Chapter 14: On the Trail

With a groan of dismay, Laura rolled over on the too hard, hotel bed and picked up the telephone to stop its shrill ringing.

"Hello?" she spoke with a gravelly, sleep coated voice.

"Good Morning, Mrs. Steele. You requested a 7:30 wakeup call?" came the bright voice over the line.

"Yes, thank you," she managed before dropping the handset back on the base.

Rolling over to her back, she forced herself into a sitting position and threaded her fingers through her hair. Morning had come far, far too soon. Her plane had arrived in Trenton at two-twenty-five in the morning and by the time she'd secured her rental car and checked into the hotel it had been just shy of three-thirty. Four hours of sleep would have been sufficient, not ideal but doable, but she'd even been able to get that. Instead, she'd tossed and turned the until well after five, her mind on her husband back in LA.

She'd called home as soon as she sat down her bags in her room. The phone had rung several times, in the end only to have the answering machine pick up. Haltingly, she'd left a message.

"I just wanted you to know I've arrived safely. You can reach me at 609-555-2116 room 228 until tomorrow at nine my time." She sighed deeply. "I'll be home Sunday night."

He'd never called. She'd finally succumbed to sleep from sheer exhaustion.

Crawling wearily out of the bed, she completed her morning ablutions and packed up her room. By the time she checked out of the hotel at a few minutes after nine, she'd firmly shoved Remington from her mind. She needed her thoughts fully focused on the unannounced visit she would be making on Colonel Lorenzo Roselli and his wife, Florence. With a little luck, Roselli's parents could provide the answers she was seeking, then she could cancel her trip to North Carolina and be on a flight for home that evening.

On Friday evening, Remington had walked the better part of two hours before returning home. Bracing himself for the next round, he opened the front door of the house, fighting the urge to quietly close it then take off once more. He'd still not come to terms with either Laura's determination to pursue the Roselli matter, giving no weight to his stance on the subject, or the imperiousness of her declaration that they would be doing it, 'and that is that.' His temper began to heat anew at just the remembrance of those words. If, however, further discussion on the matter could be put off until after dinner, time spent in his kitchen might clear his head enough that they might have some semblance of a rational conversation.

He'd been prepared for any number of possibilities when he returned home. A cold and silent Laura. A furious Laura. An avoidant Laura. Had even amused himself with the thought of a contrite Laura. What he'd not prepared himself for was a note propped up on the credenza inside the front door. Opening the folded piece of paper, he read her brief message. Tossing it down, he flicked a wrist at it as his temper soared. Snatching the keys to the Auburn, he stormed out the front door, slamming it in his wake.

He drove without plan for a little over an hour before stopping at Café la Traque for a bite to eat. Much to his annoyance two separate waiters had inquired if his wife would be joining him, to which Remington had provided a clipped "Out of town, I'm afraid." He'd purposefully avoided Chez Rive and L'Ornate so he'd not face such questions. La Traque had seemed a safe choice as he and Laura frequented the establishment for lunch but never the evening meal. That his carefully laid plan had been foiled only irritated him all the more.

Left to his own devices for the evening and needing to blow off a little steam, he called Monroe from the Auburn's phone. Jocelyn was spending two weeks in Brazil on a swimsuit photo shoot, leaving his old friend at loose ends as well. The two agreed to meet at the pub by the Rossmore for drinks and round of billiards. Three quarters of an hour later, Monroe slipped into a booth across from Remington.

"It was good to hear from you, old friend. Had I known we'd both be left to seek our own entertainment on the evening, I'd have organized a game of cards," Monroe greeted him.

"Came as a surprise to myself as well. What's your drink of choice on the evening?"

"What better with conversation and billiards than a draught of Guinness?" This drew a laugh from Remington, as he held up two fingers to the bartender. When not accompanied by Laura, it was his standard drink at the pub.

"Shall we dispense with business before we get this evening underway?" Remington suggested.

"Certainly. Profits are up sixty-five percent over this time last year. The launch of custom home entertainment services has proven as profitable and in demand as we had suspected they would be, accounting for nearly twenty-five percent, while providing the security installation services for your Agency is responsible for another ten percent. Still, the numbers reflect a thirty-percent increase of general sales for the same period." Monroe leaned back into the corner of the booth. "We may want to consider the addition of another store, Mick."

"Seems so," he agreed as the pints were set before them. "Do you have a location in mind?"

"Not as yet, but I shall give it some thought."

"Good, good." Remington took a long draw of the dark ale, then moved to lean against the wall and stretch out as Monroe had done. "There's another matter of business, Agency business, I'd like you to consider."

"A new installation?" Remington shook his head.

"Not at all, although I suspect by week's end we'll have confirmed contracts for two more." He fingered his mug. "We'll be expanding the Agency in the upcoming months, both in space and staff. I rather like the idea of giving someone such as ourselves, left to live by their wits, an opportunity to find themselves a better perch by means of learning a new, respectable skill set. An apprentice would be provided a fair wage, earning their license and the benefit of said license after three years. Might you know of someone?" Monroe raised his brows in interest.

"A few come to mind. I imagine a candidate will need a clean criminal record." Remington gave a nod of his head.

"For purposes of licensure, they will indeed."

"I've still several in mind. Let me put further thought into it. I want to be certain anyone I recommend for such an opportunity will make the most of it. When do you need an answer by?" Remington gave this some thought.

"We'll begin the expansion and renovations of the offices first of March. I imagine Laura will want to begin conducting interviews around that time."

"I'll get back to you in the next two weeks, then," Monroe assured him. "Speaking of our lovely Laura, what has her occupied this evening?" He watched as Remington's mood darkened considerably.

"She's out of town." Indicating the back room with his mug of ale, Remington inquired, "Shall we?"

"But, of course. Should I simply hand you all the blunt in my pockets now, or will you insist upon prolonging the experience?" Remington laughed and clapped his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Part of the joy of the win is in the suffering of the opponent when they must hand over their hard-earned wages," he said by way of answer.

An hour later, for the third time the exchange of money was from Remington's pocket to Monroe's. Remington's normally smooth stroke was jerky and his back cut and side spin non-existent. When he scratched for a second time on a bank shot of such simplicity he could normally complete it blindfolded with the cue behind his back, he muttered a series of colorful oaths. Leaning against his own cue, Monroe directed a thoughtful look at his old comrade-in-arms.

"Might I suggest a discussion of what's on your mind before you commit an act of atrocity against those hapless balls?" Remington flashed him a patently fake smile.

"I've no idea what you mean."

"Mick, we've known one another near half our lives. Decline conversation, if you wish, but do not insult my intelligence by denying something is not amiss," Monroe dressed him down lightly. With a shake of his head, and a hand held up in apology, Remington lay the cue stick on the table.

"No offense intended, I assure you. Another ale?"

The pair returned to the booth they'd vacated earlier. Once their ales were served, Remington took a long drink before Monroe spoke.

"Might I speculate Laura's holiday is at the root of your mood this evening?" he asked.

"Holiday." Remington snorted a laugh. "The woman's not on a bloody holiday, but out stirring up ghosts in order to quench her insatiable thirst for solving mysteries." Monroe was surprised by the bitterness running through his friend's words.

"Forgive me, my friend, but that tenacious spirit of our Laura's has always been part of her allure to you, has it not?" Remington frowned deeply and took another drink.

"Well, yes, but –"

"Yet you hold her at fault for it now," Monroe interrupted, cutting to the heart of the matter.

"That's not the point!" Remington objected.

"Then tell me, what is that has you up in arms, mon ami?"

"I want our lives wiped clean of the specter of the bugger's presence," Remington provided wearily. "Yet my wife is bound and determined to stir it all up again in order to determine the why of it all, even if it means placing at risk all we've fought so long to have." Monroe thrummed his fingers on the table, knowing they'd arrived at the crux of the problem.

"And how would knowing do that?" he inquired.

"It seems the why, according to him, is because I got in the way of something that mattered to him."

"A fairly common hazard of your current trade, it seems to me," Monroe pointed out.

"Perhaps. But I get the sense it's personal, not professional." Remington propped his chin on his knuckles and stared blindly across the room. "I've a hard enough time living with knowing it was my decisions last year which placed her in harm's way. But if we find it's something…" he shook his head, morosely, "…something I've done in my prior life which brought his wrath upon us, I don't know if I'll… we'll… ever get past it." Monroe hummed thoughtfully.

"Mick, you fail to give Laura the credit I believe she's due," he admonished quietly. "Does she hold you responsible now for what she underwent?" Remington swiped his fingers over his mouth and leaned more fully against the wall.

"No, although by all rights she should," he answered, eyes meeting with Monroe's.

"Did Laura perchance mention she and Jocelyn had lunch last week to celebrate her birthday?" Remington blinked hard at the sudden change in conversation.

"She did. Is there a particular reason you ask?" Monroe tilted his head and shrugged his shoulder, as though unconcerned.

"Only in as much as Jocelyn made mention Laura appeared tired and seemed to have lost a bit of weight since our trip." Remington nodded his head in answer.

"She's had… difficulty… sleeping well since her run in with Felicia," he acknowledged. Monroe suddenly took great interest in the napkin before him, staring at it as he fingered its edges.

"Tell me, mon ami, what would you give up to keep our Laura safe?" he challenged.

"My very life, as you well know," Remington's brows drew together, affronted by the question. "Should you even have to ask?"

"No. As you've said, I already knew the answer." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "But it begs the question: Since you're willing to give your life to keep her person safe, why is it not worth risking perhaps another helping of guilt upon your plate if it means keeping her mind safe from harm?"

With that question to ponder, the table fell silent as both men imbibed in drink and the quiet companionship of old friends.

Laura pulled her rental car up to the curb in front of a stunning three-story house on Ridgway Street in Mount Holly. The home was clearly located in a historic portion of the charming town. Massive oak, elms and weeping willows lined up between sidewalks and curbs. American flags hung from expansive front porches of the stately homes situated on large lots. The house before her exuded warmth with its yellow clapboard, deep blue shutters and white trim. The home captivated her, as she envisioned sitting before a fire in the living room during cold winter days like today, or sitting curled up with a book on a window seat in one of the third story dormers. What she couldn't picture was the often crude Anthony Roselli growing up in a home such as this, as it was the antithesis of all that he was, at least to her.

At the front door of the home, she hesitated momentarily, before lifting the brass knocker and tapping it, an announcement to those inside that a guest had arrived. She heard the muffled voices of a man and a woman, before the door to the house swung open. A gentleman in his mid-to-late-sixties, gray hair shorn short, wearing a plaid button down, tan dress pants and a brown cardigan stood before her.

"May I help you?" he inquired.

"Colonel Roselli?" He gave a crisp, no nonsense nod of his head, in answer.

"I am. And yourself?" Laura extended her hand to the man. With the question of who she was still lingering in his eyes, he accepted the offered handshake.

"My name is Laura Steele. Your son—" The Colonel abruptly released her hand and stepping onto the porch, closed the door behind him.

"I know who you are," he interrupted in a low voice, cutting to the chase. "As for Anthony, I stopped considering him my son long ago," he informed her, bitterness threading through his voice. "What can I do for you?" Her brain fumbled, her mouth opening and closing several times before the words would come.

"I'm trying to understand why. Why he came after my husband and me. I was hoping you'd be able… willing," she corrected, "to answer some questions."

"I'm not sure what answers I might have that could help you understand, Mrs. Steele. It's been years since he and I have even spoken," he hesitated.

"In my experience, even something that may appear to have no bearing in your mind, will actually provide a clue on which direction to go next." Looking away from him, she blew out a short breath, then returned her eyes to him. "I don't know if anything you know will help me to figure this out, but it would at least be a start." The Colonel turned and looked at the front door, seemingly considering her request.

"I'll tell you what I can, but not here. I suppose I owe you that much after what he-," he left the thought unfinished. "My wife's not been well for some time. When she heard Anthony had been arrested and why she had to be hospitalized. I can't risk it happening again. There's a diner on Washington. Have some breakfast. I'll meet you as soon as I can find someone to come sit with her." Laura held out her hand to him again.

"I appreciate it. I assure you, I'll wait as long as needed, so don't rush on my account." He released her hand and reached for the door knob.

"I'll see you shortly." With that, he opened the door and went inside, quietly closing the door behind him. As she stepped down the steps on the porch, she could again hear voices conversing inside.

The taunt muscles in Laura's neck and shoulders relaxed as relief swept through her. She'd come all this way hoping the Roselli's would be willing to answer her questions, but recognized they just as easily might have refused. Now, she could only hope anything the Colonel provided would give her a lead. Shutting the car door, she turned the key in the ignition, allowing the car to idle and the heater to warm the car as she pulled out her map. Locating Washington Street, she realized it was only a mile or so away. At the thought of food, her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn't eaten since breakfast the day before. After refolding the map and storing it in the glove box, she shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb, not even noticing when a taxi cab did a u-turn shortly after passing her, then fell in behind her car to follow.

The little café was nestled among several store fronts in an area which seemed to serve as the downtown of Mount Holly. Glancing through the window as she passed, she noted the restaurant appeared to be bustling, hopefully an indication that good fare was found within its walls. Five doors down, she pulled the little car into a parking spot, cinching the belt to her coat tight when she climbed out. The restaurant was larger than it appeared on the outside. The hostess led her to a table in a corner at the back, which would allow her and the Colonel some modicum of privacy when he arrived. Taking a seat that faced the door, she eagerly opened the menu and studied the offerings.

"'Of all the gin joints…'" a warm voice next to her ear spoke quietly. A wide smile graced Laura's face as she turned in her seat to look up at Remington. Not that he'd admit it to her, but her stunning smile made the hectic cross country trip well worth the effort.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, unable to disguise her shocked pleasure.

"If you could follow me fifty-five-hundred miles to London, I figure the least I could do is follow you twenty-seven-hundred to New Jersey," he answered smoothly as he claimed a chair next to hers, then leveled his blue eyes upon her. "But make no mistake about it, Mrs. Steele, I'm as displeased with you now, as you were me then." He took some satisfaction in watching her squirm beneath his gaze.

"Rem-"

"We'll speak of it later," he interrupted, giving her a look to let her know he wouldn't be swayed otherwise. "Preferably after a good meal and somewhere with much more privacy than this affords." She bit her tongue, quite literally, to stop the demand they address the issue now from passing her lips. While she still believed she'd every right to be put out by his obstinate refusal to listen to reason, she recognized walking out on him trumped her own irritation. What mattered was that he'd come, was sitting beside her, despite his opposition. Yet more progress, she acknowledged.

"How did you find me, here of all places?" she wondered aloud.

"Mildred provided me the address of the Roselli's. I'd just arrived when you took your leave," he provided. "Did you learn anything of interest?" Conversation paused when the waitress arrived with her coffee and took their orders.

"We didn't have a chance to talk. The Colonel suggested we meet here, away from the house. I'm expecting him at any time." She studied Remington as he nodded his thanks to the waitress when she brought his tea. Reaching out, she smoothed back that stubborn lock of hair. His eyes were weary, slightly red and he was a bit more pale than normal. "Have you gotten any sleep? When did you get in?"

"Caught a wink, maybe two on the flight. Took the red eye, landed shortly after seven," he answered succinctly, another indication of how tired he was, elsewise he would have espoused endlessly on the hardships of the trip. "You don't look as though you fared much better in the way of sleep," he observed. As though on signal, she yawned.

"I was missing someone." She figured she could at least give him that truth after the way she'd left. She lay her hand on the back of his, stroking his ring. The smile she received in return was more than worth the admission.

"You were, were you?" He turned his hand over and wove his fingers with hers.

"I was." Her hand squeezed his. Warm blue eyes held soft brown eyes as he lifted her hand and brushed his lips over the back of it before releasing it and sitting back with cup of tea in hand.

"So, tell me, what do you think of this Colonel?" Conversation lulled again as their breakfasts were served, giving Laura time to gather her first impressions. She ignored the appreciative look the waitress sent Remington's way.

"Older than I expected, given Roselli's age. Mid-to-late-sixties, I'd guess. He seems –" She stopped speaking, her attention caught by something in front of them. "Why don't you see for yourself?" She stood then held out her hand to a man when he approached. "Colonel," they exchanged handshakes, as Remington rose to his feet. "Thank you for coming. My husband, Remington Steele." The two men exchanged handshakes as well before they all took their seats. "Remington finished up some business in LA and arrived a short while ago to join me for the remainder of the trip. I hope you don't mind," she informed the man at the look of curiously. Obviously, he'd believe it would only be he and Laura speaking, as had she.

"The usual, Dana," the Colonel told the waitress when she approached the table with a cup of coffee for the Colonel and refilled Laura's coffee by a carafe.

"Yes, sir. And can I get you more tea, sir?" she asked Remington. He shook his head.

"Coffee will be fine from here on out," he let her know. He seemed oblivious to the waitress's admiration, making the corner of Laura's lips quirk up in a smirk. In a matter of moments, the waitress returned with a fresh mug of hot coffee for him then left the trio to themselves.

"As I said at the house, Mrs. Steele, I'm not sure of what help I might be," the Colonel said, initiating the conversation.

"I don't know, either, but it's a place to start. You said you haven't spoken with your son in years?" Anger flashed across the man's face, unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but both Laura and Remington had seen it and filed it away.

"Anthony is not my son…"