Chapter 10
The living room at Windsor Square was as festive as Laura could make it on this early October evening.
The room was imbued now with Art Deco elegance and unrecognizable as the overstuffed nest where Patsy Vance had secluded herself for thirty years. Tonight, diffused light from two strategically positioned torchières, as well as the candles Laura had grouped on every horizontal service, including her piano, had multiplied the romance factor to the nth power. Concert by the Sea played softly in the background; light gleamed on the neck of the bottle of Veuve Clicquot chilling in its silver bucket.
She was waiting for Remington to come home from a black tie fundraiser where he was serving as the opening speaker. Stacie Adamski had engineered the gig for him as part of her continuing strategy to put the Remington Steele brand back on track. His plan was to duck out after the photo ops, skipping the dinner and silent auction. The freshly refurbished Bedard's was the ultimate destination for tonight. The former after-hours gambling establishment had been transformed into a supper club by its new owners, and the Steeles had late reservations.
They also had a lot to celebrate.
After the downward spiral initiated by Roselli's tip to the media, the agency was beginning to rebound. That they owed this in no small part to Adamski's dedicated work, the Steeles never forgot for a second. The combination of her doggedness and her deep Rolodex of contacts had gained first-tier placement for a spate of stories that had gone a long way towards unmasking Rosell. They had also effectively dispelled the aura of incompetence that had been hanging over the agency like a gray fog. There was a world of difference between succumbing to a break-in by a petty thief and being targeted for revenge by a high-level spy. Adamski had worked it to the hilt. She was worth every penny they were paying her and more besides, Remington had declared.
So far the hidden bombshell at the center of the tale—the origins of Remington Steele, the name and the man—hadn't been detonated. Reporters had accepted the same explanation of Remington's and Daniel's relationship that had satisfied Remington's family, the early divorce, Remington raised by his mother without contact with his father, their reunion when Remington was an adolescent. Nor had any questions arisen from the Immigration and Naturalization Service. It seemed Laura's gamble had paid off brilliantly.
And, even as the first wave of stories was subsiding, a second had broken behind it: the successful prosecution of the Demerest case.
This time the surveillance operation had run as smoothly as clockwork. They'd mixed it up a bit in terms of their false identities, narrowing as far as possible the odds that someone would recognize them from their recent photos in the paper. Remington had combed powder into his hair to whiten it and added a pair of spectacles; with a camera in one hand and a cane in the other, he was the very image of an elderly English birdwatcher. "Absolutely fitting for the second cousin thrice removed, or whatever I am, to John Burleigh Chalmers, distinguished naturalist, author and illustrator of The Songbirds of Rural England: A Field Guide," he'd explained. "In fact, I believe I'll use this disguise whenever I need to shoot photographs undercover." He had grinned cheekily as he took in Laura's costume. "You, my love, look—well, how should I say it? Not quite up to your usual standard of grooming?"
She'd glared at him. She was wearing the headband, poncho and frayed jeans that she'd last unearthed for cracking Phil Lydon's computer at the Perennial Corporation about a year ago. It was never especially pleasant, going out in public with the uncombed hair and unwashed face this get-up required. But a hippy with a pair of headphones was as unlikely to excite suspicion as an amateur ornithologist with a camera, so she put up with it. Part of her even wished that Jim Demerest was there to admire their ingenuity again.
"Watch it, Gramps," was her crisp reply. "I'm not quite up to my usual standard of courtesy, either, which means I'm stealing your cane if you keep this up."
Though both were having trouble burying the memory of what happened the last time they'd attempted to catch Eitschl, neither had alluded to it.
Contrary to their expectations, Adrian Mihalec hadn't chickened out on them at the last minute. He'd needed almost constant reassurance to bring him to this point--Remington had been correct on that score—but in the end, his confidence in them had held firm. He was on time and in position when Laura arrived at Griffith Park.
"He's picked out a spot on the outer fringes of the picnic area, so you should have a good view of them when Eitschl joins him," she'd reported to Remington from her mobile phone. "There's a tree not far away, maybe five yards. I'll sit under it like I'm meditating. They won't even notice me. As soon as you get here, we can get this show on the road."
"On my way," he had replied. Then, in an undertone almost too low for her to hear: "Be careful, me darlin'."
Her response, equally low: "You, too, Mr. Steele."
Eitschl, a slender, auburn-haired man in beautifully cut khaki trousers and a polo shirt, had arrived on the scene perhaps fifteen minutes after Remington did. In his carefully dressed informality he'd seemed to fit better, to look more at home, among the crowd of picnickers than rumpled, bearded little Mihalec. After purchasing a couple of sodas from a concession stand and handing one to his subordinate, he'd leaned his forearms on the table and proceeded to engage Mihalec in conversation…for all the world like a couple of acquaintances catching up at leisure on a sunny fall afternoon.
The sheaf of papers he produced might merely have been real estate comps, or flyers to publicize a rotary club event, for all that a casual onlooker would have been able to tell.
Might have been, but were not.
The reception on Laura's recorder was perfect.
So were the zoom lens and focus on Remington's camera.
At the end of half an hour, they had an incendiary store of evidence, electronically preserved.
On the following Tuesday came a telephone call from Jim Demerest. "Mrs. Steele? I wanted you and Mr. Steele to be the first to know. The broker's association meeting proceeded according to plan. The SEC filed charges against Jürgen, and the FBI took him into custody about an hour ago."
The press had begun to report the story the following day. And commendations had been flowing to Remington Steele Investigations ever since.
The only dark cloud on an otherwise clear horizon was the fact that Tony Roselli, with their gun, had vanished without a trace once again.
Lieutenant Jarvis had remained remarkably sanguine about the attention on Roselli generated by Stacie Adamski's story. Not that it would have made much difference one way or the other. Roselli's trail went ice cold as soon as he had departed Pico Union. Since then the jurisdiction for the murder investigation had been expanded, kicked upstairs to the interstate and federal level; Gladys Lynch had been an officer in a critical governmental agency, after all. But the increased manpower and resources had produced no results. Uncanny and spooky, was how the Steeles had separately characterized their enemy. It was disconcerting to realize that the man who called himself Mr. Niemand was just as big an enigma to professionals who tracked that sort of person for a living.
So it didn't do to drop their guard, not for an instant. Remington and Laura had learned that bitter lesson well.
Too well, Laura thought. For there was frequently a new look in her husband's eyes when she surprised his gaze on her: brooding, apprehensive. Recalling the morning he'd found her unconscious in her office? His imagination embroidering the scene with the twisted details Roselli had been only too happy to supply? Of that she was certain. And blaming himself for the fact that, with Roselli at large, she might still be at risk? She could only guess. After the morning at the police station, he'd never spoken openly about it again and she hadn't cared to probe any further. There were some issues, she was discovering, where even their love couldn't lighten the personal darkness he carried deep inside. The battle was one he'd have to fight and win--or lose--alone.
The day after their run-in with Roselli, they'd opened the camera Remington had confiscated from the apartment. There was no film in it. Later she'd found it discarded in the trash, smashed in dozens of pieces, beyond repair.
Privately she was relieved that it was the only thing he'd destroyed. She'd been totally honest when she'd confided to him that she wished Roselli was dead. But dead by her husband's hand? Not in a million years. To her surprise it wasn't an ethical reaction, a protest against the intrinsic wrong of taking a human life. It mattered to her only for Remington's sake. As deeply as Roselli's continued existence disturbed Remington, the stain of murder on his conscience would've been far worse. She wasn't sure he could've borne up under the guilt.
And she was grateful for her own sake that he'd been prevented from going through with it. If he'd shot Roselli, they would've taken Remington away from her. They might even have locked him up for good.
That, quite simply, was unacceptable to her.
Even when he was at his worst, which was the case when he arrived shortly after eight o'clock, muttering darkly about the bloody parking attendant and the blasted Beverly Hills traffic. But his eyes lit up at the sight of her in the rose-coral, thirties-inspired gown she'd worn the night they got engaged. "Why, Mrs. Steele," he breathed. "A special occasion I'm not aware of?"
"If you're asking because of the dress, from what I hear of Bedard's, it'll be totally appropriate. But there is a special occasion. Don't tell me you've forgotten."
It was hard to suppress a smile as she watched his gaze travel the living room, puzzled, a little wary. "Obviously it's not the first anniversary of our first wedding," he commented.
"Obviously not."
"Nor yet our second wedding. Or your birthday, since we've just celebrated it." They had indeed, with a small party that included Mildred and Bumpers and the five Pipers.
"Try again."
"If it's the date when I first landed in your life, we're several weeks too late. Assuming you consider it worth commemorating."
"It's had its moments," she said lightly. "Give up?" When he signaled that he had, she moved into his arms and lifted her face to his. "Ashford Castle. Five months ago tonight."
His smile was incandescent. "Cause for celebration, indeed." And he accepted her unspoken invitation to kiss her.
Once he'd uncorked the champagne and poured it, they touched their glasses together. "To an eventful five months," she suggested.
"A challenging five months," he countered.
"Nothing we couldn't handle. Though I have to admit, I'll feel a lot better once the agency's on a stable footing again."
He gazed at her thoughtfully over the rim of his glass. "It's occurred to me that our recent troubles have been partly of our own making. We've been so busy the past five months, exploring and re-defining our personal relationship--"
"—Not to mention filling in the blanks of your past--"
"—that we've rather had our hand off the tiller at times where the business is concerned, haven't we."
"It has been tempting now and then to let things slide," she conceded. "And we haven't always resisted as hard as we should. But the damage isn't irreversible. We'll just have to work a little harder and smarter for the time being, that's all." She surveyed him with a lifted eyebrow and her lower lip caught beneath her teeth. "Think you can handle it, Mr. Steele?"
"With you all the way, my love. And here's a toast to seal the bargain." He raised his glass again. "To working harder and smarter, balanced with adequate time for play. Think you can handle it, Mrs. Steele?"
"I'm with you all the way—whatever you have in mind."
The music had shifted into a slow passage; putting their glasses aside, he drew her into his arms. For a while they swayed together in a tight circle, holding each other, their lips meeting from time to time in a flurry of light kisses. "What a lovely way to start the evening, Laura," he murmured. "Thank you."
"My pleasure. I like having the chance to romance you for a change. And I thought it might help smooth some of the rough spots. I've been sensing some tension, every now and then."
A neutral opening, one he could take or leave as he wished. Since she expected him to choose the latter, she was surprised when he said after a moment or two, "It's Antony, of course."
"I thought so."
"It doesn't make for peace of mind, does it, knowing what he's capable of…knowing he's waiting for an opportune moment to strike again."
They'd had this conversation several times over the past few weeks, but she was more than willing to cover the ground with him again. "And still with no clear idea why he was rifling our files all that time. Or why he would've murdered Gladys Lynch."
"It's the waiting game he's playing that troubles me most." A pause. "Do you know what nemesis is, Laura?"
"An enemy who's your total opposite, but also similar to you. Like Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty, or Batman and the Joker."
"Partly. It's also an ancient Greek belief in the reckoning of justice. Divine retribution."
"Something your friend Markos taught you?"
He smiled faintly at the accuracy of her memory. "He was a good Orthodox, was Markos. The icons, the feast days, the prayers, he loved it all. Yet the old beliefs were somehow mixed in. There's a power that stalks us, he used to say, spies on all we say and do. And then at the worst possible moment uses it against us to pay us back for our past misdeeds. Nemesis, in other words."
"Sounds like he made a believer out of you."
"It's as good an explanation as any for what my life has been, isn't it? Everything snatched away as soon as I began to care about it?"
"Expecting to be kicked in the teeth at every turn," she said, recalling fragments of old conversations. "Not holding onto anything or anyone too tightly."
By now they had stopped dancing. Neither of them noticed it.
"I've let down my guard," he said. "I thought I'd outrun it at last, you see. But it's found me again, just when I've won the life…the woman…I never thought a man like me could have."
"And you think that's why Tony's in our lives? Divine justice for bad deeds you've done, and he's the messenger?"
"Why else would I be at the mercy of a man I hate more than anyone I've ever known?"
It was the side of him that was pure Celt, the source of the moods that ran through his surface good nature like a single black vein in white marble. She had been right about the dark battle he was waging within himself. "I think you're seeing more than there really is," she said gently. "We can't take his threats lightly, but he's not invincible. Think of the mistake he made when he mailed us the pictures, and how close we came to catching him because of it. Don't invest him with more power than he actually has."
"But he does have power, Laura." The arms around her waist held her even more closely against him. "The worst of it is, I've given it to him."
"You mean because you care for me, and he knows it."
He stirred restlessly at her use of the euphemism. "That's our old way of talking about what we have together. Call it by its right name."
"He knows you love me."
"More than anything on earth, it seems. And it frightens the hell out of me."
An enormous admission on both counts. Even more remarkable was the fact that he hadn't glanced aside after making it, veiling his expression before she saw too much.
Her first thought was to approach it rationally, make him recognize Roselli for what he actually was: capable of enormous evil, yes, relentless, vengeful out of all proportion to whatever slight he thought Remington had dealt him…but not some kind of force of nature.
Then she changed her mind. She would do it at some point, because he needed to hear it. But not tonight. Instead she only said, "Go on."
"Ah, Laura." This time he briefly looked away and sighed. "What more do you want me to say? It's the first I've known of happiness like this. Sometimes I wonder if it would've been better never to have it. If he wins—if he ends it—I don't know what'll become of me afterwards."
"I do. You'd pick yourself up and start over, the way you have dozens of times."
"I couldn't do without you in Menton, and it was only four days. More than that and I'd chuck everything. Run away. Die alone in a Mediterranean villa. Like father, like son, eh?
"Daniel died at Ashford Castle with you at his side."
"He wouldn't have, given the choice."
There was a pause while they looked at each other somberly, knowing nothing was solved, nothing had changed.
"Tell me what I can do to make it better," she said at last. Her eyes were dry, but her voice was throaty with the tears she might have shed if she let herself.
"You can't. But you could hold me."
Wordlessly she stretched up on tiptoe and slipped her arms around his neck—her turn to be the comfort and shelter that he had been for her in the days immediately following Roselli's attack. He bent his head to nuzzle her ear and whisper: "And when we get home from Bedard's, make love with me."
"And I'll indulge you in every subtlety of romance we can imagine," she whispered back.
Sometime later he straightened to his full height. His eyes hadn't regained their twinkle, but there was a smile in them as he gazed down at her.
"Dance with me, Laura," he said.
And they did.
"…In London, a military funeral was held today for the man who spearheaded the exposure, and subsequent capture, of British intelligence double agent Sterling Fitch. Daniel Chalmers was posthumously knighted--"
Shutting off the videotape recorder with a touch of the remote, Windsor Thomas reclined in the chair in her office at LA Spotlight News.
She didn't have to hear the announcer's words to the end; she already knew them by heart, though the tape she'd been watching had arrived from RTÉ's Dublin studios only a few days prior.
It was quite a coup, getting hold of it in the first place. Mentally she congratulated herself on her success. She and her producer, Meg Halliwell, had made it happen through hours of research, string-pulling and palm-greasing. Pinpointing the origin of the news report was only the beginning. There was also finagling its release from the Irish television network, not to mention obtaining a dub onto half-inch Beta tape in the correct US format and having it delivered covertly to Spotlight News. With admirable foresight, she'd recognized that it might serve as crucial B-roll footage in a future exposé, and she wasn't taking any chances.
All in all, she was satisfied with the results. Nor would the hard work she'd put into the process go to waste. It could only help, having behind-the-scenes contacts in British and Irish television news, when she achieved her ambition of stepping permanently into Tom Brokaw's or Peter Jennings' shoes.
Penetrating the mystery that shrouded the background of LA's preeminent private detective, Remington Steele, might bring her closer to actually wearing the shoes.
Something about Steele's history was off kilter. As soon as she'd assembled the available facts, she'd seen it plainly. Possessed of a beauty queen's face and body though she was—Pawhuska-bred, she'd been first runner-up to Miss Oklamoha, 1979—behind them was a brain as sharply inquisitive, as oriented towards the objective and factual, as Severeid's or Brinkley's. And, her previous humiliation at the hands of Lou Mackler over the Billie Young story notwithstanding, she had an instinct for bull artistry that was accurate ninety nine per cent of the time.
To be perfectly honest, it wasn't only the determination to find out what Steele might be hiding that drover her. Underneath was a definite impulse to play tit for tat. When the Steeles had released the story about their office break-in, they'd shut out Spotlight News completely; she'd heard it secondhand from an Associated Press stringer. And she'd never quite forgiven Steele for his ongoing imperviousness to her sex appeal. The last time she'd been passed over in favor of a feminine rival was when she'd lost the pageant crown to Jill Elmore. She was of the firm belief that payback should literally be a bitch.
She'd already developed a preliminary list of leads she meant to contact as soon as possible. Maybe they could shed some light on the reason why Sir Daniel Chalmers, born in America, a British citizen, had a son who claimed his nationality was Irish. Or how Steele had risen to the position of high-level operative in the CIA when the Department of Defense had no record of either his training or his military service. Or why the CIA would have admitted an Irishman to their ranks in the first place.
Simon Edwards. Alex Edwards. Lillian Dalgleish, née Chalmers.
Windsor was looking forward to speaking to all of them.
"Mr. Steele! Mr. Steele! Wait!"
In the lobby of the Wilton Civic Auditorium, a tall, dark-haired man paused at the sound of his name. He turned and scanned the space with piercing blue eyes until he caught sight of the young woman pushing through the lingering crowds towards him.
His pursuer was panting when she reached him. "Elaine Casselas," she managed between gasps, holding out her hand. He shook it with an air of gentle amusement as she went on, "I just wanted to tell you in person, your talk was fantastic."
"It's gratifying to hear. Thanks very much. Are you in law enforcement? I wouldn't have thought--"
"Quinnipac University, third year. I'm going on to law school if I get accepted. I know this program was supposed to be for professionals, but when Professor Gilles announced it in class, I just had to come."
"Professor Gilles?"
"My Perspectives on Violence course. He knows a lot about your work and thought it would be really valuable if we could get some insight from a real, working private detective."
"Ah. A group of you attended, did you?"
"Well, no." She blushed. "Everybody was busy. I came by myself."
His amusement had deepened into a smile. "Then I'm all the more honored you were able to make it."
Looking up at him, she felt her face flush even hotter. He was more handsome up close than he'd been on stage, if that was possible, with those long-lashed blue eyes and that cleft chin. The expertly tailored navy suit and Italian loafers he was wearing fairly shouted class and money. She wondered fleetingly about some marks on his nose and chin that looked like they might be only recently healed. Probably he'd busted up a drug ring, or had a fight with the local mafia or something. Private detectives were always getting roughed up. She'd seen it on television.
During her momentary daydream she'd missed the beginning of his sentence. "---part you found most interesting," he was saying.
"Oh." She blinked. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"
"I said, I wonder if you'd be willing to share which part of the speech you found most interesting. Or helpful, or both."
"That's easy." She opened the spiral notebook she'd tucked into her purse. "It was the section on the three types of the violent criminal mind. Major Descoines—am I saying that right?"
"Perfect."
"Norman Keyes, and Tony Roselli." Closing the book, she added, "I think it's fascinating, the way you use real life examples from your cases like that. Were they all really as devious and brilliant as you described them?"
"Even more so, if you can believe it."
"Wow."
There didn't seem to be more to talk about after that, and anyway, he was taking her hand again. "Well—Elaine, was it? It was lovely to have met you. Perhaps our paths will cross again next time I'm in Connecticut. In the meantime, best of luck with your studies."
As he turned away, she noticed the wisps of hair that curled around the base of his neck, over his collar. He really was the most adorable man. Suddenly she recalled a question she'd meant to ask him; once more she called his name. "Mr. Steele?"
"Yes?"
"I was wondering—your biography in the proceedings says you're Irish."
"Quite correct." And he raised his eyebrows as if at a lapse in her manners.
"It's just that you sound almost like an American," she said apologetically. "I can't hear even a trace of accent."
"I've been long enough in this country that I've schooled myself to suppress it. Trust me, though, there are times when my brogue is thick enough to cut with a knife."
For the final time, he flashed that smile at her.
"Good day, Elaine."
FINIS
Next installment: Steele Inseperable Prequel
"Requiem in Steele Major"