Forever Steele

by Xenon

Ten years after disappearing, Steele returns to Los Angeles Set in 1997.

1. Chapter 1

FOREVER STEELE

"It's his wife, it has to be."

"His wife? You're kidding. No way is that his wife. A guy like that, he marries the girl next door. She'll be a sweet looking woman in her forties by now, with a sensible dress and sensible shoes, staying home to bake cookies for the local fête. No way is that his wife."

"You want to put some money on that?" She was laughing at him, egging him on, and he nodded his head enthusiastically.

"Yeah, okay. I'll put money on it. Twenty dollars says no way is that his wife. She's probably his secretary, and another twenty dollars says it wasn't dictation she was taking in that motel room."

"Ouch. Old age has made you so cynical, Murph."

"It's made me realistic." He leaned back in his seat, pouring them both a mug of coffee from the thermos flask on the floor. "What's wrong? Getting cold feet about the bet?"

"No. No, I'll see your twenty. The first one. But you're right about the dictation."

"Cynical, Laura?"

"Cynical? You better believe it. I was born cynical." She took a sip of her coffee, and laughed lightly. "Look at us. Making stupid bets about the poor man's love life. She's probably his sister, and they were sitting in that motel room discussing plans for their dear old mother's ninetieth birthday."

"She's his secretary." Murphy Michaels, who had been a private investigator long enough to suspect the worst of everybody, flashed his companion a broad and cheerful grin. Years of exposure to the seedy side of life might have made another man bitter, but Murphy had always retained the good cheer of his youth. Experience told him to suspect the worst - his own nature usually gave him a far better outlook. "And I'll bet his wife would love to know all about it."

"She already does. I still say that's her over there."

"You're a hopeless romantic, Laura. You know that?"

"Am I?" Laura Holt, who had been a private investigator for just as long as Murphy, had never quite shared his cheerful outlook. Life had left far more of a mark upon her than it had upon him - for good or for ill - and romantic was the last word she would have used to describe herself. "I don't think so, Murph."

"Aw, hell. I'm sorry." He was immediately contrite. "I didn't... Damn it, it was a stupid thing to say. I haven't forgotten what the date is. I could shoot myself some days."

"Forget it." She punched him on the arm. "I didn't mean to kill the mood. Are we still on for tonight?"

"Of course we are. I wouldn't miss it for the world. You, me, a bottle of Scotch, an office full of paperwork and accounting to catch up on... Where else would I want to be?"

"Some days, Murph, I wonder how on Earth you wound up divorced. Then I hear you say things like that, and suddenly I remember." She laughed at him, though fondly. "I think our guy is going back inside the motel."

"Yeah. The secretary is probably on her way home too. You want to call it a day?"

"I shouldn't." She watched Gerald Paul - a businessman whom they were supposed to be keeping under close surveillance - as he headed back inside his rented room and closed the door. "I should suggest that we stay here all night and make sure nothing interesting happens."

"Laura, how long have we been watching this guy?"

"Three weeks."

"Yeah. Three weeks. And what's he done in all that time? The chances of anything interesting ever happening in the life of Gerald Paul are about as good as the chances of me winning twenty million dollars on the lottery, marrying Demi Moore, and spending the rest of my life on a Caribbean island drinking Margaritas. Let's go home."

"Demi Moore?"

"Demi Moore, Michelle Pfeiffer. You know me, Laura. I'm not picky." He grinned at her. "Now can we call it a day? I want to get back to the office before eight, so I can give the kids a call. See how Alex did in his science test today. He was nervous about it, and I promised I'd speak to him before he goes to bed."

"You're a great father, Murph."

"No, if I was a great father I'd have spoken to him about it when he got back from school. Not waited until he's practically asleep." He shrugged. "But they're good kids. They don't seem to mind. Come on." He started up the car. "If we go now there'll be time to stop off at Marco's pizza place before the queue starts. What do you say? A bottle of scotch and a pizza. Is that the perfect evening or is that the perfect evening?"

"It does sound pretty good." She sighed. "Alright, Marco's it is. So long as we order anchovies."

"And olives."

"And extra peppers."

"And extra onion."

"You always did have great taste in pizza, Murph. You ever think our lives would have been a whole lot simpler if we'd just married each other?"

"I like to think we wouldn't both be divorced if we had." He smiled at her. "But on the other hand, we might be living on opposite sides of the country by now, and never speaking to each other."

"Yeah." She shrugged. "Fair point. Anyway, come on. I need one of Marco's pizzas, and I don't want to wait in a long queue."

"Your wish is my command, Miss Holt." Carefully he pulled the car out into the traffic, and headed it off in the direction of their offices. "I'll pull up outside the store and dash inside. There anything else you want?"

"Ice cream?"

"Now how did I know you were going to say that!" He grinned teasingly at her. "Yeah, okay. Ice cream. Honestly, Laura. Sometimes I worry about the way you eat."

"Ha! And when I think of the things you used to eat! All those lunches poor Bernice used to go and fetch - the beef and the horseradish and goodness only knows what else. And you begrudge me my ice cream."

"You're a real drama queen at times, you know that?" He flashed her a typically good-natured grin, then eased the car over to the side of the road. "Be back in a couple of minutes. Anything else besides the pizza and the ice cream?"

"No. Just don't forget the anchovies."

"Laura, by now Marco is getting the thing ready as soon as I open the door. He knows our pizza." He climbed out of the car. "Keep an eye out for traffic cops. I don't have change for the meter."

"Murphy..." But he had already gone, heading off into the pizza place with a faint smile on his face. He knew only too well how she would sit there, twiddling her thumbs and staring at the meter, fighting the urge to do the right thing and put some money into it. He had always liked to tease that way. She sat there for nearly two full minutes, all but twitching, staring at the door of the restaurant in the hope that he would reappear. He didn't. Clearly it took Marco more than two minutes to properly construct a Holt And Michaels Special. Eventually, cursing her own ingrained desire to adhere strictly to the law, she clambered out of the car and went through her pockets. She had some change somewhere, she was sure of it. The coins rattled down inside the meter with the satisfying sound of the law being obeyed to the letter, and she felt the accompanying sense of pleasure from everything now being as it should. She smiled to herself, at her own incorrigible conformity, and turned back to watch the traffic for a moment. She had always loved city life, and it was as good a way as ever to kill time until Murphy returned. Watching the cabs and the private cars; the bustling pedestrians and the patrolling police. Somewhere nearby a siren howled, and she caught a brief glimpse of a fire engine shooting off down an intersection. Faces came and went at the windows across the street; and men, women and children went about their early evening lives, at their own speed, in their own way, being whoever they were. Her smile became the distant smile of distracted contentment, as her thoughts soared above all that complicated, collected humanity, and wandered on to more abstract things. Tomorrow; tonight; her caseload all whirling into dozy ideas that somehow interconnected. The cars went on by. Some of them stopped and spilled out occupants. Others picked other people up. Right in front of her a taxi cab eased into an empty space, and she watched it with half an eye as it waited with its engine idling. The man who had hailed it had just come out of a building across the way, bag in one hand, swinging idly. He looked to be about Laura's age, more or less - early to mid forties, though she wasn't really paying enough attention to hazard a proper guess. A wiry build, black hair with a faintly windswept, awry look to it, but which her mind somehow wanted to picture neatly arranged and held in place with expensive spray. Something inside her frowned, but she still wasn't paying proper attention to anything, and it wasn't until several more heartbeats had passed that she thought a little more - about the skin that somehow had the pale tint of a European about it, rather than the permanently sun-tanned look of a Californian. About the smile that seemed to hold the devil inside it. About the eyes that she couldn't see, but which somehow she felt certain were blue. Bright blue, light blue, infuriatingly, damnably, devil-may-care blue, to dance with the smile and drive her mad, and make her want to shout in exasperation. Those eyes. That smile. That certain sense of enragement and frustration that could only, had only, ever been caused by one man. That man. Him. Her eyes sparked, she stood up straight, and for one moment of utter shock and fury she stared across the road directly at the slight, quick frame of a ghost straight out of her memory - then, suddenly afraid, she ducked down behind the car and hid from sight. She was still there when Murphy came back a moment later, and frowned at her in obvious confusion.

"Er... Laura? Are you okay? I know I said to keep an eye out for traffic cops, but I didn't really mean for you to hide from them. They tend to notice that kind of thing anyway, so there's really no point."

"What?" She was surprised to see him, and almost seemed surprised to find herself hiding behind the car. "Oh. Yes."

"Penny for them?" He slid the pizza box and carton of ice cream onto the back seat, then opened the car door for her. "Or did your brain just get too hot spending all day stuck in the car watching Gerald Paul?"

"No, I don't think so." She slid into the car, into the passenger seat, and stared thoughtfully out of the window. The cab was gone, its black-haired, blue-eyed passenger with it. No, she corrected herself, not blue-eyed. Not necessarily. She hadn't seen the eyes. "I just... I thought I saw somebody, that's all."

"Somebody connected with the case?" He was interested straight away. Murphy might be better at taking time off than she was, but he was just as dedicated to their work nonetheless. She shook her head.

"No. No, I..." She sighed. "Him. I thought I saw him."

"Him? Him who?" His eyes widened suddenly, and he stared at her in disbelief as he followed her into the car. "Him!"

"Yeah. I know, I know. Tell me I'm going crazy. I just thought... I was so sure for a moment, but now I guess I was just imagining it. I used to see him all over the place, once upon a time."

"Don't beat yourself up. With what he did to you, you had every reason to keep seeing him. I would have liked to keep seeing him too, if it meant I finally got the chance to break his smarmy jaw." He sighed. "It's the anniversary, Laura. That's why we do this every year, remember? Because tomorrow is the anniversary of the day he walked out on you, and I didn't like the way you used to spend all that time brooding about it. Hence the scotch, and the paperwork, and the accounts. Your mind is on him. That's all."

"I didn't think my mind was anywhere near him, but I guess you're right. It is the tenth anniversary this year." She smiled over at him. "Ten years. He's been away twice as long as I ever knew him, now. You'd think I'd have got over him."

"Three hundred and sixty odd days of the year I think you have." He started up the engine. "Sooner I get you a glass of that scotch, the better."

"Yeah." Her eyes turned to stare over the road, to the place where the cab had been parked. The man that had so shaken her had been coming out of a hardware store, she realised now. And thinking about it, he hadn't been dressed like him. No expensive suit, no silk tie - just an ordinary, open-necked shirt in sky blue. Blue. That probably explained why she had made his eyes that colour. He had never liked to dress in casual shirts and slacks. He would have been carrying an expensive briefcase, not a carrier bag from inside the store. It couldn't have been him after all.

"Besides," Murphy was saying, making more and more sense all the time, "there's no way he'd dare show his face in Los Angeles again. He'd have to be nuts."

"Yeah." She frowned. "Except it wouldn't take a genius to figure that you and I would end up back in business again, and he knows your business used to be in Denver. He'd probably think it still is. So he might think he'd be safe here."

"Maybe. Though there are plenty of other people he'd have to be careful of in LA." He frowned over at her, looking concerned. "Do you want it to have been him?"

"Maybe. No. Yes." She shook her head. "Sometimes. Sometimes I'd like to see him again. Talk to him. Hit him. I don't know. But you're right, it wasn't him. He'd have to be mad to come back to Los Angeles. And it's the eve of the anniversary, and that always makes me feel kind of weird. And it's the tenth anniversary, and I've been working too hard, and did I mention that you're right!" She laughed at herself, in a way that was almost completely genuine. "Thanks Murph. What would I do without you?"

"I don't know. I think you'd be living with your mother, or in Bernice's spare room, talking to yourself and going mad. And probably keeping lots of cats." He grinned. "Don't hit me, I'm driving."

"You've got to stop some time, or the ice cream will melt all over the seat." She laughed. "Come on. Hurry it up. You've got to call Alex about that science test, and I want to get started on the paperwork. I've been letting it mount up especially with this evening in mind, and some of the piles are starting to offend my work ethic. I want to dive in."

"Then far be it for be to keep you from your better nature." He sped up slightly, heading for the next intersection. There was a cab parked nearby, just opposite a seedy-looking jewellery store, but neither of them noticed it. Neither of them noticed the man heading back towards it, either, bag still in one hand, newspaper now in the other. He was slight and wiry, and the eyes beneath the half tumbled fringe of black hair were indeed blue. Certainly the off-white slacks were far from expensive, and the open-necked blue shirt was off-the-peg. The black hair bore no trace of oils or sprays, or the work of exclusive salons, and the jaw line bore a shadow of stubble that wouldn't have fitted into Laura's mental picture any better than did the clothing and the hardware store. None of that could change the truth. As blissfully unaware of the close presence of Laura Holt as she was of him, the black-haired, blue-eyed ghost from her past slid into the back of the taxi and stared at the front page of the newspaper. Famous Gem Collection Comes To Local Museum! screamed the headline, with typical lack of subtlety. The blue eyes smiled, as did the stubble-shadowed jaw beneath them. Famous gem collection - and what a famous gem collection. By the time that it had been stolen by the man who had once been Remington Steele, it would be even more famous still. The man that Laura had recognised, even though she had convinced herself that she had been wrong, leaned back into the seat of the car and listened to the engine start up. His lively mind was thinking of security cameras. Security cameras and brown diamonds, and a fabled black opal. He closed his eyes to aid his contented dreaming, and so it was that he didn't see when the cab drew up alongside Murphy Michaels' car. The occupants, busy in conversation, didn't think to look across at it, and the man inside was lost in his dreams. Had he had opened his eyes at that moment he might have been shocked. He might have been delighted. He might even have been afraid.

But instead the cars slid on past each other, and the moment was gone.

xxxxxxxxxx

"It's made the front page." Throwing the newspaper down onto the bed, Remington Steele followed it with his own wiry frame, flopping down onto the cheap mattress and making the springs squeak. The room's other occupant looked over at the headline and scowled.

"Well I suppose it was only a matter of time. Just as long as that headline doesn't bring a dozen other people to town hoping to get hold of the collection. I missed it once, and I won't miss it again."

"Nobody else has got a hope." Steele rolled onto his back and put his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. "It's not just any old museum, you know. Just any old thief would fail at the first hurdle."

"You have an impressively large ego for a little fellow, don't you." Lucille Turner, a sixty-three year-old miscreant with decades of life on the wrong side of the law colouring the sparks in her eyes, sat down next to him. He glared up at her.

"I am not little."

"Danny, darling, I spent forty years married to a man who was seven and a half feet tall. Bigfoot would seem small compared to my Arthur."

"Fair point." He smiled, and reached out a lazy hand for one of hers. "We'll get the collection, Lucy. Every stone of it."

"You're a good boy." She gave his hand a squeeze, then stood up, heading for the window. It was grimy, and the view beyond was of other, identical windows lined up in a wall across a narrow street. "I just wish that our surroundings didn't have to be quite so austere. This time last week I was in a five star suite in Monaco."

"Yes." He sighed, staring up at the ceiling with a reflective look on his face. "And I was in a villa in Naples, sampling luxurious local wines, and sunbathing beside the biggest swimming pool I've ever had the pleasure of throwing a gendarme into." He frowned. "No, hang on. Naples. You don't get gendarmes in Naples. Had a shiny hat, anyway."

"You didn't have to come." She remained staring at the view out of the window, and he smiled fondly at her back.

"No, I know I didn't." He climbed up off the bed, and wandered over to stand behind her, his hands gently on her shoulders. After a moment she put her own hands up to cover them. "Arthur was a good friend, Lucy. And so were you. If it hadn't been for you I'd have died that night in Santa Barbara, and if it hadn't been for Arthur, I doubt I'd have lived to see twenty. Or if I had, I'd have seen it from the wrong side of a cell door. His last wish was to get those diamonds, and since he couldn't be here to do it himself, it's up to us to do it for him. I'm more than happy to be here."

"Really?" She turned slightly, her very bright eyes suddenly serious. "You and Los Angeles have something of a love-hate relationship; I do know that. It can't be easy for you, being back here again."

"No." He smiled, with a sadness in his eyes that he knew he couldn't hide from her; and so he didn't insult her by trying. "But the Remington Steele Detective Agency closed down years ago. From what I managed to find out at the time from some friends, Laura Holt went to live in Denver. Her old partner had a firm of his own out there, and I guess she joined forces with him. So all there are in Los Angeles are memories and ghosts. Nothing to really want to hide from. Nothing I can hide from."

"Maybe you shouldn't think of trying. Maybe when we've finished up here, you should go over to Denver, or at the very least pick up a telephone and call there. It shouldn't be hard to trace her. You're not getting any younger, you know, and neither is she; and ten years is a long time to wonder about something. A long time to leave somebody wondering whether or not you're still alive."

"Lucy..."

"You married the woman, Danny. That must mean something."

"It meant a passport." He winced at her glare. "Yes, it meant something. Lucy, I walked out on her at the start of our first night together. All those years trying to melt her defences, and then on the night we finally... well before we finally... Well you know. Just before the last defence melted, as it were, I walked out and I never went back. That's a little hard to explain with a phone call."

"It wasn't your fault."

"No, it wasn't. None of it was. But there was always too much stuff between us that wasn't my fault - and far too much stuff that was. She forgave me more times than she had any reason to, and when I think of all the trouble that I got her into... All the headaches that I caused... She has no earthly reason to believe me now, or even to want to listen. It's best that I leave her to live whatever life she's found. She doesn't need any more of my kind of interference."

"You always did sell yourself short."

"Not really. She's still Miss Middle America, with a past so conventional it hurts. And I'm..." He smiled. "Well, we never did have anything much in common, let's put it that way."

"Poor Danny." She sighed. "I wish you'd use that name here. Is it really safe for you to call yourself Remington Steele again?"

"I think so. At worst he's earned himself a reputation as something of a cad for walking out on his wife. But his name opens doors, and that's a perk that always comes in handy." He straightened his clothing and stiffened his frame, slipping back into the old act he had once become so used to using. "So for the duration of this little escapade, I shall be Remington Steele. Investigator extraordinaire, and much loved celebrity. I'll need to brush up my wardrobe a bit. Remington Steele doesn't usually scrounge around in off-the-peg rags like these."

"That is a perfectly good shirt. And since the only money we have is for the airfare home, Remington Steele will have to make do for the time being. I won't let you take risks by running any other scams here, Danny. You're not to steal anything other than that gem collection; and no conning the locals, either. It's not worth it. Just concentrate on the job at hand. Once the jewels are ours you can dress in Saville Row finery for all you're worth."

"I suppose Steele was probably overdue for an image change." He sighed, with mock theatricality. "Oh well. I should get to work, I suppose. Don't wait up."

"I damn well will. I don't think I shall sleep a wink until we have those jewels. You just take care of yourself, and don't get thrown in jail. I'm not organising a prison breakout here."

"I shan't get arrested. Neither shall I stay up past my bedtime, or accept lifts from strangers." He gave her a brief hug. "See you later. And keep the door locked."

"You'll be at the museum?"

"Primarily. If I go now it'll be the end of their day. Always a good time to catch the unwary. Ten minutes of fast talking late in the evening to set up the show, and then back tomorrow to finish it." He smiled happily. "I may scout around there for a bit and get the lay of the land before I come back. Hopefully I shouldn't be any more than a couple of hours, but if I'm not back by midnight, batten down the hatches. If I'm not back by morning..."

"Leave town. Danny, I have done this before. I may not be a great thief myself, but I was married to one for longer than you've been in the business. And I am a hustler."

"And a great one." He nodded. "Indulge me. I like to be in control. Night."

"Goodnight." She watched him leave, and the expression of faint irritation faded from her face straight away. He could be annoying at times, but she was fond of him; she always had been, and it was hard not to worry now. There seemed to be so much at stake. Closing the door behind him, she locked it carefully as ordered, then wandered back over to the bed and sat down. She knew that she wouldn't relax properly until this was all over. There was nothing she wanted more in all of the world than to own the jewels that they planned to steal, and she could think of little else. For now, though, there was nothing she could do. Much of her contribution to the job had been over as soon as she had discovered where the jewels were to be exhibited, and what was to come next was Steele's department. It had to be. All that was left for her was to battle with her nerves.

xxxxxxxxxx

The office was empty, as it always was at such an hour. Laura set up a table for the pizza and the whisky, whilst Murphy disappeared into one of the inner offices to make his telephone call. He emerged ten minutes later, wearing a huge smile and carrying a picture of a red rose. He gave it to Laura with a smile.

"Alex faxed it over for you."

"He's sweet." She handed him a glass of whisky. "And it's always nice to have an admirer."

"Cradle-snatcher." They settled down together on the floor, in front of a pile of paperwork carefully assembled earlier in the day. Within half an hour, the whisky forgotten, they would be immersed in a sea of paper stretching to all four walls - that was what always happened. Even the pizza frequently got forgotten about, and usually wound up being eaten around lunch time, with coffee, doughnuts and a disapproving audience of secretaries. Laura held up her whisky.

"To paperwork."

Murphy nodded his approval. "And pizza." They drank their toast, then he collected a slice of pizza and started looking through a pile of expenditure reports. Nearby Laura was tutting gently over the mess, which as far as he was concerned meant that everything was alright with the world. The cleaners might object about the pizza sauce they were sure to find on the carpet, but that was a small price to pay for a beloved office ritual. He reached for the case notes that accompanied the expenditure reports, and sighed. "That blasted Gerald Paul case has doubled the paperwork. This could take two nights, let alone just this one."

"It's good business, Murph. It might complicate things a bit, but it pays good money."

"Yes, I know." He refilled his whisky glass, rearranging sheets of paper around him on the floor. "All the same, it's the sort of case that we said we weren't going to take anymore. Too much like the old days, with lots of creeping about, and people with supposedly dangerous secrets. We were supposed to have given all that kind of thing up along with You Know Who."

"It's a good case. Stop grumbling, you old moaner." She threw her pen at him, and scowled. "I can't concentrate. I wish I could get that man out of my head. Not You Know Who. Whoever it was I really saw earlier."

"You could start by taking notes with your stationery, instead of hurling it at me." He threw the pen back, but instead of proving a point by beginning his own work, he fetched them both another slice of pizza and sat down beside her. "We're supposed to be taking your mind off things, not talking about some guy who's dredging up old memories."

"After all these years, I don't think that I really need my mind taken off 'things' anymore. Not really." She smiled, and settled herself down with her pizza, looking out at the piles of paper. "It was funny, though, me thinking that I saw him on the way here."

"Yeah. Hilarious." Murphy scowled, as he had always been wont to do whenever Steele appeared in a conversation. "I wonder where he really is right now. Sprawled on a beach in the tropics, or sweltering in some hellhole jail? I favour the latter. And it should have a really sadistic warden."

"Murph..."

"And beatings."

"Murph!" She threw a newspaper at him. "Don't be unkind. It doesn't suit you."

"Laura, where Remington Steele is concerned unkindness doesn't just suit me. It positively enrobes me." He wiped his fingers on a convenient piece of the newspaper, then frowned at the headline. "No wonder we've been talking about him. There's a famous collection of jewels coming to town. Well just as long as he doesn't turn up trying to steal them."

"Jewel collection? Is that today's paper? I haven't read it yet."

"Yes, it's today's." He threw it back at her. "Sorry about the pizza sauce. I don't think it gets in the way of the story, though."

"Didn't your mother ever tell you to use your handkerchief!" She looked over the front page of the paper, and whistled. "This is some exhibit. 'Five famous pearls, first owned and exhibited by Sir Humphrey Talbot in 1823.' They must be worth a fortune on their own. And get this: 'The collection also features the Honeymoon Diamonds, a pair of brown stones that are all that now remain of the Ketterick Collection. The rest of the Collection - a selection of some of the finest coloured diamonds ever discovered - was stolen in a series of daring raids during the latter part of the century, supposedly by the late jewel thief Arthur Webb.' It goes on to say that he - or somebody reputed to be him - stole some of the Collection just about every time a part of it was exhibited. The first robbery was in 1959. He even tried to steal the very ones that are coming to Los Angeles now, but he didn't quite make it. He must have been getting on a bit if it was the same guy, but apparently he still managed to give the police the slip when they chased after him."

"You sound almost admiring."

"Well..." She shrugged, and answered his grin with one of her own. "You have to admire the persistence. Almost a shame that he's the Late Arthur Webb now. I quite like the idea of him finally completing his collection."

"See? Like I said, Laura. You're a romantic."

"I just always had a soft spot for jewel thieves." She smiled, mocking herself with the joke. "The Jacques Trovian Miscellany, is the name of the exhibit. I think I'll drop by the museum to see it when it's installed. It sounds interesting."

"Certainly sounds as though it's got a fair few stories to tell."

"I'll bet. As well as the pearls - which are all named, according to this - there's a pair of blue diamonds, one of the largest known black opals, and a set of seven emeralds that have been stolen six times already."

"That's just plain careless." Murphy started on another piece of pizza, quite content now to let the paperwork go undone. "Does it say anything about who stole them?"

"Spanish pirates in the seventeenth century, and a husband and wife team in 1927. That's all that the newspaper mentions." She folded the paper up. "Maybe we should go down to the museum and offer our expert advice as security consultants. Remington Steele earned himself quite a reputation in the eighties as the man to call in if you wanted to prevent a robbery."

"Yeah, and we all know how he came to be such an expert on burglar alarms." Murphy reined in his scowl. "We've got enough of a workload, Laura. We shouldn't take on anything else. And besides, we're not the Remington Steele Detective Agency anymore. Bringing his name into things will only rake up old dirt, and you don't need that. Far too many people know that you married the son of a bitch."

'True." She sighed, then abandoned her whisky and reached for the ice cream, unwrapping one of the little spoons that came with the tub. "I'm still going down there to look at the collection when it's set up, though. I've never seen a brown diamond. I wonder if they're especially rare?"

"I wouldn't know. Though if they're all that's left of a particular collection, you can guarantee that they're counted as pretty rare. They must be priceless."

"Especially if you're sitting on the rest of the collection," mused Laura, her mind drifting back to the late thief allegedly responsible for making the other diamonds disappear. "I wonder if Arthur Webb has any relatives lying about?"

"I'd think that the police would already have that base covered. And even if they haven't, there's going to be a hell of a lot of security following that collection about. This Jacques Trovian guy can't be doing too badly for himself if he can afford all those stones. He'll have hired the best."

"You're probably right."

"I am right. No thief is going to get near that collection. And certainly not a certain blue-eyed thief, who at this moment is cooling his heels in a hellhole jail with a sadistic warden. And beatings."

She laughed. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, Murph."

"There's very little chance of that." He ate the last of his most recent slice of pizza, then wiped his hands - rather pointedly, given Laura's earlier jibe - on his handkerchief. "Although if you carry on distracting me from this paperwork, that might change."

"Oh, because you're not at all distracting." She ate ice cream with a thoughtful expression on her face, watching him as he set back to work. "Murph..."

"It wasn't him, Laura. Just some guy with black hair. You know how many people there are in Los Angeles with black hair?"

"More than one or two. I just think it's a hell of a coincidence, that's all. That I think I see him right when news of a priceless jewel collection falls into our laps. You know what he's like. What he used to be like... What he probably is like again... I don't know, Murph. I just can't help thinking, that's all."

"Yeah." He smiled at her sympathetically, gently, although she was staring at the ice cream and didn't see the expression on his face. The things that he would do to Remington Steele, if ever their paths crossed again... The thought was a fine one, and Murphy smiled. He had been waiting ten years for that confrontation to finally come about. And much though he liked to reassure Laura that Steele was not within thousands of miles of LA, a part of him almost wished that he was. A part of him very likely always would.

xxxxxxxxxx

The Brown Museum was as boring as its name, at least on the outside. Remington Steele - as he had been, and now was again - went in just as the last customers were being ushered out, and a harassed looking doorman frowned at him.

"It is past closing time, sir."

"Yes, yes. I know." His accent had slipped a bit in recent years, back to its once far more natural Irish, but it was easy enough to resurrect the more correct, precise tones that had belonged in the past to Remington Steele. "Just tell him Mr Oban that Mr Steele is here. Mr Remington Steele."

"Remington Steele." Clearly the name meant nothing to a bored doorman keen to be off home for the evening, but the man nodded nonetheless, and headed towards the manager's office. Steele took the opportunity to check his reflection in the glass front door. Not one of Steele's more dapper days, he mused. The less well tamed hair and the shadow of stubble suited the more mature lines of his face, though - or so he told himself as he smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his shirt. With luck it would all combine with the casual clothing, and make him look like a new Steele for the nineties. A natural progression from the smooth, precise clotheshorse of the eighties. He nodded at the thought, ran a hand through his hair, and frowned when the action made the fringe stick up. He had only just got it to behave when the door of the manager's office swung open, and the doorman reappeared.

"Mr Oban will see you," he announced, rather like a ham-fisted butler. Steele smiled sweetly.

"Thankyou. Much appreciated, old chap." He slipped past into the office as quickly as he could, just in case somebody decided to change their mind, and was smiling, holding out his hand for a shake of introduction, and offering breezy greetings even before he was properly in the room. Oban shook the hand, returned the greeting, and offered his unexpected guest a seat in the same rushed tumble of activity, then looked faintly shell-shocked at how fast everything had happened. Steele didn't give him time to recover his composure.

"Mr Oban. It's good to see you. Very good to see you. We never met directly, of course, when I had my business here in the eighties, but I'd heard your name often enough. One does, when one moves in certain circles, you know?" There was no need to mention that the circles in which he had heard Oban's name were, more precisely, squares. Namely the square rooms of a rather shady jewellers, whose premises Steele's had visited earlier in the evening. Oban was nodding though, clearly happy to listen to whatever Steele was saying.

"I've certainly heard of you, Mr Steele," was all that he offered up as a challenge to Steele's waterfall of dialogue. Steele nodded.

"Quite. Quite. And you're probably wondering what I'm doing here? Well simply put, Mr Oban, I've had an eye on the Trovian Miscellany for some time - purely unofficially, as I'm sure you understand. Monsieur Trovian doesn't like the details of his security arrangements to be known to too many people, so consider yourself part of a very select group, and don't speak of this to anyone. Do you follow me so far?" His answer was a faintly stunned nod. Steele smiled, and nodded himself. "Good good. Well, I'm here, naturally enough, to familiarise myself with the security arrangements. Exits, entrances, alarms. The usual thing. Possibly I can suggest a few extra security measures, but frankly from what I've being hearing about you, old chap, I think it's more likely that I'll be the one picking up tips from you. Hardly vice versa." He beamed indulgently. High speed talk, a well aimed compliment - Oban was alternately nodding and glowing, and certainly wasn't taking much time to think. "So. It's all set then? I don't want to bother you with a tour now - you're sure to be wanting to get off home to the wife and children. I did hear right that you have children?" Oban nodded automatically. "Good. Jolly good. Well, some other time then. Excellent. You've been very co-operative, Mr Oban, and I'm glad to see that we'll be working so well together."

"I... I'm pleased to be able to help, Mr Steele." Oban smiled, if a little shakily. His brain was still reeling in its attempts to catch up. "So do I take it that you're planning to return to Los Angeles, or is this just a one off visit?"

"Ah, well." Steele rose to his feet, and shook one of Oban's hands enthusiastically. "Early days yet, old man. Early days. All hush hush, you know. Mum's the word, and loose lips sink ships, and all the rest of it. Don't want to draw attention to myself. Sure you understand."

"I won't say a word to anyone." Oban's chest positively swelled at the idea of being in on such a secret. "And it's not as though I have to check your credentials, Mr Steele."

"Thankyou old chap. Thankyou." Steele contrived to look as though he were greatly affected by the words. "I did wonder if perhaps I'd been away too long."

"It's been a while, certainly. But it's not an easy name to forget, Mr Steele. And your career here in the past was somewhat illustrious. When your agency was shut down under such unusual circumstances, I admit that I thought we'd seen the last of you. I thought that perhaps you'd quietly gone bankrupt. I mean, these things do happen."

"Of course they do. If course they do. Unusual circumstances? Well, my dear chap, there was the, er... the divorce... you know." He had no idea whether or not Laura had actually divorced him, but rather assumed that she had. Oban nodded sympathetically anyway.

"I quite understand, Mr Steele. Bad business, no doubt. Still, it's certainly good to have you back. Time heals all wounds, I suppose."

"Yes." Steele smiled confidently, though inside his suddenly peculiar pulse was telling a different story. Time healed some things sure enough; but it didn't seem to have done much to that particular injury. "Life goes on, and all that. And time marches onward, and you'd no doubt rather not be here anymore. Shall we arrange to meet tomorrow? Would it be easiest for you after business hours, or during?"

"Any time would be fine for you, Mr Steele, but the lunch hour is probably best. If you could be here at noon, there won't be any visitors and I can give you my full attention. I'll go through the security arrangements with you, the alarms and such. It would be a pleasure."

"For me as well, Mr Oban. For me as well." Steele beamed with all the apparent sincerity of a skilled con-man who knew his job. "Until tomorrow then. I look forward to it."

"As do I, Mr Steele." The manager saw him all the way to the front door, looking rather flushed all the while. The doorman was waiting there, not especially patiently, and he stiffened to a sulky attention as Steele passed him by.

"Good evening," Steele offered him, hoping to thaw a little of the ice. This sort of thing had never happened when he had been wearing the finest clothes in the Steele wardrobe; apparently the casual look didn't demand respect so much as resentment.

"Good evening, sir." The doorman sounded about as sincere as a politician, but Steele offered him another smile anyway, before heading out into the street. There was a danger, of course, that now that he had time to think once again, the unillustrious Mr Oban might begin wondering about the man he had just met, and the story he had just heard - in which case, tomorrow's meeting could turn out to be a trap. But that was the nature of the job, and a calculated risk was all a part of the furniture. He was smiling to himself as he went down the steps, leaving Oban and the doorman to go back into the museum and finish their respective tasks. So it was that neither of them saw the tall, bulky man who moved out of the shadows beside the museum, and caught hold of Steele's arm.

"This way, if you don't mind." There was a faint accent behind the words. German, Steele thought. He struggled, but the other man was far too strong, and bundled him around the corner without the slightest difficulty.

"Now look here." Not entirely convinced that this was a mugging, but playing along as if it was at least until he was sure, Steele tried to remove the large set of fingers from his shirt sleeve. The large set of fingers didn't want to be persuaded. "If you're after my wallet, you're welcome, but there isn't very much in it. I never carry cash."

"Shut up." For a moment he was slammed up against a wall, so that the air rushed out of his lungs, and sparks danced in front of his eyes, then he was dragged across a short strip of pavement and manhandled into a car. His abductor stood in the doorway, preventing escape more effectively than the car door itself could have done. Steele blinked. Limousine. Expensive. Hired. The details filled themselves in even before he had fully composed himself; before his vision had entirely cleared. A civilised abduction, then. None of your street gangs, violent muggings, and body-found-with-slit-throat-by-early-morning-jogger stuff. Which was a good thing, obviously.

"Mr Fairbanks. Good evening." A female voice. German. Cultured. Icy. A familiar voice, out of the gloom of the car. Which was not a good thing, definitely. A light clicked on, and after a second's uncomfortable brightness and patchy blindness, he was looking at the owner of the voice. A tall, very beautiful blonde woman - the classic Hitchcockian ice blonde of so many movies - some fifty-five years old. Cold blue eyes, so pale and hard. Pale skin, pale blonde hair. Everything suggested ice. He knew her well enough to be sure that the chill wasn't just skin deep.

"Miss Brock." He smiled, somewhat tautly. "Good to see you again."

"No it isn't." Her accent was sharp, though not nearly as strong as it once had been. "I'm the last person you wanted to see."

"Not the last person, necessarily. Not the person I was most looking forward to meeting, though, I admit." He watched her cautiously. Her mood could change at the drop of a hat. She could kill without hesitation or provocation, though she was far from unhinged. A more level-headed person he had rarely encountered. "So what can I do for you, Ms... Fräulein... Brock?"

"You can leave town. Forget that you ever heard of the Trovian Miscellany." The words were precise, the meaning clear. "Tomorrow would be good. I'd appreciate it."

"I'm sure that you would." He had known that she had an interest in the famous brown Honeymoon Diamonds, but he still hadn't expected to encounter her here. Eleanor Brock didn't like America. She had never made any secret of that.

"You have no intention of leaving, though, do you." She was watching him as carefully as he was watching her; both subtle in their scrutiny, but obvious to each other. He shrugged.

"I always like to oblige a lady."

"And there's one lady in particular that you'd like to oblige." She nodded. "Lucille Webb."

"She's an old friend. So was Arthur."

"Yes. Yes, so I'd heard. Arthur Webb got between me and the Honeymoon Diamonds, Fairbanks." Her eyes were suddenly more icy; her smile suddenly more cold. "I don't appreciate you trying to do the same thing. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes." Inside he was burning, despite all the ice in the air. Poor Arthur. Strong, redoubtable Arthur, with his cheerful smile and bow-legged walk. Eleanor Brock merely smiled on, all ice and calm detachment.

"You're only alive now because circumstances were not in my favour the last time we met. I can hardly say the same now. I would get out of town very, very quickly if I were you."

"No doubt." Cautious now, Steele let his eyes drift surreptitiously about, searching for a sign of a gun. Brock smiled tightly.

"Not tonight, David. Not tonight." She nodded at her looming associate. "Get rid of him." The light clicked off, and she vanished back into the gloom. A second later the gorilla by the door caught hold of Steele's arm, and with an energetic heave, dragged him out of the car. Only careful twisting at the last second on Steele's part prevented him from braining himself on the roof.

"Get lost," the gorilla told him, giving him a hefty push. Steele regained his balance, considering making a sarcastic reply, but thought better of it. His arm hurt enough just from the manhandling. He had no desire to earn any more bruises. Straightening his clothing, therefore, he turned around and walked briskly away. He didn't look back. Some things were better unseen.

xxxxxxxxxx

Murphy awoke to the sound of a vacuum cleaner somewhere down the corridor, and opened his eyes rather unwillingly. It was still early - horribly early, to somebody who had stayed up working until after four. His mouth felt fuzzy, and still far too full of the taste of pizza and ice cream; and given that he had hardly drunk any of the scotch, still remarkably full of that, too. He wandered off to office to wash his face and straighten his clothes, then rinsed out his mouth and regarded himself blearily in the mirror. Either he was getting too old to pull all-nighters, or pizza was not a good thing to eat right before falling asleep. Particularly when it was piled high with extra anchovies and onion. He smiled at his reflection, and his reflection smiled back. It didn't look too tired, which was a relief. He didn't want to be walking about the building looking like a dishevelled and befuddled escapee from a sleep clinic. There wasn't even much stubble to offend his sense of decorum. One of the advantages of not being very dark-haired.

"I'll get us some breakfast," he told Laura, heading back to the outer office. Laura mumbled something, but whatever it was, it didn't sound very awake. He smiled. At three-thirty she had still been almost hyperactive, crawling through the mounds of paperwork and doing her usual high speed efficiency act. Now she looked as though a crawl was the highest speed she could ever have hoped to reach. Tidying up the debris of pizza, scotch and ice cream, he left the office and jumped in the nearest lift. The office block was empty but for the cleaners, and a few security guards from the night shift. They all knew him from the erratic hours his career often forced him to work, and none of them seemed to think it odd that he was leaving the building now. A burly security guard offered him a doughnut, but he shook his head regretfully and hurried on out into the early morning sunshine. He needed to get hold of some proper breakfast for himself and Laura, or neither of them was going to be functioning properly when the office opened for business later on.

Most of the usual cafés where he liked to stop during the course of the day were still closed. He hurried on past the fast food joints that might otherwise have attracted him, determined to find something feasibly nutritional. He had been eating stake-out food for the last forty-eight hours, and that had ceased to feel like proper food some years ago. Probably, he mused somewhat ruefully, around the time that he had married a dietician. Louisa had been a great wife, and was still a wonderful mother, but she had wreaked havoc on his digestive system. Bernice, health food fan that she had always been, thought that it was hilarious. In the early hours of a busy Los Angeles morning, though, it was proving to be rather annoying.

He took a short cut down an alleyway, found himself at the back end of a café whose kitchen was obviously up and running, and then got confused trying to find the front of the building. Growling at himself about the state of his own detective skills, he chose another alley at random, abandoned it quickly due to the suspicious smell suggesting at somebody's late night drinking celebrations, and found himself back on the main street. He was still no closer to finding the errant café, and changed direction, heading further away from the office all the time. At this rate Laura would have gone home, showered, changed, breakfasted and got back to the office before he had even managed to put in an order for breakfast. He took another shortcut, jogged down a maze of side streets in an attempt to speed the process up further, and found himself at last in a quiet back street. There were a number of small shops here - a newsagents, a grocers; the sort of small place that still managed to cling on in local areas, where people were further removed from the big supermarkets that stole every other small store owner's business. And there, sending out waves of encouraging breakfasty scents, was a café. Murphy grinned. Success at last. And it had only taken him the best part of an hour. He dug out his phone and called Laura, hoping that she was still asleep, but predictably enough found that she was on her way home.

"Sorry Murph." She sounded amused. "I thought you'd gone home as well."

"And left you sprawled out on the floor? I told you I was going for breakfast."

"You did? I remember some mumbling. I thought I was still asleep."

"Typical. Well, I'll see you back at the office later, I guess. Smells like a great breakfast place, though. Way off our usual route."

"If it's the one I think it is, you're right about the smell. I did a stake-out in a hotel in the old part of town about a year ago. Order the blueberry pancakes. You'll never want to eat breakfast anywhere else again."

"Sounds promising. Catch you later."

"Yeah. Bye Murph." She hung up, smiling to herself as she did so. A mile or so away, Murphy was also smiling, as he folded up the mobile and put it away. Blueberry pancakes. That definitely sounded worth the long walk.

He was in high spirits when he pushed open the door of the café - higher spirits when his eyes scanned across a menu displaying a myriad early morning delights writ large in coloured chalk. This could well be the greatest café ever; even if he was somewhat biased due to hunger. A fellow customer, just in the act of leaving the premises, stood aside to let Murphy past, and for a second they were caught up in a maze of doorway, nearby table and ill-placed chair. Murphy smiled an apology, having been a little surprised by the other man's courtesy in moving so gracefully out of the way. He didn't often encounter good manners anymore, in his world of big city haste and complicated living. The other man smiled back, and their eyes met, briefly. Neither of them was really paying attention to the other, and Murphy, at first, saw only anonymous blue eyes in a handsome, middle-aged face. Handsome types were a part of the wallpaper in California, but that face, those eyes - in the same second that Murphy realised who he was looking at, the other man recognised him. Both sets of eyes widened. Murphy was ready to yell - to grab a convenient arm and hang on for all he was worth. It took him just a second too long to react; a second too long to leap. With all the speed of his dubious profession; with all the advantages of his light, slight frame and razor-edged instincts, the other man had already gone.

"Damn it!" Breakfast forgotten, Murphy gave chase in an instant, flying out of the café and into the street. He saw Steele heading to the left, running for a tiny side alley that would no doubt allow him to disappear. Murphy had no intention of allowing that to happen. He might be a man in his mid-forties, but he had never been desk-bound; had always lived an active life. There was something to be said for chasing bail jumpers and shady types anxious to avoid a subpoena. All the same, if a car hadn't screeched unexpectedly out of an intersection, making Steele skid to a halt, Murphy wouldn't have stood a chance. He had stayed in good shape, sure enough - but Steele without a shadow of a doubt, looked after himself even better.

"Gotcha!" Hissing the word to himself, Murphy called up his last reserves of speed for the few dozen yards that remained between them. Steele had changed direction to dodge around the car, but the precious few seconds that he had lost counted against him now. With all the joy of years of pent-up aggression finally getting its release, Murphy launched himself at his foe. The crashed into each other, tumbling, tangling, rolling in a struggling heap into the road.

"Get off me, damn it!" His voice pure Irish, pure rough and tumble, Steele certainly didn't sound his old, polished self. Murphy, using his bigger bulk and greater strength, forced an abrupt end to the confusion by hauling his prize to his feet.

"Murphy!" His voice suddenly filled with false cheer, Steele offered his captor a bright smile. "So good to see you again. It's been, what, fourteen years? Delighted, delighted. But I must dash."

"Not so fast, you creep." Murphy kept his tight hold of the other man's shirt. "You're not going anywhere."

"Really?" There was a touch of ice - the merest hint of confrontation in the otherwise affable voice. "I had no idea that you enjoyed my company so much, Murphy. You should have said."

"Enjoy your company? You know, weirdly enough, Mister Steele, I think maybe I do. Because I've been wanting to see you again ever since I heard how you ran out on Laura. Oh, I heard all about that, believe me. How you married her, and got her to give up a legitimate relationship with a good man for you - and then ran out on her. Classy, Steele. And all those nights when she was crying. All those days when she was trying to work out what she'd done to deserve it. Where the hell were you, then?"

"You couldn't begin to understand." With a sudden effort, Steele broke the other man's grip. "The problem with you, Murphy - and Laura too - is that you think the whole world is like you. Safe. Conventional. Mortgages, jobs, four walls and a roof and a well-trodden path to follow. You never could see past that."

"Past that to what? To your life? You hurt people, Steele. I don't want to see that. You broke Laura's heart. I never understood why, but she was in love with you. She really did think that she was going to spend the rest of her life being Mrs Remington Steele. And what she get in the end? A phone call just as the lights went out, and you disappearing. Running out on her, without a word of explanation. How was she supposed to feel, huh? What was she supposed to think?"

"You think I wanted to hurt her?" The Irish was back in Steele's voice, the composure slipping once again. "I wouldn't have gone if it hadn't been necessary, and I didn't exactly run off to better things. If I had stayed, she'd really have got hurt. And I don't mean emotionally."

"More of your mysterious past, hey Steele? Like I give a damn. Like it matters. The only thing that matters is that you hurt a good woman, and left her in pieces for somebody else to pick up. She's a strong woman. An independent woman. It took a long time before she'd open up even to me. And all this time I've been waiting for a chance to break your jaw, you lousy fake."

"I don't think you want to try that." For a second there was a hardness in Steele's eyes, and to Murphy it was like finally seeing the real man behind that constant façade of smiles and sophistication he had known years before. He smirked in response.

"You think you can fight me? You really think you could win? I may be no heavyweight, but I'm bigger than you, and I'm willing to bet that I'm a damn sight stronger, too."

"And powered by all that righteous fury, hey Murph?"

"You're damn right. I was the one who had to put all the pieces back together, Steele. She lost everything because of you. All the years she put into that detective agency - all gone. She couldn't face going back to it with you gone, and even if she had felt like it, she couldn't do anything. As far as everybody knew, it was your agency, not hers. That was her whole life, just gone. Everything she'd ever worked for. Did you think about that before you ran out on her?"

"Would it make any difference if I said yes?" Steele was beginning to sound angry, not that Murphy cared. "You made up your mind about me years ago, Murphy. As far as you were concerned, the guilty verdict came in the day we met."

"Yeah. With good reason. You can't be trusted, Steele. You never could. You're nothing but a con artist. A cheap crook who lies for a living, and doesn't care who he hurts. A thief."

"Have you finished?" This time there was no mistaking the ice in Steele's voice. Murphy smiled coldly.

"Not really. There's a whole lot more I could say about you."

"Fine. Well it'll have to wait. Much though I've enjoyed this sparkling reunion, I have things to do."

"Places to go, people to rob, right?"

"Something like that, yes." For a second the silence hung between them, and each held the other's gaze in a shared sense of anger and suspicion. Then Steele broke the gaze and looked away, shaking his head wearily. When he spoke again it was much more quietly than before, as though all the anger had gone. "Go back to Laura, Murphy. Stay with her. And stay away from me."

"Oh no you don't." Like lightening Murphy made another grab for Steele, catching his arm, clinging on, dragging at him as though to twist his arm behind his back and make some kind of arrest. He hoped, perhaps, to have the element of surprise, but Steele, whose reactions were far better than those of most men, was more than ready for any action that Murphy took. Even as Murphy was grabbing at one of his arms, Steele was moving the other, snapping it up with the speed of a striking snake, and stiff-arming his attacker in the chest. Murphy stumbled backwards, momentarily losing hold of his quarry, and nearly losing his footing as well. He recovered his balance just as Steele turned to leave, ready to resume the flight to freedom that Murphy had so determinedly interrupted. Murphy, however, was not done yet. With a yell that was half wordless roar, half exclamation of fury, he launched himself into a rugby tackle, hitting Steele at the waist and sending both men, for the second time that morning, into a tumbled, confused struggle on the ground. This time, though, Murphy didn't want just to seize hold of the man and prevent his escape. This time he was determined to do some damage. The hatred he had always felt for Steele; the hatred that had festered and grown during those ten years of watching Laura's heartache, exploded into a moment's pure, unadulterated violence. With all the strength he could summon, he drove his fist into Steele's stomach, hauled off, fought to drag them both at least halfway to their feet, then hit Steele again. This time his fist caught the other man on the side of the head, dropping him to the hard ground in a slumped heap.

"Angry, Murph?" Sprawled at the detective's feet, expression dazed, Steele still managed to smile roguishly. Murphy had to fight an instinct to kick him when he was down.

"Just stay where you are," he spat, determined to do something with the fraudster now that he had captured him. Turn him over to the police? Find a convenient sewer to drop him into? Steele, needless to say, had ideas of his own.

"Stay where I am?" His eyes were bright and teasing. "Why? Sorry, Murph. I never did like making things that easy."

"Don't be a fool. I'm bigger than you are, Steele. I can hit harder. I know your type. Whatever else you might be, you're still just a pretty boy with a smooth tongue and hundred dollar shoes that somebody else paid for. Your type don't fight."

"You think?" With an effort Steele pushed himself to his feet, wavering slightly, but keeping his balance. He looked ruffled, his clothes crumpled and torn, dirtied from the road dust. Murphy didn't imagine that he himself looked much better.

"Yeah." Unable to stop himself, Murphy punched the other man again, catching him this time on the jaw. It was the punch he had waited years to deliver; a powerful, stunning blow that was guaranteed to knock most men unconscious. The sort of punch that came from somewhere in the ground beneath Murphy's feet, and carried all the force of nature behind it. Steele went down once again, hitting the road with enough force to make Murphy wince, his head striking the tarmac with a sickening thud. Frightened for one awful moment that he might have killed his opponent, Murphy bent over to check that he was still breathing. Even as he was doing it, he realised his mistake - but by then of course, it was much too late. The belief in his own strength and Steele's weakness was enough to convince him that he was safe; and that was just what Steele had been counting upon. Murphy never really knew what had hit him. The foot that knocked one leg out from under him was like a sledgehammer, the fist that blasted the air from his lungs should have come from a man twice Steele's size. Coming to his feet with a speed and agility that seemed entirely unfair, Steele grabbed the arm that Murphy was attempting to fight back with, gave it an abrupt twist to knock the other man completely off balance, then followed through with a punch that dropped the detective into a woozy heap at his feet. A car screeched to a halt nearby, and Steele stumbled back out of the road, hauling Murphy out of the way as well, before depositing him onto the sidewalk. With a crooked grin and a mouthful of blood, Steele stared down at his feebly moving opponent. His eyes were sympathetic, but his words were cold and hard.

"I may be a 'pretty boy', Murphy; but I've lived a hell of a tougher life than you have. You should have walked away."

"Murphy?" It was a woman's voice, coming from the direction of the recent car; a bright, loud, familiar woman's voice. Footsteps sounded across the tarmac; the running feet of somebody coming to check up on a friend. Steele froze. He was standing over the beaten, fallen body of a man; he couldn't be more guilty if he tried. There was no way to escape it; no way to claim innocence; to claim that he had had nothing to do with this. No way to escape now without being seen. He looked up, heart sinking into his shoes, pulse coming in sudden, speeded up judders that he could feel throughout his frame. With no other direction to look in then, he looked up - and his eyes met, for the first time in ten long years, with the wide, shocked eyes of Laura Holt. She froze. For a second she looked from him to Murphy and back again, and he wondered if there was something that he could say. There wasn't, of course, but he wondered anyway. Had to wonder, and to hope. In the event he didn't say anything at all.

"You." Her voice was hot with loathing, and he could hardly blame her for that. He could barely hold her gaze, such was the sudden desire to look away. "You. Now."

"Laura..." The word had once been so familiar; a word said in so many ways. How many times had she been angry with him? Furiously angry, and exasperatedly angry, and pretend angry? How many times had he said her name; cajolingly, persuasively, innocently, angrily; in arguments and mock fights and intimate moments throughout the years of their relationship? He didn't know. He just knew that there were few words that felt so natural falling off his tongue. Her response was a blood-curdling glare.

"Murphy." She was his first concern. Already she was looking away from Steele, hurting him with her apparent disinterest, looking instead to Murphy. "What did you do to him?"

"Fought back." It felt like a childish reply; the equivalent of He started it. He just hadn't known what else to say. She looked back at him then, poisonously and with loathing.

"If you've hurt him..."

"Laura?" Murphy was stirring, rejuvenated by the sound of her voice. "Laura, I'm sorry. I tried..."

"It's okay." Having crouched down for a moment to make sure that he was alright, she stood up again, staring back at Steele as though she were much taller than him, much larger, making him feel tiny and crushed.

"I don't know why you've come back. I don't care. You made your choice ten years ago. Ten years ago today, if it means anything to you. But I don't ever want to see you again, Steele. I don't want you anywhere near me or Murphy. And if I see you again, I'll hand you over to the police so fast, you won't have time to draw breath before you're in a prison cell."

"Laura..." He thought that his voice had caught in his throat, but she didn't seem to have noticed. She just stared back at him, with more hatred in her eyes than he would ever have thought possible. His Laura. His gentle, harmless Laura. She looked like a demon, clothed in vengeance and hatred. He wanted to say all kinds of things then, in a desperate attempt to make her hate him a little less. Suddenly it meant so much to him that she should listen, and she should understand, and know. For ten years he had told himself that her opinion didn't matter, and that he didn't need her anymore. For ten years he had told himself that same lie, over and over again in his darker moments. And now he was with her again, and there was the chance to speak, and the chance to maybe right some of those old wrongs - and she wanted no part of it. It was like being punched again, and with much more strength even than there had been in Murphy's almost too powerful blows.

"Go away." She seemed about to say something more, then; about to heap more abuse upon him, or have a change of heart; or perhaps just to speak to Murphy. She was opening her mouth, and Steele was suddenly desperate to hear what she had to say. Good or bad, he had to hear it. All that he heard instead was the wail of a siren. A police siren, so close by. Perhaps somebody had seen the fight, or the prolonged argument that had preceded it. Perhaps somebody had called the police. Words stolen by the siren, Laura looked away automatically, and in that moment, his resolve broken completely, Steele made his escape. When Laura looked back it was to see him swinging himself up onto the ladder of a fire escape, hanging far above the ground. He was like a gymnast, she thought, as she watched him pull himself up; so much speed and skill. But not a gymnast of course; a burglar, showing one of the skills of his trade. She wanted to be even more angry, at the way that he had run again; at the fact that he had been there to begin with; that he had fought Murphy and won; that he had clearly been hurt in the process; that he hadn't been hurt enough. If she could have punched him herself she would have, then; but by now he was too far away even to hear her had she shouted out her rage.

"Laura?" Murphy was struggling upward and, suddenly shaking, she helped him to his feet. She hoped that he wouldn't notice the tremble in her hands and her shoulders, but she knew that he must. He didn't comment on it though. Good old Murphy, as always - the gentleman, the friend, the one that she could count on. They didn't speak as she helped him over to her car, and sat him in the passenger seat.

"You okay?" she asked several moments later, when he had got his breath back, and she was more sure that she could trust her voice. He nodded. He was already looking better. Murphy had always been tough.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Sneaky son of a-- I never guessed he'd be that strong."

"He's always been a fighter." She was remembering evenings alone, and tales told. Dark Belfast nights, and cold London days. A childhood, and a youth, and a manhood, always on the run, always on the scam. Always fighting. It was a past that had never quite seemed to fit with the Steele that she had known; the polished, smooth, well-spoken Steele, with his immaculate clothing and his hair always so perfectly arranged. Somehow it seemed to fit the Steele that she had seen just now though; a Steele that somehow it seemed she had never seen before.

"What do you think he's doing here?" Murphy, of course, knew exactly where her mind was. She shrugged.

"What do you think? Those jewels. The Jacques Trovian Miscellany. There's nothing else he'd come back for." She didn't realise how bitter her voice had been during that last sentence, until Murphy reached out a hand for hers.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Laura. It was never your fault."

"I know. I guess." She sighed. "You remember which museum those jewels are going to be displayed at?"

"The Brown Museum." He frowned. "Laura..."

"Well we can hardly go to the police, can we? What's it going to look like if we suddenly unmask Remington Steele as a jewel thief? We're known associates of his. Even with our reputations, even if we could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that we're not involved with him anymore, we'd still be ruining our business. And what if the real truth got out? About how we've always known what he is? About how he isn't really who he is anyway, and never was? That'd kill our careers for certain."

"But going after him? Are you really sure you're up to this?"

"Yes." She sounded hard; harder than she had intended. "We're going to the Brown Museum, and we're going to find out what's going on. What our illustrious Mr Steele has planned. And then we're going to stop him. And if I get the chance to break both his kneecaps in the process, so much the better."

"I tried to break his jaw." Murphy winced at the memory of their short fight. "It didn't turn out to be all that easy."

"I'm sure I can find a way." Raring to go now, she went around to the driver's seat and slid behind the wheel. "You know where the Brown Museum is?"

"I think so." Something occurred to him, and he frowned suddenly, looking over at her with an appeal in his eyes. "But Laura?"

"What?" She was already all business. All geared up to this new case. It was one of the things that he loved about her; but it could be a pain in the neck at times, especially when he was thinking along lines that didn't involve work. He smiled faintly, though it hurt his bruised jaw to do so.

"Can we get some breakfast first?"

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Lucille, despite Steele's exhortations to remain in the apartment, had gone out grocery shopping, and she returned some time after he did. She was surprised to find him there, for he had never been the stay at home type, and she had expected him to be out and about, busy with whatever things he did to fill his time. Instead she found him rummaging through his overnight bag, looking for a clean shirt, the old one screwed up and lying on the floor. He had come in through the window, clearly; there was blood on his face; and his once off-white trousers were now a nondescript grey. None of it spoke of a particularly good morning. She put down her groceries, locked the door, and went to retrieve his discarded shirt.

"Did it do something terrible?" she asked. Steele glared at her for a moment, before he was able to rein in his temper.

"What?"

"The shirt. You've obviously thrown it across the room. I wondered what it had done to deserve it. I've never known anybody be as careful with clothes as you usually are."

"Oh." He shrugged, then finally came up trumps with a new shirt. It was white, had been expensive once, and should have still been fairly crisp and new. Just now it looked rather like a tablecloth, long after the party was over. His shoulders sagged.

"I can iron it, you know. Or you can. This may be a cheap hotel, but there is an iron in the cupboard." She frowned at him. "Danny, are you going to tell me what's wrong? I'd threaten to beat it out of you, but by the look of it somebody has already tried. Did you run into Brock and her people again?"

"No." He sighed, and went in search of the iron. "Just some old friends, that's all. A little unfinished business. Nothing to do with the jewels."

"I knew it." She sat down on the edge of the bed. "It's dangerous for you to be here, isn't it. Really dangerous. Coming back here was stupid, and I won't have you on my conscience, Danny. Not you."

"Don't be daft." He got in a tangle with the flex of the iron, and had to fight momentarily to sort it out. "It's not dangerous. It was just a fight. A stupid fight that should never have happened. One of those testosterone things, you know. I was showing off, and it didn't end well."

"Those things rarely do." She eyed him critically. "And you're supposed to be meeting that museum curator at noon. You hardly look the part just now."

"It'll be alright." He plugged in the iron, and unfolded the ironing board. "I didn't mean to worry you, Lucille."

"I know. It's just with everything... wanting to do this for Arthur, and then Brock showing up, and me being so nervous about it all anyway. And now this." She gestured at her companion. "Does it hurt?"

"No more than usual. Fortunately for me, Murphy is no professional." Steele dabbed gingerly at his mouth with one hand. "He's strong, and he can hit like a boxer on steroids when he wants to, but he doesn't pick his impact points. He doesn't go for maximum damage. He just hits."

"You'd better let me look at you."

"I'm fine." He began to iron the shirt, and tried to ignore her speculative glances. "Really, Lucy. I'm fine. I've been hit harder, lots of times."

"Maybe." She headed for the adjoining bathroom, and filled the sink with water. "But you're still going to need to clean up. I'll finish that shirt. I want to be sure that you look respectable when you go to that museum. Right now you're dressed like a bum, and you certainly can't go talking to museum curators with blood all over you. Clean up. And change those trousers."

"Yes mother." He rolled his eyes, and she glared at him.

"I'm serious, Danny. We can't afford any screw ups now. Look at you. Is the back of your head bleeding?"

"I don't know." He put up one hand to touch the place where his head had connected so painfully with the road, during his fight with Murphy. It came away covered with blood. "Ow. Yes."

"You should get stitches for that."

"You think so?" He sounded irritable, sarcastic. "Well do you have medical insurance? Because I doubt that Remington Steele has been keeping up to date with his premiums lately."

"There's no need to get snippy." She gave him a few second's worth of her fiercest glare, then sighed. "There's blood running down the back of your neck, Danny. I was worried. When he was younger, I used to patch up Arthur when he slipped climbing down drainpipes, or got in fights in the pub of a Saturday night. But that was all a long time ago. Perhaps I'm out of practice. I didn't used to flinch at the sight of blood."

"I only flinch when it's mine. And I can't see it on the back of my neck." He smiled at her. "Alright. I'll go and wash up. And I'm sorry, Lucy. It's just that this morning hasn't been terribly good."

"Those old friends that you mentioned?"

"You could say that." He disappeared into the bathroom, and she heard the splash of water in the sink. "The meeting will still go ahead, though. I come up well in the wash, hadn't you noticed? Mr Oban at the museum needn't ever know there was a fight."

"You think you can make yourself look respectable?"

"Not as much as I would if you'd let me get decked out properly. A nice double breasted suit and a handmade silk tie ought to complete the image nicely."

"It's just as well you weren't dressed like that today, isn't it. Or do double breasted suits and handmade ties like being tossed about in street brawls?"

"Well, no. Probably not." He sighed. "I like the finer things in life, Lucy. That's all. I liked being Steele before. He meant good tailoring. Bloody good tailoring. And he always had such nice shoes, too. The best restaurants fell over themselves to give him a table, the most exclusive night-clubs always let him in." He sighed. "And now he's having to resort to washing in a basin before dressing in a shirt that doesn't even have cufflinks."

"By the look of what's left in your bag, he's going to be wearing jeans, too." She appeared in the bathroom door, holding up the offending garment, a big grin on her face. "I can iron them for you, if it'll help. Make you feel a bit more snazzy."

"Snazzy?" He groaned, and grabbed the bathroom's thin, rough towel from its hook. "Thanks. Of all the adjectives in the world..."

"It's better than you look now." She headed off back to the iron. "You're the one who got your best trousers ruined in a brawl."

"And you're the one who dragged me away to Los Angeles with hardly a change of clothes, and won't let me get any new ones!" He knew that he was sounding like a cross child, and scowled at himself as much as at her. "The great Remington Steele..."

"The great Remington Steele better start acting like Remington Steele, or we might as well both head back to Europe empty-handed." She ducked aside as Steele made as if to throw his trousers at her, then when he dropped them onto the floor instead, she threw the newly ironed jeans back at him. They hit him on his head, and she winced.

"Ouch. Sorry."

"What's another bruise amongst friends?" He pulled them on, followed them with the newly rejuvenated shirt, and then stared at himself in the mirror on the cupboard door. Hardly the image of style and sophistication. He looked like an ordinary member of the public - and that was enough of an insult when he was just being himself, let alone when he was wearing the mantle of his beloved Mr Steele. "Just as long as I don't meet my tailor dressed like this."

"Are you really very likely to?"

"No. I suppose not." He sighed, trying to sound dramatic and hard done by. "I'll call you when I'm done at the museum."

"You're going now? The meeting's not for a few hours yet."

"I know. But there are some supplies I'm going to need. Some things that I couldn't get at that hardware store yesterday."

"Yes, of course. You wouldn't rather that I bought them? It might raise a few eyebrows if Remington Steele goes around collecting up that kind of equipment. And surely the sort of places that sell it won't want anything to do with Steele anyway?"

"That's if they recognise me. Anyway, I was good business to them in the past. Remington Steele never saw any particular reason to avoid the dodgier shops, no matter how crooked some of their business might have been." Steele adjusted his collar with a critical eye for detail, then made a face and shrugged. "It'll have to do."

"You look fine."

"I look like..." He scowled. "Like Murphy. You'll have me eating hotdogs in the street next."

"Idiot. Now be careful."

"Careful, my dear Lucille, is my middle name."

"I doubt it." She followed him to the window, and watched as he climbed out. "Danny dear, what is it with you and roofs just lately? Is this really the most sensible route?"

"It is if I want to be sure I don't run into Eleanor Brock again. Always know your way about a city via it's roofs, Lucy. I'm surprised Arthur never told you that."

"Arthur never needed to find his way about a city by any way other than the road. He never got into that much trouble." She watched him as he started to go up the fire escape. "Watch out for Brock, Danny. She'll kill you like a shot, you know that. And enjoy doing it."

"I know." He hesitated, looking down at her, and offering her a smile. A devil-may-care smile, that made her respond automatically. He could make all of her worries fade away with that smile; had always been able to, even when there was good reason for her to worry. "Two days from now you'll be safely out of the country, and you'll have the Honeymoon Diamonds right with you. I promise. Now I'll see you later."

"Goodbye, Danny." She climbed back in through the window, clambering awkwardly over the windowsill. It was exciting, to be a part of such an operation; like in the early days, when she and Arthur had worked together to steal jewels all over Western Europe. Those days had gone with her arthritis. She couldn't do the raids herself anymore; hence Steele. Hence the waiting. Hence the worry. Sitting down on the bed, she tried not to think of all the things that could go wrong, and concentrated instead upon Arthur. She could see him, in her mind's eye, sprawled on the bed beside her, with his crooked grin and his callused hands, and his ridiculously broad shoulders. She never had understood how he had managed to fit through all those windows with those shoulders.

"We'll get you those jewels, Arthur," she told the empty bed. And he smiled at her, in her mind's eye, and everything was alright with the world.

Or for now it was, at least.

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