Steele In Command

by Xenon

With Laura away at a convention, Steele and Mildred tackle a case together.

2. Chapter 2

"Have you ever seen him before?" asked Mildred. Steele seemed absorbed in his work with the magnifying glass, so she had decided that it was down to her to attempt some questioning. Ada shook her head.

"You said that he was a policeman?"

"Looks like it. The boss says he was a detective. Maybe he was working on something locally. There anything you can think of where you live that the police might have been interested in?"

"Have you seen where I live?" There was a polite sarcasm in Ada's tone. "It's not exactly the most respectable part of town. I see drug pushers every day. There are many stolen cars, many guns. Many things for policeman to be interested in."

"Yeah, I guess so." Mildred glanced back at Steele, who as yet hadn't looked up from the corpse even once. "So did you see anybody hanging around before the car disappeared, or when it came back?"

"Nobody that I can think of. Nobody out of the ordinary." She frowned. "What I don't understand is why they brought it back with the body in it. Wouldn't they want to make sure that it wasn't discovered?"

"Maybe they were confident that you wouldn't report it?" suggested Mildred. "I mean, you're not exactly happy about going to the police, right?"

"Yes, but now that I know he's a policeman, I will have to. It's different if it's some drug pusher or thief who's been betrayed by his friends. I could have hidden from that and kept quiet. But this is a policeman. I have to admit to it, don't I."

"Not yet you don't, no." Steele straightened up at last, a frown still crinkling his forehead. Expecting him to elaborate, Mildred and Ada watched him expectantly. His frown deepened under their scrutiny. "What?"

"We were kind of expecting an explanation, chief." Mildred arched an eyebrow, pressing home the point. He nodded.

"Yes. Yes, quite. Ada... how well do you know your neighbours? All of them, I mean. Not just the ones who live next door."

"Not very well. Next door on one side I know well. I leave my son there sometimes. The others... I know very few of them."

"Hmm." Steele tapped his magnifying glass against one hand, looking thoughtful. "You asked why they left the body in the car. I think they thought it would be safe there. Are there any other station-wagons this colour in your street? Or does anybody else use yours regularly?"

"They might not have known that I owned the car?" She looked concerned. "Then they were planning to get rid of the body later and now it's gone. They'll want to find it. They'll ask questions."

"Yes, they will. I think it's best if you and your son move out of your house for the time being. They won't find the car or the body now, but that won't stop them looking." He sighed. "And we drove up the street in a vintage car. Hardly subtle."

"Subtle's never really been one of our aims in the past," offered Mildred, perhaps by way of consolation. He smiled a half-smile.

"True enough, true enough. Alright. What we need now is a plan of action. Something to get this show on the road. Right?"

"Right." Mildred could feel a certain sense of trepidation building, but when he spoke it was to suggest something simple and sensible enough. If he intended to become grandiose and outlandish, as was so often his way, perhaps he was saving that for later.

"Take Ada back home," he said, once again fiddling with the magnifying glass. "Pick up what you need for a few days, Ada. As little as you can cope with. Then Mildred will take you and your son to my apartment. It'll be safe enough for now. If they want to find you they can trace my car, but we're good for a few hours yet, and I'd rather have you there than at your own house. Stay with them, Mildred. I want you to get on the phone and see what you can find out about our friend in the trunk. Anything that might give us a hint as to what he was working on. I'll join you later. I'm going to have another look at the body and the car."

"You going to dump it, boss?"

"That probably depends on how he got in there. Doesn't help to cultivate good will with the local police force when you go throwing dead policemen about, though, and I can't see Miss Holt being happy either. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it." He frowned. "We'll have to be quick, though. He's not going to last long in this heat - and he could end up making a fine mess of Ada's car."

"Don't worry about the car, Mr Steele." Ada looked slightly green. "I shall be buying another one. This one is rapidly losing its attraction."

"I don't blame you, honey." Mildred went to open the doors of the workshop again. "Well, okay. If that's the plan, let's get it going. Hop on into the car, Ada. You are going to love Mr Steele's apartment."

"Make sure you're not followed. Just to be on the safe side. It might buy us a few hours." Steele turned back to the car, and opened one of the back doors, disappearing inside. Mildred watched him for a few moments, crawling about in the back of the car with his magnifying glass, like some weird take on Sherlock Holmes. She wondered if he had even the slightest idea of what to look for; or what to make of it if he found it. For now, though, that was his problem. She had her own job to do.

Steele barely noticed when they left, all but oblivious to the sound of the car engine, and the rattle of the doors as they closed once again. He should have thought to ask Ada how often she cleaned out her car, he realised. Too late now. Still, it had an air of cleanliness about it. There was no rubbish that he could see, and for the most part the floor seemed clean. There didn't seem to be any long-standing build up of grime, or a repeated pattern of footmarks. The occasional smudge of dirt looked new, and it seemed to him that it was perfectly reasonable to assume that they had been left by the murderer or murderers. The problem was that he had no idea what to make of them. Sherlock Holmes would frown thoughtfully, realise that they had been made by a type of mud found only in pine forests, and instantaneously pinpoint the place where the murder had been committed. Then he would see somebody with the same sort of mud on their shoes, and identify the killer. Somehow the life of Remington Steele had a knack of being rather more complicated than that. He considered taking a scraping of the grime, then realised that he didn't have anything to put it in. So much for coming prepared. Climbing out of the car, he went back round to the trunk, checking Groper's shoes. Sure enough there was a deposit on the soles, and it looked to be the same as the stuff in the car. He frowned at that. It was dirt, though. Dirt was dirt. It might be a breakthrough clue to Sherlock Holmes, but to Remington Steele it was merely brown stuff. Brown stuff stuck to some other stuff, and stubbornly refusing to be helpful. He let out a long, loud sigh, and shot Groper a glare.

"Well you could be a little more help. I'm trying to find out who killed you." The corpse showed no sign of becoming more forthcoming, and he turned his back on it, staring out at the dusty, cluttered workshop. Dirt. What did dirt mean? Mud from a park, perhaps? A garden? Or somewhere out of the city? Or was it city grime, the kind found in back streets and alleyways, and accumulated in gutters? Perhaps he could have it analysed. A vague notion played in his head that if it contained compost or fertiliser, it was more likely to be from a park or garden. Possibly. The truth was that he wasn't entirely sure, and he didn't really know what to make of such a clue anyway. With a scowl he slammed the trunk closed again, and stared accusingly at the car. It was no help either. He didn't have the means to check for fingerprints, and even if he did, he wasn't happy about taking them to the police just yet. If any of them turned out to be Groper's, things could get awkward. There had to be something, though. What would Laura do? It would probably be something tedious, involving legwork, and laborious research, and all the other things that she seemed to enjoy so much. Well, that was just hard luck. Remington Steele did not do legwork. Especially when he wasn't entirely sure what sort of legwork to do.

"You're a fool," he told his reflection, staring back at him from one of the rear windows. His reflection seemed to agree with him, which wasn't exactly encouraging. Ignoring its less than optimistic expression, he opened the driver's door and slid in behind the wheel. What clues might there be? He hadn't noticed anything when he had driven the car here, but then he hadn't been looking especially. Any rare foreign cigarettes in the ashtray? Distinctive sweet wrappers in the litter bin? Highly unusual footprints on the floor? Of course there were none of those things, and nothing else that he could see seemed of any use either. The glove compartment had a few items in it, but all of them looked to be Ada's. A pair of sunglasses, a packet of mints, a few small toys. Nothing that seemed likely to be a clue to the identity of a killer. He bent over to look at the floor, and under the seats, but nothing there caught his attention either. It really didn't seem fair. Only then were his eyes drawn to the underside of the dashboard; the place where his own hands had reached so many times in order to hot-wire a car. His hands went there now, and found only cobwebs. Nobody had hot-wired this vehicle. Whoever had stolen it must have used a key. That rather seemed to rule out the likelihood of it having been taken by mistake.

"Curiouser and curiouser," he muttered to nobody in particular, and clambered back out of the car. He crouched down to give the tyres and undercarriage a cursory check, found nothing remotely useful, then stood up and gave the trunk a quick rap with his knuckles. "You alright in there, Roy? I'll try not to be too long, mate. Hang on in there, yeah?" The silence that greeted his reply seemed oddly morbid, and he wasn't very sorry to be locking up the car and leaving it behind. Turning off the workshop lights, he pulled the doors shut behind him and locked them once again. From outside the place looked as deserted as ever. He was confident enough that nobody would go disturbing Roy Groper. If they did, they wouldn't be the type likely to report their discovery. Musing on the case, Steele headed off in search of a cab. He wanted to get back to his apartment. There was a question that he very much wanted to ask his latest client.

xxxxxxxxxx

There was a small boy asleep on his couch. A small boy with a decidedly worn toy rabbit in one hand, and an equally worn toy car in the other. He stirred when Steele entered, but didn't awaken. His mother, looking more than a little tired herself, smiled.

"I think your couch is bigger than his whole bedroom. He was delighted."

"I imagine that he was." Steele went into the bedroom, emerging a few moments later with a blanket, that he used to cover the boy. "Where's Mildred?"

"In the kitchen. She went to make some tea." Ada frowned slightly. "Something is wrong, Mr Steele. Am I sitting in your favourite chair?"

"No." He flashed her a brief smile. "No, it's nothing like that. Ada, you said that your car was stolen?"

"Yes, that's right. I wanted to use it, but it wasn't where I had left it. Why?"

"Because it wasn't hot-wired. You know what I mean by that?"

"I watch television, Mr Steele. I know what hot-wiring is. It's a way that thieves can start cars without having the keys. So you're saying that whoever took my car had keys?"

"I suppose I am, yes." He sat down on the arm of the couch, near to where Ramon's tousled hair poked out from under the edge of the blanket. Almost without thinking, he picked up a cushion, and slipped it gently under the boy's head. The movement didn't prevent him from keeping an eye on Ada. "Is there anybody who has a set of keys?"

"No, but I do have a spare set myself. Doesn't everybody? Somebody could have taken it, I suppose." She frowned. "I didn't give them a thought. I don't know if they're still in the drawer."

"Would anybody know where to find them? Have you been broken into recently?"

"A few people might have known. I locked myself out of my car a few weeks ago, and had to get the spare ones. There were a few people round at the time. It was Ramon's birthday." She shrugged. "But nobody I can point a finger at, Mr Steele. They're my neighbours. I know that I don't live in the best part of town, and that a lot of the people who live near me are up to some pretty shady things. But they don't tend to be the people that I invite round for my son's birthday."

Steele nodded slowly. "Other parents of small children?" he asked. She shook her head.

"No. There aren't many other children nearby. I asked some people that Ramon likes. The postman, as they like to chat in the mornings. The storekeeper who sometimes gives him free candy. A few of our neighbours who look after him sometimes. They came around to have a piece of cake, and he had a wonderful time being the centre of attention. It was a happy time, Mr Steele. A nice day. I don't want to think that maybe one of the people who was there might be a killer."

"Write down their names. Their addresses if you know them." Hopefully Mildred could find out something about them. Otherwise this was straying dangerously into legwork territory. Ada nodded, then all of a sudden fixed him with a very direct look.

"If it wasn't stolen by chance; if they had the spare keys... they know that the car is mine, don't they. And by now, they must know that I've found the body."

"I would think so, yes." A thought struck him. "Did you get home early, or was there any sort of change in your routine today?"

"Yes. My car was stolen. That made all kinds of things different." She shrugged. "Usually my days are very similar. There is very little change in the routine. Today has been a very long day, and very complicated."

"Okay." Clearly he had asked a good question. It was impossible not to be delighted, though he hoped that he didn't sound too surprised. "Well, of course. Your car was stolen. That's bound to be inconvenient. Um... why not talk me through your day. A typical one. Then we can... see how today differed. It might help."

"If you think so, Mr Steele. Well, most of my days are very similar. Ramon and I go to fetch the newspaper, and if the weather is nice we take our breakfast with us, and eat it in the park." She shrugged. "Well, it used to be a park, when this was still a well to do area, long before I moved here. Now it's a mess, but Ramon likes it. There are birds."

"And then?"

"And then we go home, and I take the car, and I drop Ramon off at kindergarten. Then I go back home again, and leave the car, and go off to do my cleaning jobs. It's too difficult to take the car with me. Too hard to park. I tend to use buses instead."

"Quite." Steele, who used public transport only as the very last of a long list of last resorts, nodded in an approximately understanding manner. It was remarkably easy to find a place to park when you arrived in a chauffeur-driven limousine. That was one of the first things that he had noticed living the life of Remington Steele. "Carry on."

"At lunchtime I come home, and I take the car to fetch Ramon. We have lunch, and then he stays with a neighbour while I go back to finish my work, or sometimes he comes with me. Today, when I went home at lunchtime the car was gone. I had to take the bus to fetch Ramon, so I was late. I took him home for his lunch, and there was the car. Because we were late, I took that. I thought perhaps I had made a mistake before, about it not being there. I don't know what I thought, really, but I was in a hurry to get to my next job, and there wasn't much time for thinking. You know the story after that. I found the body, and I called Mildred. I was frightened."

"Hey boss. Thought I heard you get in." Appearing in the kitchen doorway with a tray of tea things, Mildred came over to set it down on the coffee table. "I brought three cups."

"Thankyou Mildred." He seemed to be on a roll just at the moment, his brain joining dots in a manner that seemed at least to him to be reminiscent of Laura Holt. He didn't want any major interruptions. "So that might explain why you were able to catch them unawares and drive off with the body. They didn't think that you'd take the car after lunch."

"Perhaps." She turned slightly to take a cup of tea from Mildred, and smiled in thanks. "But why would they leave the car outside my house with a body in it? Why not keep the car until they were ready to get rid of the body?"

"I..." He frowned, rather stumped by that one. Damn. Maybe the roll had rolled itself out. "Well, there's several possibilities. I don't want to bore you with the intricacies of the workings of a detective's mind, but..."

"What's going on, boss?" asked Mildred, both wondering what she had missed, and deciding that he was in need of rescue. He frowned.

"Detecting, Mildred. Quite a lot of it, too."

"Mr Steele has worked out that my car was stolen by somebody who knows me, as they didn't hot-wire it." Ada looked sad. "I hope you're not offended if I don't like that idea, Mr Steele."

"No, of course not." He was still frowning, trying to focus his mind. Laura considered all of the evidence and made it all add up into an interesting conclusion. All that he was adding up was a mighty tangle. "As I see it, they were expecting you to go back to work after lunch, and leave the car behind like usual. Instead you took it, with dear departed Roy in the back, and threw a spanner in their works in the process. They can't have seen you taking the car, though. If they had, they'd have tried to stop you, or followed you and got the car back."

"Sure." Mildred handed him a cup of tea, which he took without seeming to notice it. "But why would anybody steal a car, stuff a dead cop in the trunk, and then drive it back to its owner's place and leave it there? Doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me."

"No, me either, Mildred." He sighed, looking down at the cup of tea in his hand, as though it were to blame. "And we were doing so well, too."

"Any other clues from the car?" she asked, settling down in a chair nearby. He shrugged.

"Nothing that leaps immediately to mind. Looks like Roy was shot once in the chest, but I can't be sure without an autopsy - which is a little outside my field. And the police would get cross if I tried it."

"They get cross when their colleagues turn up dead in the back of your car, too," said Ada, rather mournfully. Steele nodded.

"That's true. I remember one time in Nice... although perhaps now isn't the time for that particular tale. Did you find out anything about our silent friend, Mildred?"

"Not a lot, boss. They said he was taking some time off. I asked if they knew when he'd be back at work, but they wouldn't give me a straight answer. Got me to thinking that maybe he's out doing undercover work."

"Sound theory." Steele leaned back, sipping his tea. "He was wearing a good suit. Off the peg, but nicely made. Expensive. That does suggest undercover work."

"Not all policemen dress like they fell out of a goodwill store, boss."

"A fair point, Mildred. But you met Roy Groper. Hardly the personification of sartorial elegance, was he."

"I guess not." She shrugged. "So he was undercover, and he was found out?"

"Found out by one of my neighbours." Ada stared into her mug of tea, clearly unhappy. "One of them is a killer, or a killer's accomplice. And whoever they are, they must know by now that I've found the body. They must have guessed."

"I should think that they probably have, yes. And if they haven't found out yet about the involvement of Remington Steele Investigations, they soon will." Steele set down his cup on the tray, then rose smartly to his feet and began to pace. "But what do they do then? Do they run, or do they stay to fight?"

"I think I would rather they run." Ada smiled at him, slightly bashful. "I'm sorry Mr Steele. I know that you want to catch them, and I know it's better if they're caught. But if they run, then I don't have to worry anymore. I'm sitting here in a strange place, and I can't go back home. I don't know which of my neighbours I can trust. If any of this gets out, I could be deported, back to a life that I very much want to leave behind me. This is not my idea of a good time, Mr Steele."

"No. No, quite. Quite." He was by her side in an instant, giving her shoulder a quick pat, clearly having no idea how to make her feel any better. "We can keep your name out of things, though. And even if for some reason you do have to speak to the police, you might be surprised how well we can cover up certain pesky little details concerning citizenship. It wouldn't exactly be the first time."

"Really?" She frowned at him, clearly confused. "I thought that Remington Steele specialised in rich clients. Respectable people. Surely they don't have green card issues?"

"You might be surprised." He coughed discreetly, avoiding Mildred's eye. "Anyway, our first priority is to try to find out who killed poor old Roy. At least that way we can make a stab at making sure that it's safe for you and your son to go home. You'd best write that list of all the people who were at your son's birthday party." He headed for the telephone, and collected a pen and a few sheets of paper from the pad that lay beside it. "Here. Addresses as well if you know them."

"What do you want to do then, chief?" asked Mildred. "Talk to them all? Make inquiries?" His answering expression of horror was so eloquent that she almost laughed. "Well, we have to find out about them somehow, you know."

"Remington Steele does not do legwork." He seemed almost to shiver at the very thought. "You get on the telephone, and find our what you can about them. Don't answer the door to anybody while I'm gone."

"I'd do better if I used the computer back at the office," she pointed out. He nodded.

"I know. I'm not sure it's safe for you to be back there just yet, though. If they're going trace this back to us, they might go to the office."

"Makes sense, I guess." She realised that he was leaving. "Where are you going to be?"

"At the office." He held up a hand to forestall her comment. "Yes, I know. I'm hardly going to throw myself into the arms of danger, Mildred. I'm far too fond of my own safety for that. There's a file there that I want to fetch, though."

"On Roy Groper?" she asked. He nodded.

"You know how thorough Laura is. I'm sure she's got his home address listed, and that's not the kind of thing that the police are going to give us. I might go over there and take a look around."

"Be careful," she told him. He nodded.

"I'm always careful, Mildred."

"You could have fooled me."

He laughed at that. "If it's any consolation, with no Miss Holt to patch up my injuries, I plan on being very much more careful than usual. Being battered and bruised isn't half as much fun when she's not around. I'll see you later."

"Okay, boss." She followed him to the door. "But don't hang around at the office. If they are the type to fight rather than run, they're bound to turn up there sometime."

"I know. But it's early days yet." He flashed her one of his warmest smiles. "Take good care of our guests, and remember what I said. Don't open the door to anybody. At the slightest sign of danger, take them down the fire escape and go to a motel. If this place turns out not to be safe, I'd rather you didn't risk going to your place either. Better to be on the safe side."

"Sure." She returned his smile, then closed the door after him, making sure that it was locked. When she turned back, Ada was watching her. She smiled.

"You have an odd relationship with him. It's nice."

"Yeah." Mildred smiled too, her mind drifting with faint concern back to Steele. She wasn't at all sure that she liked the idea of him going to the very place that he had just suggested might be too dangerous for her. "Well, Mr Steele isn't like most bosses." By quite a margin. "And I guess me being a bit older than him changes things. It's a pretty unique relationship, really."

"You're worried about him, aren't you."

"Yeah." She began collecting up the tea things, trying not to think about it. "He gets into trouble a lot. I tell myself it's none of my business, but you get to work with people for long enough, and I guess you wind up worrying. I work with good people. It's hard not to care."

"Do you want to go after him?" Ada went to help with the tea tray, putting her own cup onto it, and going to hold open the kitchen door. "Ramon and I will be fine here. I'm sure there's no danger. Whoever killed that policeman, they wouldn't come to a big apartment building like this, surely?"

"I don't know. People have come here before. Broken in here before, and tried to get at the boss. Besides, he was pretty clear. The three of us stick together."

"I hope he's alright." Ada looked back towards the door of the apartment, before they let the kitchen door swing shut behind them. "If there really is danger... well he doesn't look as though he'd be very good at dealing with it. I know that he's a famous detective, but he looks..." She shrugged, and began to help unload the tray onto the draining board. "Well, he's skinny. And he looks like a rich boy."

"I know. But he seems to manage okay. He's tougher than he looks, I guess." She shrugged and turned on the tap, rinsing out the cups. "He can handle himself well enough. And like he said, it's still early days. It'll be a while yet before they check out the office."

"But you're still worried," pointed out Ada. Mildred nodded ruefully.

"Yeah, I'm still worried. Lucky for me I've got plenty to do to keep me busy. Did you finish that list?"

"Nearly."

"Good. You carry on with that, and I'll get started on the first few names. Sooner we get started on this, the better. When the boss comes back, I want to be able to give him something to work with." Always supposing, that was, that he could figure out what to do with it. Given Steele's somewhat haphazard investigating techniques, she didn't exactly hold out a great deal of hope.

xxxxxxxxxx

The offices were deserted, which was just as Steele had expected to find them. They had been empty since Laura had left, after all; the clients carefully instructed to avoid calling into the offices, because Mr Steele would be away on holiday. He had bridled at that at first, but had let her have her way in the end. Wandering into the offices every day during her absence was a ritual performed largely out of hope. One case. One small case, snuck in under Laura's radar, and she might take him more seriously. Of course now that he had such a case, it seemed anything but small, and he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted it. There was a moral there, he told himself. Something about being careful what you wished for, wasn't that how it went? He scowled at his reflection in a picture, and told himself off for being so pessimistic. He could handle this. He would handle this. He might not have Laura's years of experience, but he did have a magnifying glass, a great deal of enthusiasm, and a particularly devious mind. You could do a lot with that kind of arsenal, even without Laura to help join up the dots.

Roy Groper's file proved easy to find, and he flipped through it slowly, sitting on Laura's desk. His own might be more spacious, more grandiose and aesthetically pleasing, but Laura's did at least have pens in it. And paper. All his had was a ticket stub for a Bogart marathon he had been to at a nearby cinema three weeks previously. The impressively work shy nature of his desk was by turns a source of great pride and great annoyance, and now that he did actually want to do some work, it seemed natural to use Laura's desk instead. He thought for one brief moment about calling her, but he dismissed the thought instantly. This was his case. His and Mildred's. They were going to work it all out themselves.

"Hello?" The voice came from the outer office - youngish, timorous, hopeful. Steele jumped off the desk and went to the door. If the voice sounded youngish, timorous and hopeful, there were, in his experience, two likely reasons for it. Either its owner was young, nervous and eager, or he was a bull-necked man mountain pretending to be something else. Stuffing the notes that he had made into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, Steele peered cautiously through the hinges, trying to see who was waiting outside. If he gave them no reason to suspect that he was here, they might turn around and leave. Possibly. When he saw three men, all with shoulder holsters, his optimism began to drain away.

"Search the place," ordered one of the men - who was, Steele now saw, a bull-necked man mountain. Great. Aware that he had very little time before he was discovered, he tried to find the agency gun, but came up with nothing more deadly than one bullet, some gun oil, and a photograph of John Wayne in Stagecoach. None of which seemed especially useful just now. Some day, they were going to have to agree on a place to keep the gun so that they could always find it in an emergency. In the meantime... he eyed the bullet, the gun oil and the photograph, and sighed. He could always try hiding under a desk. Somehow, though, he didn't think that that trick was going to work. The window was no use either, and as he turned towards the door that joined Laura's office to his own, he saw the handle begin to turn. Oh, great. Maybe, standing as he was in this office, they might not assume him to actually be Remington Steele.

"Steele!" It was more a growl than a shout, but as the door swung open and a man loomed in the entrance, the victory in his voice was plain enough. Steele summoned a nervous grin. So much for anonymity. Reflexively he straightened his already perfectly straight tie, and managed an innocently quizzical expression.

"Good day. How can I be of service, Mr...?"

"Never mind my name." The man came towards him with sudden, threatening speed, and Steele went automatically into reverse. The other door banged open behind him, and he froze.

"Do you gentlemen want something?" He half turned, looking back at the person in the second doorway, mind working at full speed all the time. The second man ignored him, and headed straight for the open file on Laura's desk. Roy Groper's file. Steele watched him flip through it.

"A missing person case, perhaps? Or a divorce? We often advise on security matters as well, though strictly speaking we're enjoying a little downtime at the moment. Perhaps if you were to call back later in the week, then--"

"Stop the prattle, Steele." The second man shut the file with a slap, and threw it in Steele's face. "We know who you are, we know what you do, and we know that you're investigating Groper's murder. What we want to know is where his body is."

"I don't follow you." Steele's innocent smile was beginning to waver. On the floor, a small photograph of Roy Groper stared up at him, grey eyes cold and hard in the black and white face. In a second the first man was upon him, twisting Steele's arms painfully behind his back.

"We want Groper's body, and we want to know everything you know. Who hired you? What's your interest in this? Who else is involved?" The second man bent to retrieve the file, and Steele, reacting instinctively to the situation, lashed out with both his feet. He caught the man a hard blow to the side of the head, and as the action forced all of his weight onto his captor, he felt the man's grip weaken. With a furious effort he tore free, and made a frantic dash for the door. Waiting for him there was the third man, with a compact black handgun pointing straight at Steele's chest. He smiled, eyes glinting with a mixture of satisfaction and mockery. Steele began to raise his hands.

"The car," said the man with the gun, in a tone of voice that said very clearly that Steele's innocent act would no longer be a very good idea. "And the body. I want them."

"If you're so eager to get them, gentlemen, perhaps you shouldn't have been so quick to give them away in the first place." Steele sensed rather than heard one of the other man coming up behind him, and was not surprised when his arms were seized once again. He gave a cursory struggle, but as he expected it proved fruitless. The man in front of him holstered the gun, and smiled coldly.

"Never mind what we did or didn't do," he said, his voice slow and deliberate. "But bearing in mind that I've already killed a policeman today, you'd better believe that I'll kill you as well if you don't tell me what I want to know. Where's Groper's body?"

"Kill me and you'll never find it." The words tumbled out of Steele's mouth in a fumble of hurried thoughts. He had no idea if it was the right thing to say, or even if it was in any way sensible, but he hoped that it would give him more time. He caught a glimpse of a flash of cold humour on the face of his interrogator, before the man holding his arms slammed him suddenly against the wall. Stars danced in front of his eyes.

"You'll talk," said a voice very close to his ear, and instinct and experience told him what to expect next. They weren't wrong. A fist ploughed into his kidneys, and almost at the same moment, a second fist grabbed at his hair, bashing his head into the wall. It bounced off again, and this time the stars that crowded his vision didn't fade away.

"Groper's body," reiterated somebody, apparently from very far away. This time Steele struggled as though he meant it, but was spun violently around to face the room. A second punch caught him in the stomach, and a third, before he could even think about avoiding it, landed squarely on his jaw. He slumped, but there was no shortage of hands to keep him upright. "The body," said the voice again. He turned his head towards the sound of the voice, but there was nothing there save an indeterminate blur.

"I don't have it on me," he told the blur, and offered it a crooked smile. He wasn't entirely sure why, but some part of his battered subconscious told him that it was amusing. The fist that collided suddenly and painfully with his stomach told him that he was wrong. His legs began to give way.

"Hold him up," ordered a voice, that somehow seemed to come both from near his head and half the room away. The grip on his arms changed, an arm now encircling his chest, holding him immobile. He knew where this went now. He had lived through it before, and witnessed others going through it as well. And unless he did something quickly, he was in serious trouble. It was a struggle to focus, but he managed it after an effort, forcing his eyes to show him the man standing before him. The man who kept insisting that he tell him where Groper's body was. As best he could, Steele forced his body to relax; to hang more limply in the grip of his captor. His head lolled slightly, and he told his newly refocused eyes to drift closed. There was little chance of the ruse working, and he knew it - these people seemed to be professionals, and professionals didn't tend to get fooled by old tricks. The patron saint of bogus detectives seemed to be smiling on him after all, though, for with sudden, shrill enthusiasm, the telephone on the desk nearby burst into life. The shock was so great that Steele nearly reacted; nearly gave away the tiny advantage that his play acting might have given him. The man holding him did react, surprised by the sound and turning slightly towards it; taking his attention just a fraction away from the slumped and apparently helpless figure in his grip. In that brief moment, Steele moved. With all the force that he could muster, he slammed his elbow into the man's stomach, stamped on one foot, and tore free. Fortunately the door of Laura's office was still open, or he would never have made it; but with the door standing open there were no obstacles. He ran through, into the outer office, struggling briefly with the outer door. A gunshot rang out from behind him, and the glass doors shattered into a madcap clatter of weird rain. He ran again, down the corridor, into the stairwell, down the stairs, footsteps echoing behind him. Desperation was on his side, though - desperation and speed, for his slighter, faster build gave him the edge now. Once or twice he almost lost his footing, and nearly took an even faster route down the stairs; but he stayed upright, hurtling at last past the bemused security guard in the front entrance, and out into the street. There was the Speedster, waiting faithfully, and he all but felt into her, gunning the engine and roaring away as his pursuers burst out of the building behind him. He would have liked to have taken the time to disable their car before leaving, but his few seconds head start had not been nearly long enough for that. As it was he could merely drive as best he could, and trust to his knowledge of the streets to lose all pursuit. Eventually, sure that he was not being followed, he drew into a small alleyway, killed the engine, and let himself relax.

"Take stock, Steele..." He whispered the words to himself, almost silently, staring up at the roofs of the buildings around him, and the dirty smudge of sky above. His head hurt, his arms hurt, his whole torso hurt... he was sure that he must look a mess. There was still so much to do, though. So much still to work out. First things first, he told himself, and starting up the car again, he drove towards a decidedly rougher part of town, towards the docks, once again hiding the car down a small alley. He was safe here, he was sure of it. Nobody had followed him, and nobody would ever think to look for Remington Steele in this place. Climbing stiffly out of the car, he pushed open a battered green door that led off the alley, and into the murky confines of an old Irish pub.

"Harry!" The old man behind the bar hailed him before the door had closed, and Steele offered him a tired smile. Pale old blue eyes turned serious in an instant, and the barman swiftly poured a shot of whisky. He pushed it across the bar, and Steele took it with a smile, all but collapsing onto a bar stool.

"Thanks." He drank it too quickly, winced, then once again allowed his body to relax. It was a more fulfilling sort of relaxation this time; one that didn't have any fear lurking inside it. In here he was safe. In here he was always safe. The barman made as though to fill the glass again, but Steele shook his head.

"No. No thanks. One was enough." He smiled weakly. "Gimme the phone, yeah?"

"Here." The barman pushed one along the counter towards him, and Steele nodded his thanks, calling his apartment quickly. Mildred answered on the second ring, her warm and jovial voice like music to his tired ears.

"Hello? Remington Steele's apartment. He's not in right now, but--"

"Mildred. Mildred, I--"

"Mr Steele!" She sounded delighted. "I was worried about you. I know, I know, you've not been gone long, bur I had no idea what you might be getting yourself into, and--"

"Mildred... Mildred..." Still she seemed inclined to babble on, and he raised his voice. "Mildred!" She fell silent for a second.

"Yes boss?"

"Thankyou." He was tired and in pain, and his guards were down. The voice he had used to speak to the barman had been his own - his real one - rough and hard, half-Dublin, half-London. It was an effort to switch back to something more refined now for Mildred's benefit, and he wasn't entirely sure that he had managed it. "Listen, they came to the office. If they found that, they can find my apartment." She began to inquire into his health, and he shook his head, exasperatedly and uselessly, rather touched by her concern. "No, I'm fine." The barman arched an eyebrow, and Steele shot him a glare. "Bit ruffled, that's all. Just get out of there, alright? Go to that motel that Laura was staking out a week or so back. Get a room, and stay there. I'll join you in a while."

"Okay boss." She still sounded concerned. "You sure you're okay? You don't sound quite yourself."

"I'm fine. Just get moving as soon as you can, and I'll see you in a little while. Bye Mildred."

"See you, chief." She hung up, and so did he. The barman folded his arms, eyeing his bedraggled customer with a hint of amusement.

"So what was it this time, Harry? Greedy fence? Jealous husband?"

"I don't know. They meant business, though." He smiled rather ruefully. "I'm gonna clean up. Any chance of cuppa?"

"Sure. I'll put the kettle on. You really do look banged up, though, son. You sure you're alright? I can get the first aid kit out if you want. Wouldn't be the first time I've patched you up."

"You don't need to tell me." Steele smiled a little more broadly. "Really Dave, I'm fine. Just a few bruises. Think I sprained my shoulder pulling free, and I've probably ruined another good suit, but it's nothing serious."

"Fair enough. You're the best judge." Dave pulled a face. "But if you want to go out there without looking like a bum, you'll forget about that shirt. I've got one you can have. Probably not as expensive as what you've got there, but it's a lot more respectable looking right now."

"Cheers, mate." Steele slid off the barstool and headed for the bathroom. "See you in a few minutes."

"Don't be too long, Harry. Cold tea is no kind of medicine." Dave went off to boil his kettle, and Steele let the bathroom door bang shut, sealing himself in the white tiled room that lay beyond it. He wandered over to the mirror for an appraisal, and winced. There wasn't much in the way of visible injury, but his jacket was torn, and his shirt was crumpled and dirtied. He tugged off his tie and put it into his trouser pocket, then pulled off his jacket and shirt, and tried as best he could to clean up with dampened paper towels. His shirt he stuffed into the bin, then slipped the jacket back on again, and did his best to tidy his hair.

"Oh Steele, Steele, Steele. If only Laura could see you now." He sighed. Laura would fuss over him, and clean him up, and offer to bandage his ribs. She would kiss his bruised lips, and then berate him for ever having got into trouble. He missed her. At times like this, it was definitely a good idea to have a beautiful lady associate to roll her eyes and tell him off for getting beaten up. Dave would smile and joke, and bang him on the back, and be the best kind of friend in adversity... but he was no Laura Holt. His kisses were unlikely to have quite the same effect on bruised lips, either. Wincing slightly when the thought made him smile, he gave his hair one last check in the mirror, and went back out to the bar. Dave was just coming out of the kitchen, with a tray in his hands.

"Here you go, Harry." He slid the tray across the bar, and Steele had to smile again. A mug of tea, almost preposterously large, a pair of aspirin, and a packet of chocolate biscuits, the latter clearly imported from Ireland. He opened the packet, tipping several of the biscuits out onto the tray. "Haven't seen these in a while."

"My brother sends them over. Thought you could use something to go with the tea." Dave folded his arms, looking serious now. "So what is it, hey? What are you mixed up in this time? I swear, you almost seem to get yourself in more trouble now you're legit than you ever did when you were running scams."

"Tell me about it." He drank some tea, wincing when the hot liquid touched his lips. "Somebody killed a copper. Looked like pros. I don't know what he was investigating, but whatever it was, it seems to have been messed up good and proper by somebody. Something's gone wrong, that's for sure."

"And you've found yourself stuck in the middle." Dave rolled his eyes. "That's quite a talent you've got."

"I know." He threw back the aspirin, and washed them down with more tea. "That's good. Nothing like a mug of your finest to chase the worries away, right?"

"Brewed just the way my grandmother taught me." Dave grinned. "I think she gave me the recipe one visitors' day, when she was doing five years for fraud."

Steele laughed, raising the mug in a salute. "Dear old grandma. Always wished I'd met her."

"At times I could swear you were a reincarnation." Dave smiled fondly. "What's next? Going to ground? There's always a spare room for you here, if you need it."

"I know. And thanks, but no thanks. I've got a case to solve." Steele set the mug down, staring at the dregs of the tea. "Don't have a clue how, but I've still got to solve it. Got a bloody brass band tuning up inside my head at the moment, too. It's not exactly helping."

"Give the aspirin a few minutes." Dave gestured at the mug. "Refill?"

"No, better not. I should get moving." He rose to his feet, then glanced down at himself, rather self-consciously. "Ah. You mentioned a shirt?"

"You do look a little underdressed just at the moment. Hang on." Dave disappeared again, then returned carrying a shirt on a hanger. "Here. No fancy designer names, but it's better than walking around without one. You look like you're auditioning for a pop group at the moment."

"Ouch." He took off the jacket, slid into the shirt, and did his best to tidy himself up again. With the tie restored and the jacket once again in place, he felt far more ready to face the world. Dave nodded.

"That'll do it. Where are you off to? If it's trouble you're heading for, I could always tag along."

"Thanks." Steele smiled warmly, appreciating the offer. "But you've got your own problems to worry about. I thought I'd check out the copper's gaff, see if I can pick up some clues. I'll drop by in a day or two. Tell you how it all turned out."

"You'd better." Dave reached beneath the bar, lifting up a chunky looking handgun that had been hidden beneath the cash register. "You want to take it? Might come in handy."

"You know me better than that." Steele gestured to his attire. "Thanks for the shirt, though. Far more use to me than a gun."

"Yeah. Well don't go getting any holes in it. Especially the bloodied kind."

"Sure." Steele offered him a grin and a wave in goodbye. "See you." Dave merely nodded, and bent to slide the gun back into its secret den. Outside, Steele was still smiling as he climbed into the Austin, and gunned the engine once again. His talk with his old friend had served to recharge his batteries, as well as sorting one or two things out in his mind. Going to Roy Groper's house did seem the best course of action now, and checking that the notes he had made from Groper's file were still in his jack pocket, he slid the car out of the alley, and went on his way.

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