Author's Note:
This fic is an experiment in writing an ordinary episode of this series - to learn how the mystery plotting and fun of solving a puzzle underpins the character stuff we all love so much.
I've structured the story as if it were an episode: four acts, five to eight scenes per act, with action building to each act break. There is a mystery with multiple twists, a mixture of comedy and drama, and moments that advance the ongoing romantic storyline.
Like a real teleplay, I describe only what the camera can see, and the emotions/thoughts that the actors could reasonably be expected to portray - there is less interior dialogue and less description of the environment than you will find with most fan fic. Dialogue and dramatic action do most of the storytelling work.
I've set this story in the latter half of season 2. In fact, if it would have aired at the time dictated by the story, it would replace "Molten Steele".
FADE IN
"You're just going to let him get away with the necklace," Laura declared, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
"And what would you have me do," Steele replied.
They stood in the dim light cast by a single street lamp on a crisp, cloudless night – Laura in jeans and black sweater, Steele in a well-worn leather jacket. The lamp, the street, the sidewalk, had all seen better days, as had the whole neighborhood, truth be told.
"Defend my honor," Laura stated evenly. "Go after the little punk."
Steele laughed now, recognizing the game and refusing to take the bait. Laura smiled at his recognition.
"Don't you think you're taking this all a little too seriously," Steele said, maneuvering them both to an open place in the crowd. "The kid was what, ten? And don't get me started on the quality of that necklace."
"I had it first," Laura said plainly, raising her voice to compete with the cheers and cries of the surging crowd as the next parade float came into view.
As the float edged closer Laura waved her arms in the air and gleefully shouted with the throng, "Throw me something, mister!" Shiny plastic beads in a fantastic variety of colors rained down upon the Mardi Gras parade-goers. A red necklace whizzed past Laura's outstretched hand, just out of reach. With his height advantage, Steele grabbed it with ease and graciously offered it to a small girl who suddenly materialized at his side. "I saw that," Laura teased.
The float groaned to a full stop and the crowd rushed forward towards the barricades. Near the rear of a brightly decorated platform that crowned the float's upper deck, a costumed man wearing a purple mask twirled a clutch of white beads around the index finger of his left hand. Taking a swig of his beer, the man feigned nonchalance, as if his entire purpose in this staged performance was not to distribute favors to the people below. Taunting the crowd, he pulled one long strand from the clutch and extended his arm, making eye contact through the narrow slits of his mask with one member of the crowd and then another. He flicked his wrist as if to fling the beads to their intended destination and then refused to release the prize at the last moment.
Steele noticed a four-year old boy, positioned by his father on a makeshift platform near the top of a wooden ladder, watching the man with rapt attention. Each time the man extended his arm as if to throw, the boy wore an expression of delight, certain it was his turn to win favor. Each time the man pulled back and refused to throw, the boy was devastated. Steele knew the man would continue his act for as long as the float remained in one place, or as long as the crowd remained tantalized and amused by the tease, but the boy was another story. The boy was taken in by the act every time.
"This is growing a bit tiresome, Laura," Steele said. "Can't we move on?"
"I suppose," Laura replied, looking at her watch. "Martin said he would meet us at Lee Circle at the end of tonight's parade to explain why he called us down here, but there does seem to be some sort of delay."
"I haven't eaten since Los Angeles," Steele said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "And I wasn't expecting New Orleans in early March to rival Dublin in cold and damp."
As they picked their way to back of the crowd, the parade began moving again. A long strand of white beads soared overhead and came to rest on a stretch of hurricane fence that paralleled the sidewalk. Steele swiped the trinket and handed it to Laura with a flourish. "For you," he pronounced.
"Why Mr. Steele," she smiled. "I thought you'd never."
CUT TO:
An hour later Laura and Steele faced a nervous young man, Martin Bailey, across a small table in a darkened dive several blocks off Canal Street. "I wish I could have taken you somewhere grander," the man began, fidgeting in his plastic chair as he took in the surroundings, "but with the events of the past few days I felt we had to meet somewhere that we wouldn't be spotted."
"This certainly fits the bill," Steele said, perusing a laminated menu with a conspicuous cigarette burn on the lower right corner.
"Mr. Steele and I understand your caution, Martin," Laura interrupted. "And we're not much for ceremony at times like these."
Steele leaned across the table. "Yes, but now that we're here, don't you think it's time you filled us in on the exact nature of the times we might be dealing with."
"Certainly, Mr. Steele. My apologies," Martin replied, absently fingering his tie as he spoke. "Wednesday, two days ago, I received word at my law office that Jim and Leslie Calhoun, two of my dearest friends here in New Orleans, were found dead in their home." Martin handed a copy of the Times Picayune to Laura. It was neatly folded to the obituary page and bearing a photo of the young couple in happier days. "Leslie was a brilliant law student," Martin said. "I wouldn't have survived Contracts without her. And after law school, once she met Jim, we all became fast friends – nearly inseparable."
"I'm very sorry for your loss," Laura said, quickly scanning the page and passing it to Steele.
Martin continued. "I was shocked, as you might imagine, but assumed that it was some random accident – carbon monoxide poisoning or, at worst, a burglary gone terribly wrong. I was grateful that they weren't leaving a child orphaned. It's funny the way one's mind works at these moments."
"Yes," Steele said, somewhat absently. "It is odd."
Laura looked at Steele closely but couldn't decipher his thoughts. Turning her gaze back to Martin, she encouraged him to continue with his story.
"Yesterday, I learned the police ruled it a murder. That's when I knew something was really wrong."
"And you began to fear for your own life," Steele surmised.
"No," Martin exclaimed. "You don't understand. Look here." Martin suddenly sprung up and grabbed the newspaper from Steele's hand, unfolding the paper to the reveal the front of the Metro section. "The police believe Leslie caught Jim with another woman, murdered him in a passionate rage, and then turned the gun on herself. That's when I knew there was a terrible conspiracy."
"A conspiracy Martin. Aren't we skipping a few steps here?" Steele questioned, repossessing the newspaper and examining the full color photo of the Calhoun's home encircled with yellow crime scene tape.
Laura shared a measure of Steele's skepticism but endeavored to keep her own doubts under wraps. "You'll have to excuse Mr. Steele's brusque manner this evening, Martin. It's not the general policy of the Steele Agency to put our clients on trial." Laura caught Steele's eye, then turned back to Martin, continuing, "Please, finish telling us about your friends."
Martin was temporarily placated. "There's not much more to tell, frankly. Leslie would never have done such a thing. It's that simple. Someone must have murdered them both, and the police are covering it up. As soon as I realized that, I called you, Laura."
Just as Laura was about to respond, Steele interjected. "Would you excuse Miss Holt and I for a moment, Martin. Thank you." Steele stood up from table and gestured to the far corner of the room.
"Laura, let's make our apologies and get out of here. This man is clearly delusional."
"Martin graduated near the top of our class at Stanford and sailed through Tulane Law School," Laura responded. "He is by no means delusional and I intend to hear him out. Certainly you don't contend that every homicide detective you've ever encountered was on the up and up."
"No, of course not…," Steele stammered.
"And New Orleans has one of the most corrupt police forces in the country," Laura declared forcefully, taking a step back towards the table. Three heads at the bar turned in their direction.
Steele grabbed Laura's arm and signaled for her to keep her voice down. "All the more reason," he said quietly, releasing her arm and gesturing to the men at the bar. "All the more reason for us to politely decline this case. We have no idea what we're dealing with here. The culture, the rituals, the personal intrigue are all completely foreign to us. There must be dozens of perfectly competent detectives in the local yellow pages."
With a smile Laura broke eye contact, strode to the table to grab her purse, and crossed back to Steele. Unzipping her bag, she deposited the keys to the rental car in his open hand, and then resumed her seat across the table from Martin.
"Laura, what are you doing?" Steele asked, rejoining her at the table.
"I'm a perfectly competent private investigator and I'm helping my friend and my client. I'll call you in Los Angeles in a few days and let you know how everything turns out."
CUT TO:
Later that evening, Martin Bailey ushered Steele and Laura into a furnished apartment in one of the Pontabla Buildings in the center of the French Quarter, flanking Jackson Square.
"I'm pleased you reconsidered, Mr. Steele," Martin stated as he closed a window overlooking the square. "I hope the revelry below won't disturb you too greatly. All of the hotel rooms in the city have long been booked."
"This will be fine, Martin. Don't worry," Laura said, surveying the small bedroom and bath while Steele stretched out on the living room couch.
"My law firm maintains this apartment for out of town partners," Martin continued. "It's normally unavailable this time of year as well."
"How can we reach you tomorrow?" Steele asked Martin, tossing the keys onto the coffee table with a sigh.
"Tomorrow is Endymion," Martin said.
"Endymion," Steele repeated.
"The Krewe of Endymion holds their Mardi Gras parade and ball tomorrow night. It's one of the largest of the season," Martin explained with real enthusiasm. "The entire parade travels inside the Louisiana Superdome where there's a lavish party for the krewe and their guests. Kool and the Gang is going to perform a full concert."
"Kool and the Gang, really," Steele said, conjuring a tone he knew Laura would decode as sarcasm, but would sail just over the head of their new client.
"What a fascinating ritual," Laura chimed in, matching his tone effortlessly. "Mr. Steele has such a fondness for American disco and R&B."
"Yes, well it's too bad we'll have to miss that spectacle," Steele replied. "We'll be off working the case after all."
"But that's where you'll unmask the killer," Martin answered.
"Just like that," Steele said.
"Yes," Martin replied.
"You'll point the killer out," Steele said.
"Yes, exactly. And then you'll trap him."
"Like they do in the movies," Steele added.
"You are the best, aren't you?" Martin replied, in an almost childlike tone. "Jim and Leslie deserve the best."
"Laura," Steele summoned.
"Oh, it won't be a problem to get inside the gala." Martin produced an envelope from the inside pocket of his suit coat. "We have tickets. Leslie gave them to me at lunch last week."
Laura sat beside Martin. "We'll do everything we can to unravel this case," Laura said in her most calm and rational manner, "but we can't possibly devise a plan to trap the killer at this point in the investigation. Mr. Steele and I have a great many facts to uncover before we can conclude that there was a murder at all. We'll start with the police report first thing in the morning."
"You won't get a police report before Wednesday morning. It's Mardi Gras. No one conducts regular business," Martin explained. "And I've told you, the report is a lie."
"Due to the conspiracy," Steele said, no longer bothering to hide his sarcasm.
"Yes, the conspiracy," Martin repeated.
"Martin, we all need a good night's sleep," Laura interjected, ushering him to the door. "Let's reconvene in the morning, and start fresh from there."
With a small nod, Martin assented and reluctantly exited to the hallway. "In the morning, then," he echoed, as Laura closed the door behind him.
"Top in your class at Stanford, eh?" Steele said when he was certain Martin was out of earshot.
"Don't start," Laura replied with a sigh, removing her heels and joining him on the couch. "I sat next to him in a logic class," Laura laughed. "Come to think of it, he was always asking to copy my notes."
Steele gathered Laura in an embrace and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. "It's certainly not the long weekend I imagined when you swept into my apartment this morning and told me to pack my bags for Mardi Gras."
"I told you we had a case," Laura said, settling comfortably into his arms.
"Yes, I know, I know. But I didn't think it was going to be a case," Steele replied. "I thought we'd squeeze in dinner at Galatoire's and haunt a few jazz clubs."
"So now you admit that there is a case," Laura said.
"I admit that this whole place is strange, starting with our client."
A loud cry erupted from the revelers below as a rag-tag troupe of costumed musicians entered the square below and began to play a raucous version of "When the Saints Go Marching In."
"Looks like you'll get to hear some music after all," Laura said, crossing the room and pushing the heavy drape aside to reveal a small balcony. Stepping outside, Laura noticed an assortment of colorful beads haphazardly adorning the wrought-iron balcony railings. Steele pulled on his leather jacket and joined Laura on the balcony, his mood lightening a bit as the crowd clapped in time with the upbeat tune.
But as more of throng moved towards the impromptu concert, Steele noticed a lifeless form in the shadows against the stone curb. "Laura," he said softly, drawing her attention to the figure below.
"Oh, dear Lord," she said. "Martin."
Steele made his way out of the apartment and down the stairs in a flash, pushing aside several young men huddled near the front door. He rushed to the slumped figure and turned him gently to his side.
"Is it?" Laura asked, reaching the scene.
"Most definitely," Steele replied, holding two fingers to the man's jugular to check for a pulse.
Laura's face was a mask of professionalism as Steele's eyes conveyed the grim truth. "I'll go up and call the police," she said. "Now, we have a case."
FADE OUT
END ACT ONE
