Chapter 7
It was well before the appointed hour when the Steeles, fully costumed and made up, arrived at San Sebastian Park on Thursday.
Remington had been of the opinion that their disguises should be as inventive and flamboyant as possible ("It's a simple form of double reverse psychology. He expects that we'll expect to him to watch for something outrageous, so he'll be fixed on the mundane, which means we ought to be the very opposite"), and he had peppered Laura with suggestions that ranged from construction workers to mounted police. "Street mimes? T'ai Chi instructors? Ambulance drivers?"
She had rejected them all with a firm shake of the head. "What we need is to approach the issue logically. Think. What characteristics about us give away who we are? That's our starting point. We need to play against type if we're going to fool him."
Once they had chosen a strategy, it was easy to develop a list. Remington's disadvantages, at least in executing this masquerade, were his height, his beautifully erect carriage and the air with which he wore his clothes, no matter what he had on. The best camouflage for him was the "bum" attire he'd used on past stakeouts: a grimy old duster, a battered felt hat. Beneath the hat a gray wig would conceal his hair and a drooping handlebar mustache his mouth. Artfully applied lines and shadows would age him; he would affect a stoop and a shuffling walk.
In Laura's case, makeup would be a hindrance rather than a help. She would wear none, exposing the freckles that she normally downplayed. A full-length nun's habit would alter the athleticism of her stride, while the accompanying hood and veil covered her chestnut mane.
The final inspection of her appearance she left to Remington. "Very convincing, except for one detail," was his appraisal. "Keep your eyes lowered whenever possible. And for heaven's sake, try to look demure? I know it's a stretch. But you're far too young to pass for a gimlet-eyed martinet who makes all the men in the parish quake in their boots."
In the parking lot they gazed around cautiously to make sure Demerest's silver Lincoln was nowhere in evidence before emerging from the Rabbit. San Sebastian was busy, unusual for this late in the morning. There were hikers and bikers, joggers and skaters, from a diverse assortment of ages and sexes and nationalities. All the better for the Steeles, for it meant that they would blend in seamlessly with the crowd.
Remington stretched a long arm into the back seat for his props, which consisted of a squeegee, a spray bottle of window cleaner and a roll of paper towels. ""Ready, Mrs. Steele? I'd say we're near on show time."
"Think we'd raise any eyebrows if I kissed you for luck?" Her eyes sparkled behind the wire-rimmed granny glasses she had just perched on her nose.
"I'm more concerned that Mr. Demerest would choose that moment to sail up the driveway."
"Guess I'll have to settle for this." She pressed her index finger to her lips and touched it to his cheek. "See you later." And she set off for a vantage point closer to the reflecting pool.
His eye on the entrance gate, Remington slouched among nearby rows of cars. The picture of a panhandler hoping to score a fast five or ten? He could only keep his fingers crossed. As a finishing touch to his disguise, he had added a pair of brown contacts just before they left the house—relics from his days as Paul Fabrini. Under his breath he practiced over and over, in a southern-American accent, one that would've done Vivien Leigh proud: "Thanks, mister, have a nice day."
At last the moment was upon him. Jim Demerest's Continental was pulling through the gates.
He hustled to meet it and was squirting cleaner onto its windshield before Demerest had shut off the engine. Mostly Remington kept his eyes on what he was doing, but it was difficult to help stealing a covert glance or two at the other man.
Demerest slid from behind the wheel and stood. His cool gray gaze swept the park; one hand went absently to his wallet. "That's fine," he said, and handed over a five dollar bill. "Thank you."
Their fingers touched as Remington accepted the bill and pretended to examine it. "Thanks, mister! Have a nice day!"
Demerest was already moving away without exhibiting the tiniest sign of recognition. Remington's gig was over.
Now it was Laura's turn.
She had stationed herself in an area where the path bisected a wide swath of smooth, green lawn. On one side, small children swarmed a collection of playground equipment beneath the watchful eyes of their mothers. Some kind of exercise class was in progress on the other side, T'ai Chi or yoga, by the looks of things. Strolling between the two, she directed all her energies towards projecting an image of serenity that was the antithesis of her own.
It wasn't long until she spied Demerest walking briskly in her direction. Time to pull off a paradox: she had to move quickly without seeming to, and to accost him deliberately while making it look accidental. Good thing she was rarely burdened by a lack of confidence in her abilities.
They were coming even with one another on the path. His head was up, she noted.
And his eyes were focused on her.
With all the coolness of which she was capable, she squashed her anxiety. Maybe he hadn't recognized her. Maybe he had. If he had, there was nothing she could do about it except face the failure head on.
But part of her was nevertheless braced for the worst, waiting for him to point her out, to call her by name, even to exclaim, "Aha!"
He did none of those things. Instead, his head inclined in a respectful nod. "Good morning, sister."
She never broke character for a second. "Good morning, my son," she murmured.
He had just about passed her, but she halted him with a hand on his arm—a bold move she knew Remington would appreciate hugely when she related it to him later. "My son, may I give you something?"
Startled, he took the prayer card she held out without bothering to look at it. "Thank you, sister."
As soon as he had rounded a bend in the path, she tore off the glasses, hiked up her skirts and raced for the Rabbit, where Remington was waiting. He had already divested himself of hat, wig, contacts and mustache, stripped off the duster, and cleaned his face of makeup. Now he moved behind her to unzip the habit while she doffed veil and hood. "Laura, I'm not altogether comfortable doing this," he announced.
"You should be used to undressing me by now, Mr. Steele." She tossed the discarded headgear into the Rabbit's bag seat, then retrieved a small bottle from her handbag and began to smooth foundation over her freckles in quick strokes.
"It's not you, it's what you're wearing. The implications are enough to make a former Catholic schoolboy positively queasy."
He held the mirror so she could apply eye makeup and lipstick. "What time is it?" she asked.
"Twenty-nine past."
"Not a minute to spare. How do I look?"
"Perfect, as always. Shall we jog, Mrs. Steele? Lest by tardiness we forfeit the advantage we've gained so far?"
It was at eleven thirty-three by the clock that they strolled up to Demerest, hand in hand. He wore an air of expectancy as he greeted them. "Well? When do we begin?"
Laura smiled. "I'm afraid we've been less than up front with you, Mr. Demerest."
"The demonstration's over," Remington added. "Except for a few minor loose ends, that is."
The fiver Demerest had given him earlier was in the front pocket of his jeans; always the showman, he presented it with a flourish. "Thanks, mister." He was speaking in a slow Southern drawl. "Have a nice day."
Even as surprise dawned in Demerest's widened eyes, Laura was chiming in. "Meet anyone else on the way here? Someone who gave you something?"
Interesting that he needed a moment to mull it over. "Well, a prayer card."
"Like this one?" And she held out its duplicate.
Demerest, mouth open but speechless, looked from her to Remington and back again.
"St. Michael the Archangel," she explained. "The patron saint of policemen…and, we'd like to think, private detectives. With our compliments."
In almost the same gesture as earlier, it passed from her hand to his. He gazed down at it, shaking his head. "Well, I'll be."
The Steeles waited for him to elaborate.
"I'll be," he repeated more loudly. They saw his smile when he raised his head. "Mr. and Mrs. Steele, what can I say? I'm impressed. You pulled the wool pretty far down over my eyes, both of you."
"I take it we've also removed your misgivings about the case?" asked Remington.
"Removed them? You've obliterated them! I wouldn't trust it in any hands but yours after this. And I apologize for questioning your expertise for even a second."
But Remington waved the regrets away. "Say no more. You were merely protecting your business—a circumstance we're more than familiar with these days."
They spent a few minutes discussing the game plan they'd adopt when Mihalec contacted the Steeles. After Demerest had gone, Remington scooped Laura into an embrace that lifted her right off the ground. "Not a shabby day's work, eh? And all before lunch time!"
Arms wrapped around his neck, she kissed him soundly. "Love the Southern accent. I've never heard you use it before. Where on earth did you pick it up?"
"Laura, I'm astonished. Do you really have to ask?"
"Sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."
In elation he swung their clasped hands between them as they headed for the Rabbit. Laura's spirits, by contrast, were plummeting. "Help me clarify, Mr. Steele. I'm coming back to earth with a thud. What did we do here, after all? Earned the right to keep working the case. But there's no guarantee we'll succeed in the end. It really is too soon to celebrate."
"Nonsense. Think how much has changed since last week. Think how much has changed this morning!"
She shot him a dubious glance.
"It's only a matter of time before Eitschl'll be up to his old tricks," he went on. "He won't be able to help himself. Greed is a powerful motivator, no matter the attendant risks. Mark my words, he'll be in touch with Mihalec sooner rather than later for a fresh round of stock raids. And then you and I, my dear love, will nab him."
"Think so?"
"I know so. When has our tape-and-photograph routine ever failed us?"
"Never."
"You see? Cause for celebration right there. It's not a question of whether we'll catch him, only when. It's close. I can feel it."
It was then that she came to a stop and drew him to her with his arms around his waist. "Mr. Steele, there are times when it hits home to me that I married a genuine, eternal, cock-eyed optimist. This is one of them."
"And that's a bad thing?" In his eyes was a combination of amusement and tenderness.
She held him close and leaned her cheek against his chest. "No, it's not a bad thing," she whispered. "Not a bad thing at all."
That optimistic mood of Remington's buoyed the entire agency into the following week. His refusal to surrender to discouragement was their lifeline, for outside circumstances hadn't improved much at all. Clients continued to cancel, albeit in fewer numbers; new accounts were more difficult to win over than they'd been previously. The Steeles and Mildred were working harder almost than they ever had to sell their skills and expertise. Yet the returns were scanty, the response anemic.
Their hope remained pinned on the public relations effort Stacie Adamski was assembling on their behalf. She dropped by Tuesday morning with the final draft of her story, along with the list of media to which she would release it. Laura scanned the names with an approving eye. "The Times, The Santa Monica Daily Press, The Beverly Hills Weekly, The Canyon News. And you already have the Trib on board?"
"The managing editor and I go way back. Art Donovan. He taught a couple of my J-school courses."
Laura had read a little further down the list. "Radio. That's a surprise. You think it'll do us any good?"
"Only a handful of stations. I like KNTL-AM the best. 'NewsTalk L.A.', they style themselves. The station manager's Andy Travis, and he's committed to running the story in a couple of prime dayparts."
"When do you propose to begin circulating it, the story?" asked Remington.
"If I have your approval, I'll start contacting the media as soon as I get back to the office."
"Consider it approved," Laura said. "And thanks. It goes without saying how much we appreciate your speed in getting us launched."
The meeting over, the Steeles repaired to their own offices and devoted themselves to what amounted to busy work. Lunch time came and went. The phone was silent, the reception area empty save Mildred. The dull day wore on.
The arrival of the mail provided a welcome distraction from the tedium, at least for Remington. "Laura, have a look at this," he called through their connecting door. It was open, the signal they'd agreed upon long ago that she could be interrupted in what she was doing.
'This' turned out to be a typewritten letter. "It seems we have another 'Remington Steele' sighting on our hands," he said.
Last week's disaster had pushed the mystifying package from The Camden Original Knit Company onto the back burner for all of them. Mildred had done no more than follow up with the senders of the sweaters, who had repeated nearly verbatim the story from the note on their invoice. They insisted to her that Mr. Steele had, indeed, visited their shop in June; Bob Teasdale, who had taken Mr. Steele's measurements, described him as a tall, dark-haired man with an accent. There the matter had rested. Not even the disquieting photo of Laura could turn it into a high priority. The agency had too many other kettles of fish to fry to worry about an innocuous, isolated incident.
Innocuous it may have been, but the incident was no longer isolated. "This is more or less a thank you to Remington Steele for delivering a lecture on the criminal mind to a Sociology of Deviance course two weeks ago at Framingham State College in Massachusetts," remarked Laura. "From a Professor Eugene Maltsev." She lowered the sheet just far enough to regard him over its edge. "At last, someone's recognized your true calling."
"Very funny."
"No, really. You could do an entire series on the Sociology of Deviance. I'm sure there's an endless supply of material from your previous lives. Take Shannon, for example--"
He wore a sour expression as he snatched the letter out of her hands and skimmed it again. "Suppose we start taking it seriously."
"Developing a lecture series?"
"This. He waved the paper in front of her nose. "It's the second time in less than a week that my name has popped up in connection with a place I've never been and people I've never met."
"It's not that I'm not taking it seriously. Our plate's been too full to deal with it. But you're right, twice is too much. I'll have Mildred get in touch with this Professor Maltsev and with those people in Maine again. It'll be easy to enough to prove that whoever they met, it wasn't you."
While she was speaking, he had gone on to tear open the next envelope in the stack and perused the invitation it contained. Once finished, he tucked it into her hand. "Here's something else you may find perplexing."
The invitation read:
Michael Albert Molinsky and Grace Whitney Kapetanek request the honor of your presence as they are united as husband and wife at Saint Ambrose Catholic Church,1281 N. Fairfax Avenue, West Hollywood, at four o' clock in the afternoon of Saturday, October ninth, nineteen eighty-seven. A reception will be held immediately following,
"Oh, my, Crunch and Whitney," Laura grinned. "And she's even using her real name! I'm impressed. Seems you were right, Mr. Steele. The hype is only on the professional level."
He was picking up a yellow manila envelope, the kind that fastened with a metal clasp. It was stamped 'Personal and confidential' and 'Photos – Do Not Bend', but was otherwise unmarked. The neatly typed address label was directed to him. "When will you learn to trust my instincts in these situations, Laura?"
This patently didn't rate a response, though she rolled her eyes. "I wonder what Mr. Molinsky thinks of it."
"I'll wager he's not thinking of much of anything over at Shady Meadows Rest Home besides his next meal."
"I suppose we'll have to put in an appearance? I know how much you like weddings, Mr. Steele."
"Why, yes, Mrs. Steele, I must confess I do. I'm looking forward to it, actually. I've always had rather a soft spot for the fair Ms. Chambers."
"Just be sure and steer clear of Dangerous Darryl, the Velvet Vandal. It'll crush him to find out you're the marrying kind."
A hoarse, strangled cry rang out in the room, silencing her. It was a sound unlike any she had ever heard him make. "Remington?" she gasped. "What is it?" And she was at his side in an instant.
Too late, though: he had already whipped his chair violently around to face the window. He still clutched the manila envelope, which he squeezed tightly in his fist and then tossed away with a ferocity that seemed out of proportion. He sat there, hunched over as if in pain, breathing hard. For a terrifying interval she was absolutely sure he was having a heart attack.
She put her hands on his shoulders, trying to turn him, but he was resisting and she couldn't budge him an inch. "What is it?"
At last he swiveled around to her. When she saw his expression, she fell back a step. His face was distorted, wild with an emotion she couldn't name. Rage? Terror? His blue eyes were blazing yet unfocused, not seeing her.
She gazed at him, her face own face drained of color. "What?"
He looked down at something in his left hand and up at her. He laid it on the desk's surface and slid it toward her.
Gingerly she picked it up, her eyes never leaving his. It was a photograph. Her heart suddenly began to slam in hard painful strokes as she turned it over and forced herself to look.
The image was of her, lying on her back on the floor of her office, eyes closed, head tipped to one side.
A horrible roaring started in her ears; she never knew that the photo had fallen from her nerveless fingers. One hand went to her mouth while the other groped for the edge of the desk and grabbed it hard. "What is this?" she whispered.
"Roselli's calling card. Though I'd have thought the actual experience of finding you unconscious sufficient to get his point across."
"What point?"
"That he can get to you any time he wants, mistreat you any way he wants, and I can't do a bloody thing to stop it."
She was shaking her head slowly back and forth. "Remington, there's a nuance here that escapes me."
"He took this after he attacked you."
That much was obvious. She looked at him, bewildered.
It was as if the words were shaken out of him. "Laura…he posed you for it."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees. She was suddenly so cold that she wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her hands into her armpits. "What do you mean?"
"Would you have fallen naturally in that position, flat on your back? And he moved you afterwards." He bent and retrieved the photo, set it face up on the desk. "This--" he gestured toward it, "--this isn't the way I found you. You were curled on your left side. I turned you onto your back. And your hair."
"What about it?"
"It was loose. That band you were wearing to hold your ponytail—they can't slide off by themselves, can they? He took it off after he snapped the picture."
Laura swallowed. "So he didn't hit me and then…leave me be."
"So it would appear."
"But…" She could hardly bring herself to say it. "Why take pictures?"
His voice was low and furious. "Because I couldn't protect you that day, that's why. And he's saying there'll be a next time. Because he's rubbing my face in it, the bastard!"
She reached for him; he shook her off, flinging himself headlong out of the chair. He strode around the desk and headed for the door.
"What are you doing?" she cried.
He barely halted to snatch up his jacket from the couch. The whole room shook from the force with which he slammed the door behind him.
In the silence that followed his departure, Laura stood where he'd left her. She couldn't have moved if she wanted to. It was as if a cyclone had touched down out of a clear blue sky, wreaked untold destruction, and then withdrawn as suddenly as it had appeared, robbing her of strength and will.
For a second she debated going after Remington—he couldn't have gotten very far—but decided against it. For too many days in a row, they'd been operating in crisis mode. It had stretched him thin, emotionally speaking; he could use the time away. They had progressed enough in their relationship that she wasn't worried that he'd walked out for good. Once he'd sorted it out on his own, he would be back.
As for herself, her flesh was still crawling with revulsion. There was something particularly cold-blooded in what Roselli had done and how he'd revealed it to them. Was this what he'd really been like beneath the exterior he'd projected those first days of her marriage to Remington? She'd read him then as bluff and impetuous, a little too full of machismo, overly confident of his own sex appeal, but basically straightforward. How could she have missed this twisted streak? Had her—thankfully--abortive, misguided attraction to him clouded her judgment so completely?
The memory made her want nothing so much than to hurry home and take a very long, very hot shower.
Instead she turned her attention to the envelope Remington had thrown from him. Work, of course: always a palliative for her. Besides, the envelope might hold a clue that her husband in his outburst had overlooked.
She was smoothing it out on top of his desk when the intercom buzzed. "Yes, Mildred?"
"Mrs. Steele…everything okay?"
"Fine. Did Mr. Steele happen to tell you where he's going?"
"No, but he asked me to call Fred and tell him to get here on the double." There was a brief pause. "Honey, you sure everything's all right?"
"Positive. Hold my calls for the time being, unless it's Mr. Steele."
Focusing on the task at hand, she examined the address label. Nothing distinctive there. Nor was there anything unusual about the stamps that identified the package as confidential and containing photos. The envelope was the kind sold at most office supply stores, without any special marks to indicate its size, or the name of its manufacturer…
No special marks.
She looked again to make certain she had spotted what she thought she had.
The envelope bore a twenty-five-cent postage stamp, but no cancellation imprint or date. There was nothing whatever to show that it had been handled by the United States Post Office.
Mildred glanced up at her inquiringly as she approached the reception desk. "Mildred, who delivered today's mail?"
"Jonas from the mail room, just like every day."
"Any hand deliveries? Anyone from the building drop something off?"
When Mildred shook her head, Laura held the envelope out to her. "Could this have come from the mail room?"
"I don't see how."
"Why not?"
" 'Cause they mark every piece of mail that comes through. Time in, time out. That's how they keep tabs on the kids down there, make sure they're not goofing off on the job."
"Thanks." Laura was already headed back towards Remington's office.
An envelope without a postage cancellation or the imprimatur from the building's mail room that would release it for delivery.
Yet it had landed on Mildred's desk with everything else.
It had to have arrived by hand.
Whose hand? Had Roselli himself brought it here? Was he hiding in close proximity, as Remington had suggested, spying on them?
It wasn't much of stretch to conclude the answer was yes.
Which meant this envelope, the best evidence they'd stumbled across to date to confirm his presence, ought to be locked up where he couldn't snatch it back.
Absently she thrust her hand inside it, making sure it was empty, before she filed it in the one cabinet in her office to which she alone had the key. It was force of habit, to tell the truth; she didn't really expect to be rewarded as she was by the discovery of another photograph.
It took a full minute before she could summon the nerve to look.
And then Laura Steele, veteran detective, who could without turning a hair inspect the corpse of a shooting victim after it had spent four days in the Pacific; who hadn't shrunk for a second from pressing the hand of a dead abbott to her midriff in an effort to con a group of bankers into believing it was Remington's; who calmly rifled dead men's pockets for the most inconsequential of clues, did something entirely out of character: raced for the bathroom, and was sick.
Roselli had sent them a post-mortem photograph.
Its subject was Gladys Lynch.
Remington, in the meantime, was in the back seat of the limo, en route to Burbank.
Since relaying his instructions to Fred, he hadn't spoken a single word. It wasn't that chatter was required; the only time their driver made small talk was in response to the Steeles or Mildred drawing him out. But he and Fred had established a pattern over the years. A long ride like this, if the two of them were alone, usually resulted in interesting conversation on any number of topics. There was a lot to Fred, Remington had found, once Fred opened up. He liked to afford Fred that opportunity whenever possible.
Not today.
Tucked into the waistband of Remington's trousers, concealed by his jacket, was the new gun. They had made a stop at Windsor Square for the sole purpose of picking it up. Now he could feel its metal, cold even through his shirt, its heft solid and reliable and death-dealing.
He was thinking of nothing at all.
In front of Websters Gun World, he leaned down to the driver's-side window. "I expect I'm stating the obvious in what I'm about to say. But a breath of this to Mrs. Steele means your job, mate."
Fred's deadpan expression never wavered. "Understood, sir."
Although he couldn't claim to be an habitué of target ranges. Remington had a passing familiarity with the drill. It was one of the first photo ops Laura had arranged after he'd stepped into Steele's shoes: him equipped with safety glasses and earmuffs, bluffing a skill in marksmanship he didn't possess. A moment immortalized now for posterity on his office wall. And, of course, there was the mandatory instruction he'd had to undergo in order to qualify for the permit Laura insisted he obtain. Remington Steele had to have legal clearance for carrying a weapon, even if he seldom used it. It was as simple as that.
Was it his imagination, or was the attendant at the range, a young guy in his twenties, staring at him a trifle doubtfully as he made his preparations? "Need any help?" the attendant asked.
"Thanks, no. I'm set."
Remington waited until the young man had ambled off. Picking up the Colt, he weighed it in his hand, his gaze measuring the target at the end of his lane.
Then he flicked off the safety, braced himself, and, eyes narrowed behind the glasses, began to fire.
TO BE CONTINUED
