Chapter 8: Legwork
Laura helped Remington back into the hospital bed, assisting each of his legs up onto the mattress. They'd just completed the obligatory four turns up and down the fifty-foot corridor outside of Remington's room and she was shocked – and concerned – about the toll the task had taken on him. Sweat had beaded across his forehead after the first lap; the flesh on his face not discolored by the bruises was ghostly white by the end of the second; before they'd finished the third, he'd begun shaking visibly; and that last trip was completed only by her supporting half his body weight, more-or-less. They'd traveled the distance of only one-and-a-third football fields yet by the time they returned to the room he was breathing hard, thoroughly exhausted and in a considerable amount of pain.
It was a potent reminder of just how grievously he'd been injured and that not even six hours ago he'd been in Critical Care.
Apparently, his condition had alarmed Mildred as well, for she'd rushed out of the room in search of Louisa after taking one good look at her 'Boss.'
Mildred was first back through the door, carrying a fresh pitcher of ice water. Hastily filling a cup, she held it to his lips. With a quick frown, he swayed his head away.
"I'm not so weak I can't hold a glass of water, Mildred," he told her crossly. She let the reprimand go, and fussed with sheet, blanket and pillow, before disappearing into the bathroom across the room.
"Are you alright?" Laura asked, unable to smother the amused note in her voice. His pinched lips and narrowed eyes expressed his silent disdain for her amusement.
She rolled her eyes heavenward, and tapped a foot impatiently. A child, indeed, she mused. Petulant didn't begin to describe his current state… which was no one's fault but his own.
As appealing to him as the idea of being fawned over when sick might be, the reality was that 'fawning' came with certain terms and conditions, unless you wanted a vexed man on your hands. A cup of tea, a bowl of soup, a favorite movie loaded into his VCR? Those gestures were all gladly embraced. Being ordered to stay in bed another day? The reception to that would depend upon his mood: Bored and the man would complain incessantly but when content? The man would utter the obligatory groan of dismay while already envisioning how he'd spend his day playing hooky from work… and how he might entice Laura to join him.
If creature comforts, such as tea on demand, were contingent upon Mildred taking his temperature willy-nilly, that he could live with. But when Mildred moved from waiting on him to fussing over him? Invariably he'd grow annoyed.
There was only one person whose attention he yearned for, who he wished to tuck him in and wipe his fevered brow…
And unfortunately for him, he never knew which version of that person he might get.
The woman with a heavy hand and rapier sharp tongue…
"Feeling sorry for yourself isn't helping a thing!"
Or the woman with the soft touch and tender words….
"I just don't like seeing you get hurt. I want to put my arms around you, to hold you… comfort you."
And then there was this version. The foot-tapping, eye-rolling, I'll-humor-you-up-to-a-point-but-you'll-have-to-behave' version.
The scowl on his face morphed into a soft-eyed plea. With a huff for posterity's sake, she took the cup from his hand, then palming the back of his head for support, pressed the cup to his lips while he took a long, grateful drink of the cool water.
"You owe Mildred an apology," she reprimanded lightly.
"Nah, honey," Mildred corrected as she returned with a damp wash cloth in hand. "I wouldn't be a barrel of laughs in his condition either."
"Nevertheless—" he began, stopping when the door swung open and Townsend entered the room followed by Louisa.
"I hear the brief walk took a toll on our patient," Townsend said by way of greeting. Louisa wasted no time in wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Remington's right arm.
"Exercise has never been Mr. Steele's strong suit," Laura quipped. Remington pursed his lips disapprovingly. "What? Can you deny it's true?"
"I believe I've already explained my stance on exercise. Recently, as a matter of fact, when you gifted me with a certain pair of shoes."
"…Pursuing you is all the exercise I need."
They shared a smile between themselves.
"The discomfort is not unexpected," Townsend continued. "Your ribs, of course, supply a good deal of the support that keeps you upright. When injured, your muscles must take up much of that slack. Unfortunately for yourself, those muscles and the tissue surrounding them are seriously contused."
"And they feel it," Remington puffed, shifting, trying to find a more comfortable position.
"We're going to give you a little something to help relax them," Townsend advised. "Within a few days you'll find you have nothing more than mild discomfort." Vitals complete, Louisa notated the chart then handed the chart to Dr. Townsend. "Louisa, if you will."
"Yes, doctor." Removing a syringe from her pocket she moved to Remington's left side where the IV hung.
"Who's a man have to bribe 'round here to have a shower?" Remington inquired. Townsend gave the question a moment of consideration.
"Let's see how things look this evening. If all is proceeding well, then I'll have an aide assist you with that shower." The grateful smile pulled at Remington's lips for only a second then it disappeared and, alarmed, he looked to Laura for assistance. He'd already been poked, prodded, fondled and manhandled once on the day and he'd no interest in repeating any part of the experience.
"I'm sure we can manage a shower on our own," Laura stepped in. When it appeared Townsend might argue, her chin tipped up a notch and she regarded him in a manner suggesting arguing was futile. "We're partners first and foremost, Dr. Townsend. It's what we do." A pair of grateful eyes regarded her, as she lifted the cup of water to his lips again now that Louisa was done with her ministrations.
"Word of advice, Doc?" Mildred spoke up, drawing the physician's gaze. "Once these two plant their feet, there's not a person on this earth who could make either of them budge except each other." Townsend barked a laughed.
"I'll keep that under advisement." He returned his attention to Remington. "I'll be in 'round eight to see where we stand. By then you should have had your dinner and made another attempt at walking the hall." Remington groaned his discontent.
"I'll see to it that he does," Laura assured with a pointed look at her partner. The words and the look elicited another…
"Awww…"
Remington was fast asleep within thirty minutes of Townsend's visit. The timing couldn't have been more perfect, at least in Laura's eyes. Ever since he'd provided details on his assailants that morning, she'd been positively itching to start investigating those leads. But – as had become more-and-more common over the last year – she'd prioritized what he needed over the compulsion to chase a clue. It was a perfectly logical decision after all: He was safe and mending in the hospital and whoever had done this was not an immediate threat whereas he needed her attention now.
She sighed as she sat up then leaned down to brush her lips over his cheek…
She'd needed to be with him, too. It was still such a difficult admission to make: That despite her vow never to find herself in too deep again, what she'd felt for Wilson had been like wading in the shallows compared to what this man meant to her.
"I'll be back," she whispered, then stood and grabbing a pair of bags, disappeared into the bathroom. A short time later, she emerged dressed in slacks and a blouse and a generous layer of cosmetics concealing her injuries. She addressed Mildred who had taken the seat Laura had vacated and was thumbing through a magazine while an afternoon drama played out quietly on the television. "I need to go out. Do you mind staying with him?" Mildred set aside the magazine and stood, hustling across the room to where her purse sat on the coffee table.
"You'll need this," Mildred announced, holding out the cash she'd had converted to pounds that morning. "Where are you going?".
"To get some answers, I hope."
With a final look back over her shoulder at Remington, she walked out the door.
"Miss Blaine? Alan Cross." The average height but well-built man in his mid-thirties greeted Laura with an outstretched hand where she stood before a display of marble tile options. "Operations manager for Oliver James' Flooring Specialists," he elaborated as they exchanged handshakes.
"Thank you so much for seeing me," Laura offered graciously.
"Of course, of course. Ms. Babcock tells me there is a matter of some urgency that needs to be discussed pertaining to the Earl's restoration in Brixton?"
"Well, urgent on our part at least," she clarified. "The Earl of Claridge was so impressed by the reports he received on the various crews working on the restoration, that he is considering presenting those who worked on the job with a bonus in thanks for completing the job not only on time but with pride in their workmanship. Unfortunately," she drew out the word, "There are handful men whom Mr. O'Leary can describe and provide us with the crew they worked on, but he can't recall their names. One of those men he distinctly remembers as being part of the flooring crew."
"How is Mr. O'Leary?" Cross inquired. "To say we were horrified when we learned what had befallen him would be an understatement."
"He was moved out of Critical Care this morning," she shared, "But full recovery will take a while, I'm afraid. When I see him, I'll be certain to convey you were asking after him."
"We'd appreciate that," Cross replied with a nod of thanks. "Now, this man. You say you have a description?"
"I do," she confirmed. "Forties, not quite six feet and portly with dark hair but balding, close cropped beard and what Mr. Leary described as a prominent nose," she described.
"George Smith comes to mind," Cross provided, "One of the day laborers." She cocked her head slightly to the side and gave him a curious look.
"Day laborer?"
"Men who go where the work is on a day-by-day basis. Today they might be working for us, tomorrow a competitor. If you'll allow me to explain." With an extended arm, he indicated that she should accompany him to his office. "We employ a minimal staff on our permanent payroll. Our standard household installations are enough to keep two-dozen installers employed full-time, but with our more specialized projects we've no idea how many men will be needed until the job is bid and won. For those, we supplement our own staff with day laborers."
"I see. Do you keep a list of day laborers and contact them when work is available?" she asked as she sat down in the chair he offered, then took a seat behind his desk.
"To the contrary. Due to the nature of many of our more specialized projects, we require any man who works for us – employed by us or sent – to be bondable. We've found it to our benefit to utilize employment agencies to vet applicants. Once cleared by an agency, any laborer's application is forwarded to us with a copy of their driving license which we then forward to our bonding agency. After that, all a man needs do is check the employment boards to see where work might be found on any given day."
"Do you keep a copy of those applications on file?"
"We do," Cross confirmed.
"Would it be possible to get a copy of George Smith's application?" she requested. "As I'm sure you can understand, Mr. O'Leary is unable to travel and the Earl of Claridge is eager to resolve these few anomalies as quickly as possible."
"Well, given he was, in essence, employed by the Earl, I see no reason to object. If you'll excuse me for a moment, I'll just gather what you need."
Less than ten minutes later, Laura had the application – complete with picture – stowed in her purse and stood on the sidewalk hailing a cab. She'd had a brief moment of doubt that Cross might refuse to provide her with the application, so she'd smoothly added the reference to the Earl as a bit of encouragement and then the man had been eager to accommodate. Too eager? She hadn't thought so, but for some reason those small hairs on the back of her neck had been standing on end since shortly before Cross had returned to his office.
Well, she mentally shrugged, if Cross had an ulterior motive there was little she could do about it now… And more importantly, she had what she'd come for.
She slid into the backseat of the hack that pulled up to the curb.
"89 Beaulah Road, please," she instructed the driver.
The conversation between Remington and Daniel had been very… revealing. If Remington's suspicions were correct and Daniel was up to his neck in something? It wasn't too much of a stretch of the imagination to question if Remington had been targeted to send Daniel a message.
She frowned as another thought crossed her mind: How had it not occurred to her before now that bodies seemed to fall whenever Daniel was around?
When he'd come to LA three years ago, an associate named The Colonel had been murdered by Hoskins in the course of a sting gone bad.
Two years ago, when Daniel had dragged Remington into the Duke of Rutherford fiasco, bodies had been dropping all around them and there had been far too many near misses for comfort.
Then last year in London, again Remington had been dragged into one of Daniel – and Felicia's! – ruses, embroiling him in an assassination plot that had left one man dead and again resulted in several close calls.
If Daniel were up to something – and she certainly wouldn't put it past him – then she was in agreement with her partner: It had something to do with the Earl of Claridge. But what? She wasn't even sure if she knew where to begin. Last year, he'd intended to relieve the Earl's guests of their jewelry while in attendance of his wedding reception. If he were after 'baubles,' he'd had nearly a year to relieve the Earl and Countess of theirs.
What offered him the greatest reward at the least risk to himself? Therein would lie the inspiration of his scheme.
"Miss?... Miss?" The driver's calls pierced her thoughts. "89 Beaulah Road."
There were those little hairs again, warning her something was amiss. Absently rubbing arms that seemed suddenly chilled, she surveyed her surroundings. The quirky little neighborhood boasted pre-WWII era row homes with mismatched facades, and fair mix of family homes and houses converted into businesses. Parked cars lined both sides of the narrow, one-way, relatively quiet street, with a handful of people walking down the sidewalk and a pair of women tidying up the exteriors of their homes. As unfamiliar as the area was to her, she couldn't say for certain if anything was amiss, but nothing stood out… Other than the noticeable lack of taxis in the vicinity. Based on that observation alone, she made a strategic call.
"I shouldn't be more than fifteen, twenty minutes if you wouldn't mind waiting." A light appeared in the hack driver's eyes as he eyed the small grocer at the corner intersection that boasted hot meals.
"I can't be parking here, Miss, permit parking only during this part of the day," he pointed a finger to a street sign advising precisely that. His finger changed trajectory to indicate the store. "I'll just have myself a bite right over there, won't even leave the meter running."
"Then enjoy your meal on me," she told the man with a smile, offering him a ten-pound note. It was a very Remington move, she noted to herself, as she alighted the vehicle, then watched as it drove in the direction of that small store. With a final look up and down the street, she gave her head a small shake as she climbed the short staircase to the door of Peter Fullers Contracting.
Much as had been the case with Cross at Oliver James' Flooring, a mention of the Earl's gratitude had seen the file of one Charlie Jones placed in her hand, complete with driving license. Tonight, she decided as she stepped outside, she'd quiz Remington on the various other contractors who had worked on the project and with a little luck they'd find the third perpetrator on the employee roster of one of them. They were closer. She could feel it.
Closing her purse, she descended the stairs and began the brief walk towards the little store, the sensation something was off following her doggedly. It wasn't until she walked through the doors of the store when she realized, with some relief, that her instincts were as sharp as ever when she spied a short, squat, bald-man indulging in a basket of fish and chips.
"You! I should have known," she hissed, walking with intent across the store stopping only when she was nearly nose-to-nose with the man. "You've been following me," she accused. "For what purpose?"
"You're delusional, Holt," he accused loudly, drawing the attention of patrons and store clerk. "And I gotta tell ya, you're starting to scare me. You get me fired from my job with all your lies-"
"I didn't get you fired, you did that yourself," she rebutted, eyes widening and skin pinking with outrage.
"You follow me to London—" She looked at him like he'd lost his mind.
"I didn't follow you—" She refuted with disgust.
"You've threatened to kill me." Her lips tightened, unable to contradict that statement. "Now here you are again. I gotta tell you, I'm really starting to think you're gonna follow through on that threat." Hands shaking he threw his food into the garbage then held up his hands at her. "Just stay away from me," he begged, as he backed up to the cashier fumbling in his pockets and removing his wallet. She could only stare at him, dumbfounded as he handed the clerk his credit card, never taking his eyes off her.
"Have you lost your mind?" she drew out the words.
"I don't want any trouble," he continued. Stupefied, she could only watch as he took his receipt, backed out of the store's doors, then turned and ran.
She looked up to find three pairs of eyes plastered on her. With a shake of her head and a flip of her hand, she dismissed the allegations.
"I'm not the one off their rocker," she defended. "You wouldn't happen to know where my cab driver is, would you?"
"No permit parking is on the right side of the building along the street," the clerk supplied, eyeing her suspiciously.
She rolled her eyes at him, then took a step towards the doors Keyes had just exited through when her the heel of her pump connected with something on the floor nearly making her slip. Looking down, she saw a piece of folded paper. Stooping down, she picked it up and opened it.
Pay dirt!
With a smile lighting her face now, she strolled from the store with her head held high. That piece of paper, as it turned out, was a dot matrix print out of Keyes hotel check-in which must have fallen from his pocket when he pulled out his wallet.
Time to pay Norman Keyes a visit to find out not only what this little show had been about, but to determine if he had anything at all to do with Remington's attack.