same time water from the roof splashed down on her head.
She gasped in surprise, sputtering and cussing as she worked to get control of her wayward umbrella. Finally, she collapsed the cursed contraption, and stepped inside the diner, mad as a wet cat. She angrily brushed the dripping hair out of her eyes, when suddenly she felt as if someone were watching her. Her gaze rested with embarrassment on the most beautiful man Lisbon had ever seen. His hair was blond and curly, his pale green eyes bright with humor, and his wide, white smile jolted her heart almost painfully as he noted her plight in amusement. She flushed and his grin widened, and she averted her eyes before rushing to her usual booth, which happened to be right next to his.
She took off her raincoat, balling it up and tossing it, her umbrella, and satchel on the bench seat before she slid in next to them, grabbing napkins from the dispenser on the table to mop up her face and hands.
She looked up to see that the stranger was still watching her. Normally, she'd say something short to dissuade such attention, but with this man she found herself at a loss.
"A bit damp out there," he observed, not unkindly.
"A little," she said, and felt her dimple appear before she could think better of it. She noticed that he'd been reading the paper, the same one she'd seen on her doorstep this morning, with the headline: "Local Detective Agency Works to Vindicate Senator's Son." There was an accompanying photograph of her and the team, hard at work around a conference table.
"I'm sure a good dousing is the last thing you need today."
She nodded. So he'd realized who she was. She resisted the instinct to fix her hair or check her face in her compact.
"Congratulations. I heard on the radio this morning your guy's off the hook."
"Yes. Thanks," she said.
The waitress came to ask Lisbon's order, but all she requested was black coffee. She paused before the sexy stranger's table, offering to refill his cup with hot water, taking away his empty plate with what looked like the remnants of scrambled eggs. His sunny smile made the waitress blush heartily. Lisbon was somehow comforted that she wasn't the only one enthralled by the man.
He drank hot tea, she noted. Unusual for a man.
He caught her looking and gave her a little toast with his mug. "Nothing like hot tea on a nasty day like this. That song that says it never rains in California had obviously never been to Sacramento in the winter time."
"You forgot the rest of the song though," she found herself saying. His manner was so engaging she couldn't resist talking to him. "'It never rains in California… but it pours, man it pours.'"
"Ah, yes, that's right." He glanced out the window. "Indeed it does," he said wryly. She felt his soft eyes skate gently over her features, as if categorizing them one by one. He seemed to like what he saw, despite her bedraggled appearance. She blushed anew.
She wondered vaguely if her mascara was running down her cheeks, whether her naturally wavy hair had already begun to frizz as it dried, but she found that she wanted nothing more than to talk to this handsome man about the weather. For a moment, she'd totally forgotten the anxiety she'd been feeling when she'd first walked in. There was something oddly…soothing about him.
Her coffee arrived and she glanced at her watch. Rigsby and Van Pelt were late. She hoped they hadn't been stuck in traffic, or cornered by the press. She took a tentative sip of the strong brew.
"Waiting for someone?" he asked politely.
"Yes; the rest of my team. Trying to avoid the press."
Why was she sharing this with him? What was he, some sort of woman whisperer? With that smile and those eyes, he could probably get a woman to tell him anything.
"I can imagine. Still, quite a coup for your little agency, or so says the papers."
"Yes. Our big break."
If he'd read the article, he'd have discovered that they were a young company, though they'd had recent high profile success, thanks to the indomitable Mr. Jane.
"This Mr. Jane guy-he sounds pretty amazing."
She tensed, but tried not to show how disconcerting it was that he seemed to be reading her mind, not to mention having zeroed in on the most sensitive subject possible right now.
"Oh, he is," she said, in a tone she hoped didn't sound too suspiciously evasive.
"Sort of a recluse though, eh? There weren't any pictures of him with the article. Is he afraid they'll steal his soul?"
She chuckled in spite of herself. "Something like that."
His eyes narrowed a fraction, and she felt suddenly uncomfortable, like he really was reading her mind, but then his expression smoothed over again, his friendly demeanor returning.
"Are you in need of some investigative work, Mr.-?"
"Not at the moment," he replied, not filling in the blank with his name.
Lisbon felt at a distinct advantage with him. After all, he knew her name. For all she knew, he could be some sort of stalker or even a serial killer, scoping out his next victim. She'd certainly given him enough information, and combined with what she knew was in the newspaper article, it wouldn't be difficult at all to track her down. But her sixth sense wasn't screaming that he meant her harm, so she allowed herself to relax.
At that moment, she saw Rigsby and Van Pelt hurrying down the street, both wearing sensible rain gear. They came inside, shaking a little and pulling off their hats. They saw Lisbon and made a beeline toward her, then slid into the booth seat across the table from her, effectively blocking her view of her sexy new acquaintance.
"Well, good luck today," he said, rising to his feet. She admired his expensive three-piece suit, his perfect hair, his sparkling eyes. He bestowed upon her his glorious smile, bright enough that she had briefly forgotten the gloominess of the day.
"Thanks," she replied. "You too…with whatever it is you, uh, do."
She gave him one last dimpled smile, a little sad to see him go. It was the story of her life, really. Work always seemed to take precedent over a social life. Had she not been embroiled in a quagmire of her own making, she could have talked to him all day. With a small sigh of regret, she turned her attention to her team.
"Who was that?" whispered Van Pelt. "He was cute!"
"Yes, and I've no idea who he is," Lisbon said, with obvious regret.
Rigsby rolled his eyes at them both. "Can we please focus on what the hell we're going to do at the press conference? It's less than two hours away…"
As the trio became immersed in addressing the problem at hand, none of them realized that the stranger hadn't left at all, but had merely gone to the restroom. He returned to his booth, this time sitting in the seat directly behind Rigsby and Van Pelt. He sat back, picking up his teacup as he inclined his head to listen…
TBC
A/N: First of all, thanks for taking a chance with another of my crazy ideas. Please let me know what you think. Oh, and if you're wondering about Cho, don't worry, he'll be along soon…