STEELE IN COMMAND

When the cat was away, the mice were supposed to play. It was tradition. More than tradition - it was immortalised in rhyme. That gave it a status far above a mere saying, and elevated it to little less than a law. And so, with Laura Holt away at a private investigators' convention in Denver, Remington Steele was quite determined that he was going to play. The problem was, he couldn't seem to think of anything to do. Not anything that really seemed worth the effort, anyway; that really seemed to earn for itself the splendid, wonderful, glorious title of true play - of true irresponsibility. Nothing out of the ordinary. He had gone gambling the first night, staying out late, having one drink too many (vodka martinis, shaken not stirred, and more or less guaranteed to go straight to the head), and had stumbled into the office at half past one in the afternoon with his tie askew, and his embarrassingly large winnings dangling out of his breast pocket. Laura would have glared, fumed, shouted, and manhandled him into the nearest office. Mildred, on the other hand, gave him her usual cheery greeting, brought him a cup of tea and a newspaper, and told him that his diary was free for the day. So, pride as rumpled as his suit, he had spent the second night at a movie marathon in a fabulously ancient cinema, muttering Bogart's lines along with him, and winding up seeing in the new dawn in the company of a projectionist who looked at least as old as the building - possibly as old as Hollywood itself. They had made their way to a tiny bar with a rickety pool table, drunk what had felt like enough whisky to make Bogart himself proud, and Steele had hustled seventy-five dollars from the regulars around the pool table. He had told them that his name was Mick, and had danced at six o'clock in the morning with a doe-eyed Irish barmaid who had fabulous eyes, a club foot, and an almost unparalleled collection of John Wayne trivia stored away in her brain. He had wandered into the office at noon, with his tie in his pocket, a whisky glass still in his hand, and one shoe inexplicably missing; to be greeted once again with a cheery smile, a cup of tea and a newspaper. It really was most disheartening.

The problem, he had decided, was that with Laura away there was nobody to frustrate. True irresponsibility was made properly diverting only when there was somebody present to be annoyed by it. To turn pink, to steam, to fume, and to otherwise generally be entertaining. Steele had long ago realised that he enjoyed getting Laura annoyed. It lowered her defences. It made her just that little bit less proper, and just that little bit more unpredictable; and that was often the precursor to a very pleasant evening. With Mildred, that kind of entertainment just wasn't forthcoming - which in all honesty was probably a good thing. He was going to have to think again.

So he rang around. There was Phil, who had once helped him to steal sixty-thousand dollars worth of jewellery from a vault in Monte Carlo, and had recently turned up in a museum in downtown LA - but Phil, it seemed, had recently vanished, along with one of the museum's most prized exhibits. When he heard which one it was, Steele wasn't in the least surprised, and had to fight to keep the grin from showing in his voice as he spoke to the incensed proprietor at the other end of the telephone. So he tried again. Lisa and Kenny, the brother and sister who had helped him with more cons in more European cities than he could remember, were at present living in San Francisco. He was sure that between the three of them they could come up with something that would satisfy his desire for bad behaviour; but the number they had given him was disconnected, which left him fairly sure that they had already come up with something badly behaved all on their own. With Monroe now strictly on the level, that seriously limited the number of old ne'er-do-well associates that were currently within reach. He scowled at the telephone, and wondered if he should go back to that little out of the way bar, and see if he could hustle any more of the locals. It wasn't exactly playing away, though. Pool games played in anonymous bars, with another name to protect the identity of Remington Steele, were not even all that rare for him, especially when he was wound up after a tough and dangerous case. He was in the mood for misbehaviour. Just because the universe seemed determined to prevent him, was no reason that he could see for giving up.

"Er... boss?" It was Mildred, peering around the door at him as though suddenly overtaken by timidity. He smiled at her, somewhat distracted.

"Yes Mildred. What can I do for you?" He hoped that it wasn't a client, turning up unexpectedly and hoping for an audience with the great Remington Steele. The great Remington Steele, after all, still had a shoe missing, and his $100 silk tie stuffed into a pocket of a suit that had now seen better days. She smiled at him, looking oddly nervous. Nervous was not Mildred Krebs' most common look. Far from it.

"Er... it's a little complicated, boss." She smiled again, looking rather more awkward than was at all normal for a woman more usually given to striding through life with a gallant display of self-confidence. He put the phone down at last, her manner cutting through his preoccupation, and leaned forward. Mildred, at some point during the last couple of years of their acquaintance, had come to mean a great deal to both of her employers, and Steele in particular had become immensely fond of her. He gestured to a chair.

"Thanks, chief." She sat, still looking hesitant, and he frowned, painfully aware that he probably didn't look terribly reassuring just at the moment. Playing whilst the cat was away could have its disadvantages as well as its benefits. He tried out an encouraging smile.

"Trouble, Mildred? If you need some time off or something..."

"No, it's not that, chief." She sighed. "Well, it's a little... delicate."

"We've been friends a long time now." Two years was a fairly long time for him, anyway. He could only hope that she agreed. She seemed to.

"Yes. Well it's like this, boss. My housekeeper has been off sick for a while. She had an operation to sort out a bad back, so I've had this woman round lately, to help with some cleaning at my place. To take the heat off a little. You know how I put in some pretty long hours in the office..."

"I know, and it's appreciated. Much appreciated."

"Sure. I know it is." She paused. "Well, she's a nice woman. Has the sweetest little boy, about four or five years old. Only... well, she just rang. She didn't know who else to call, I guess. I told her I worked for this great private eye, you see, so she probably thought I could help..."

"And?" he prompted, as gently as seemed appropriate. She shrugged.

"Her car vanished today. A little while ago it came back."

"Well that's good."

"Not that good, no." She paused again. "See, when it came back... there was a dead body in the trunk."

"A dead..." He frowned. "Interesting rental charge."

"Boss..." Her tone was mildly reproachful. "She's upset, and she'd like to know what's going on. Like I said, she's got a little boy. She doesn't want there to be any trouble."

"No, of course not. The police..."

"That's sort of the problem." She lowered her eyes briefly. "See, Ada... that's her name... she's... well I don't think she's exactly... that is... she's not really in the country legally. If you get what I mean."

"I get what you mean." He had to smile then. Mildred Krebs was about as straight as it was possible to be; or always liked to give that impression. Either he was rubbing off on her, or she possessed the sort of hidden depths that he had always suspected she had - and that he approved of most highly. "Given that I'm not exactly in the country legally myself, I'm not likely to pass judgement on that, am I."

"Fair point." She flashed him a smile in return, the familiar lights returned to her eyes. "Well, I was rather hoping we could help her, you know? She's a good woman, boss. And--"

"And she has a little boy. Yes, I got that bit." He leaned back in his chair, staring at her across the wide expanse of his perennially empty desk. "Fine. I think we can manage that. Come on then." He rose to his feet and headed for the door, rather surprised that she didn't follow suit. "What is it? I thought you wanted to help the poor woman?"

"Yes..." She looked shifty again. "Well..."

"Ah." He got the point at last, and walked back to the desk, sitting on the corner nearest to her. "You were thinking more along the lines of Miss Holt's sort of help, rather than mine."

"She is the boss, boss. The... brains of the firm." She shuffled slightly in her chair. "No offence."

"No offence taken, Mildred." He sighed. "Things have changed rather, haven't they, these last couple of months."

"I guess they have a bit." She didn't meet his eyes. "It's not that I don't think you do a great job. You do. Mostly. Well... usually. It's just that Miss Holt is the senior partner here, and we both know that it's her who's the bona fide investigator. The real deal. The--"

"Yes, alright. There's no need to rub it in." He smiled at her then, eyes warm, rather touched by her concern for this woman and her young son. "But Laura is in Denver. She'll be there for three more days, and it's a break she's earned. She's out there now, with all her friends and colleagues, spending her time discussing cases and investigative theory with people who live for the job as much as she does. It's the first time she's seen Murphy Michaels since that birthday do last year, and I don't plan on bringing her back early. So if your friend wants this investigated now, she's going to have to make do with Remington Steele. Come on, Mildred. Trust me. You do keep saying that you want to do more investigating yourself, so what do you say? We close up the office for a day or two, and we deal with this one together. Steele and Krebs. Sounds like a partnership to me."

"I don't know, boss..." He had seen the lights in her eyes change, and knew that she was tempted. "Miss Holt wouldn't approve."

"Miss Holt need never know. I've investigated enough murders and the like in the past to be able to make a fair stab at it on my own. It wouldn't be the first case that I've handled without her help."

"True. I suppose."

"And there's all those years of experience that you have. We both have an instinct for this kind of work, Mildred. And instincts count for something."

"That is true." She frowned. "You really think we can do this, though? I don't mean any disrespect, chief... and you know that I think a whole lot of you..."

"Mildred, Mildred, Mildred." He took her hand, and flashed her the billion dollar Remington Steele smile, blue eyes ablaze. It didn't cut any ice with her these days, now that she knew that Remington Steele was just a fraud, but it did always make her smile back. At the very least, it made her relax. "Our own case, Mildred. Think about it."

"I am." Her eyes twinkled, with just enough of his own kind of fire. "We could do it, couldn't we."

"Of course we could." He gave her hand a quick kiss, and led her out of her chair. "You and me, Mildred. It's a winning combination. You know it is."

"Parts of me are a bit less sure than other parts." She looked him up and down. "Um... I'm not saying for definite that I'm convinced... but if I was, you'd be going to get changed before meeting Ada. Right?"

"Ah. Yes." He glanced down at himself, particularly at his one shoeless foot. "You did notice, then?"

"Yeah. I didn't like to say anything, though. Didn't seem appropriate." She smirked suddenly. "Or were you hoping...?"

"Misbehaviour does enjoy attracting attention to itself, Mildred." He sighed. "But it appears to lose much of its attraction when Miss Holt is away. Which is a shame. I seem to have lost rather a good shoe for no reason."

"We could go and get it," she suggested. He nodded.

"We could, yes. If I could remember where it is. There's a fair chance that it's currently floating out to sea in an empty orange crate. I'm not entirely sure. There had been quite a lot of whisky by that point."

"Some day you're going to have to give me a lesson in misbehaviour, boss." She was grinning again, looking far more her usual self, and with a faint laugh he ushered her out of the door.

"You just stay with me, Mildred," he told her, picking up her coat as they passed though the outer office. "Eventually, something always rubs off."

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Fred had been given a few days off in Laura's absence, so Steele and Mildred took the Auburn. Steele loved to drive the car, a relic from the long gone days he so loved to watch on the cinema screen, and Mildred enjoyed being seen in it. With its sleek lines and open top it suggested at sophistication and a very particular kind of cool; and she liked to pretend that she was an idle millionaire being driven on a grand day out. Her doubts about the escapade had been all but driven away in the breeze by the time that they drew up outside Steele's apartment building, and she followed him to the his suite with a stride that was positively jaunty. When he emerged from his bedroom, tying a fresh tie and with every stitch and button perfectly in place, she was even more convinced that this could work. He might not be the Remington Steele that she had once believed him to be - but he was still Remington Steele. More or less.

"Are we ready, Mildred?" He settled the knot of the tie in place, with almost geometric precision, and ran a hand through his immaculate hair. She raised an eyebrow.

"I was ready anyway, boss. It wasn't me who set one of their shoes adrift last night."

"Not the nautical type?" He smiled briefly, a teasing glint in his eye, then held the door open for her. "Come on. Let's not keep the client waiting."

"Sure thing boss." Mildred led the way to the lift, glancing back at him as they walked. "Should I call Miss Holt?"

"Miss Holt will be in the middle of a seminar. She and Murphy are leading one today. Something to do with having a good working relationship with the coroner, I believe." He pressed the button for the lift, and was clearly pleased when the car arrived almost at once. "There you are. Fate is on our side."

"I sure hope so." She drifted into silence on the way down, trailing in Steele's footsteps as they returned to the car. "So, do you know what we're going to do? I mean, do you have a plan?"

"The usual, Mildred. The usual. Ask insightful questions, examine the evidence, search for clues, reach spectacular conclusions, and unmask a murderer. Possibly several murderers. There's often more than one."

"Right." She climbed into the car, nodding her thanks when he held open the door. "Well, okay..."

"Okay?" he queried, climbing in beside her, and gunning the engine. She looked a little sheepish.

"Sorry. It's just... that's more the sort of stuff that Miss Holt usually does, isn't it."

"Possibly, possibly. But she is, in the end, only Mr Steele's assistant. Whereas I am Mr Steele himself. Founder of the firm, creator of the legend, inspiration behind a thousand young dreams. Children want to follow in my footsteps, Mildred."

"Yeah." She looked at him pointedly. "But only because they don't know the truth. And I do, so maybe you ought to tone down all that 'founder of the firm' stuff, unless it's yourself that you're trying to convince."

"You used to be a lot more adoring, you know that?" He sighed. "Alright, so perhaps I might be embellishing the facts a tad."

"A tad?"

"Well... possibly a little more than a tad. A lot of tad perhaps. A plethora of tads. But the point is that the client doesn't have to know that. She thinks that she's getting Remington Steele, and so Remington Steele she will get. Brilliant, insightful, renowned across the land for his expertise and instincts. His matchless investigative brain. She doesn't have to know that she's getting a fake. She needs help, right?"

"Right." Mildred nodded. Steele nodded as well.

"Exactly. And are we, or are we not, willing and able?"

"Yes." It was, as always, remarkably difficult to disagree with the man. Her smile broadened, and he matched it with one of his own.

"Well there you are then. Every bird must one day fly its nest, Mildred. Every tiny child must one day take its first steps without something to hold onto. Every--"

"I'm on your side, boss. I said so back at the office, didn't I?"

"Good." He beamed at her. "Well then. It's settled. Between the two of us, I think we can manage the insightful questions. We've both watched Laura questioning people before, and I've had to do it myself quite a bit in the past. And how hard can examining the evidence be?" He fumbled in one pocket as he drove, and produced a large magnifying glass. "I've even come prepared. In fact, I think the only area that we may possibly fall down on would be the reaching of conclusions. I do freely admit that I've had one or two issues in that... approximate region... once or twice in the past..."

"Like how you always accuse the wrong person of murder, chief?" She was smiling, because it was hard not to. A part of her mind was telling her that this was the investigation of an actual death, and that she should be a little more concerned about that - but the rest of her mind was enjoying the car ride, and the notion of adventure ahead. Steele nodded slowly.

"Well, yes. That has happened on a few occasions. But the way I see it, this is fairly cut and dried anyway. A car is stolen, and it returns with a body in the back. The dead man is sure to be a car thief himself. The whole thing is probably easily explained. The car was stolen as a getaway vehicle, and somebody didn't want to share the loot. We identify our victim, and finding the killer is sure to be a small step from there. No great mystery, Mildred. This is hardly The Hound Of The Baskervilles. It's not even one of those ones when it was always down to Moriarty."

"That does make sense." When he put it that way, it seemed odd that she hadn't thought of it herself. All murder cases didn't have to be fiendish, after all. There were any number that were easily solved. This would probably be one of those that the police would declare open and shut, if they had ever been allowed anywhere near it. The sort of thing that Laura Holt would barely consider worth her while. She smiled cheerily at Steele. They were well and truly on their way to success, she was sure of it. Or, she suddenly realised with a pang of mild concern, they eventually would be. Just as soon as Steele realised that he was enthusiastically driving without any idea of where to go to.

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Ada's house was not hard to find, although it was in a part of town that Mildred didn't know. Ada had given her the address, and once she had passed it onto Steele, he found the place in no time. Either he had an instinct for navigating twisted sidestreets, or he knew the seedier side of Los Angeles as well as Mildred knew the rest of it. She had to conclude that either possibility was just as likely. Ada was sitting outside a rundown house, under a porch made of corrugated iron, watching a small boy play in the front yard. He had a metal bucket, and seemed to be making castles of earth. Steele drew up outside the house, a fabulously incongruous figure in his expensive suit, and seated at the wheel of his dazzlingly white vintage car. Ada scurried over as soon as she saw Mildred.

"Hi!" Mildred was all smiles, the picture of reassuring efficiency. "Ada, I'd like you to meet Remington Steele."

"Mr Steele." Ada shook the proffered hand with a look of unashamed scrutiny. She was a woman in her late thirties, with long black hair neatly tied back, the sides showing the first signs of grey. The hand that shook Steele's was tough, but well looked after, and the eyes that stared so surely at him were bright and thoughtful. Steele, who had had to rely many times on snap judgements about people, liked her straight away. There was urgency in her eyes, but it didn't show in her voice. The accent was Mexican, he decided, and not very strong. Either she had worked hard to hide it, or she had spoken English a lot in her life. He offered her a cheery smile, and made sure to pitch his performance at the required level. She didn't look like somebody who needed him to lay it on too thick, but he still had to be the very image of competence and professionalism. Things like that seemed more important when you were being confronted with an actual person, rather than your own excited imagination.

"Ada." He beamed at her, and let his cool blue eyes drift to the boy. The child had stopped playing now, and had come over to gawp at the car.

"You stay away from it, Ramon." Ada's voice was taut, uneasy at how her son was straying close to the expensive car. Steele flashed the boy a grin.

"We'll take it out for a spin later, if you're mother says that's it okay. How does that sound?" His answer was a mute, wide-eyed nod. Ada managed a rather harassed smile.

"You go to Auntie Lisa next door for a bit. Tell her that I said I need half an hour for some business, there's a good boy." Ramon seemed about to object, one eye still on the car, but he ran off after a moment, heading up the rickety white steps of the neighbouring house. Ada let out a long sigh.

"I wish I could send him away for a day or two, but there's nobody to send him to. When I opened the trunk of my car, and I saw what was in it... What would have happened, Mr Steele, if Ramon had been with me then? What would I have told him?"

"I don't know." He searched momentarily for some platitude, then decided that she would probably rather he got straight down to business. She wanted him to solve her problems, and put her mind at rest that way; not through the verbal equivalent of patting her on the head. "Still, the important thing is that he hasn't seen it. So let's try to get this all sorted out before he does, hey? Where's the car?"

"Over there." She pointed to where a battered station-wagon was parked at the side of the road. It was an indeterminate grey-brown colour, badly dented in places, and hardly the sort of car that Steele would have stolen, had he been looking for a getaway car. Not unless he had been extremely desperate. That looked rather like one good theory shot down before it had had a chance to go anywhere at all. He didn't allow the frustration to show, and instead nodded briskly.

"Good good. Keys?" He didn't need them, but it was, he had discovered, frequently a good idea to hide the fact that Remington Steele was an accomplished lockpick. She handed them over, her eyes beginning to dart about the street. "Oh, don't worry Miss, er...?"

"Just Ada," she told him. He nodded.

"Don't worry, Ada. I have no intention of opening it here, and risk letting the whole neighbourhood know what's going on. There's a little place nearby where we can examine things in private." He frowned for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "Ladies, follow on in the Auburn." He threw his own keys to Mildred. "We'll soon have this dealt with, you'll see."

"Right you are, Mr Steele." Mildred led Ada over to the Speedster, settling in behind the wheel with her customary flash of pride. It was a wonderful car to drive, even though it could be a little unpredictable at times, and it was all that she could do to avoid puffing out her chest as she turned on the engine and followed in Steele's wake. He led them a twisting path, but in no time at all they were pulling up at a little garage, where a battered workshop that had seen better days stood in an overgrown yard. Steele led the way in through gates that looked as though they had once been locked, but had long ago been forced open by somebody, then made short work of whatever padlock held the workshop shut.

"What is this place, boss?" asked Mildred, drawing up outside the workshop. Steele flashed her an airy smile.

"An abandoned garage, Mildred. The owner was murdered some years back. One of the first cases that Miss Holt and I ever worked on together. I bought it from his widow. Seemed a worthwhile investment."

"Can't imagine what for," muttered Mildred, before realising exactly what he had bought it for. An out-of-the-way car workshop could have a number of uses, many of them nefarious. "Mr Steele..."

"Not now, Mildred." He got back into the station-wagon, driving it into the workshop, and she followed dutifully in the Speedster. Inside was a dark world of dust and cobwebs, and the looming shapes of abandoned machine parts. Mildred started to cough.

"Ugh. You sure know how to find a dodgy hiding place, boss." She climbed out of the car, and started hunting for a light switch. Steele pulled the doors closed, and pointed the switch out to her as he went. Three dusty light bulbs clicked on, illuminating a tangle of cobwebs that linked them, and a jumble of rubbish that was piled in irregular heaps against the wall. There were several cars as well, covered in tarpaulin. Mildred half-wondered if they were stolen, before deciding that it was best not to think about it. Nearby, Ada sneezed.

"Well, at least nobody will see us here," she observed. Steele flashed her a beaming smile.

"That's the spirit. Always look on the bright side, and... other similar sentiments that don't really help just now."

"That corpse isn't getting any fresher, chief," pointed out Mildred. He nodded, his enthusiasm suddenly seeming to fade slightly.

"Yes. Yes, I er... perhaps you ladies would like to step outside?"

"I've already seen him once, Mr Steele." Ada squared her shoulders. "I might be able to help."

"And I certainly don't need any protecting." Mildred also squared her shoulders, making the pair of them look like a faintly lopsided unified front. Steele nodded.

"Right. Well... Okay then." He unlocked the trunk, considered muttering a quick prayer to the patron saint of bogus detectives, then pushed open the lid and peered inside. He had plenty of experience with dead bodies, he told himself. He should be able to handle this one competently enough. It was all a matter of asking the right questions, and looking at things the right way. He would make Laura proud. With this in mind, he looked down at the slumped figure in the trunk - to find the very familiar, and now very dead eyes of a local police detective looking back at him. He blinked.

"Ah."

"Something interesting, boss?" asked Mildred. He nodded.

"Could well be, Mildred, yes. Complicates matters just a little."

"What does?" She came closer, peering over his shoulder to get a look at the body. "Say, isn't that that guy who came to check our security a few months back? Roy something?" She shook her head sadly. "I liked him. He was sort of cute."

"Yes, that's him." Steele slid his hand into the man's jacket, and produced a black wallet, that he flipped open for Mildred's benefit. "Roy Groper. Sergeant Roy Groper. LAPD."

"Oh." Mildred winced. "Ah."

"Yes, my sentiments exactly." He heaved a sigh. "This idea may not have been one of my best."

"Does this mean that you won't take the case?" asked Ada. Steele glanced back at her. If he was unnerved by the discovery of a dead policeman, then how must she feel, as the owner of the car he had been found in? He managed to find another reassuring smile, and sent it in her direction.

"Of course we'll take it." A dead policeman? He was almost certainly insane. Sensible people didn't hide dead policemen in abandoned garages, and hope that nobody noticed. Sensible people thought up polite apologies, and scurried away from situations like these as quickly as they could - or didn't get involved in them in the first place. But then, he supposed, his entire life had been anything but sensible. He pulled out his magnifying glass, and peered at the body through it. The cause of death at least was obvious - the large bullet wound was more than hint enough about that. That just left everything else. Somehow he didn't believe that the rest would be half so simple.

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