Maddie had hoped that David's new-found fascination with Remington Steele—particularly his involvement in her past—would pass the same way his dubiously brilliant ideas for Broadway musicals and hit TV series usually did.

Two days later, when he stepped into her office before lunch and said, "About Charm Boy—" she knew all her hopes had been in vain.

"What about him, David?" Her tone betrayed her irritation, but her partner was undeterred.

"I've been doing some research on him—talking to some of the guys I know on the seedier side of the street. Turns out, up until a few years ago, nobody'd ever seen the guy. Oh, there were rumors—Paris, London, Madrid—" he paused to look around stealthily before whispering, "—Moscow." He raised one eyebrow at her—to convey the secrecy involved. She saw his eyebrow and raised two.

He grinned and winked at her and before continuing. "But no one had ever clapped eyes on the man, in the flesh, so to speak. No one except Laura Holt and the firm's few office minions. Then four years ago—bam!"

"Bam?"

"He appears out of nowhere—fully-formed and tailored to boot—like one of those Greek myths. Bam—a flash of lighting and roll of thunder—twenty pairs of perfectly polished shoes—and low and behold, the man exists! And soon Fox and Murray—Murphy?—something, anyway, they're out, and Mildred Krebs is in.

"And then Remington Steele starts turning up all over town. And not just the society pages, mind you, but all the seedy, shady places the society pages conveniently forget about. He's a gambler—a real high roller—and there are whispers that if you're missing a real swell piece of jewelry, he might be the guy you want to see. Very big on finder's fees, our Remington Steele.

"And then a year ago, all that stops. The gambling had already leveled off to once or twice a month, but last spring it runs dry altogether. And if you're missing jewelry, it's pretty clear you better go to the office and ask for Miss Holt.

"So questions: Who the hell is he, and what happened last year to make him change so drastically?"

Despite herself, Maddie was intrigued. "Spring, huh?"

"Ring any bells?"

She shrugged. "I went to dinner with him in March."

David narrowed his eyes. "Did you give him a mind altering experience?"

"David…"

"Well?"

"No! How could you even suggest such a thing? The man is a peacock—a pretty face with no feeling. About as much use as a marble statue."

They glared at each other for a few heated moments—just long enough for Maddie to realize that she would never liken her partner to a marble statue—a Roman god, perhaps, but never its statue.

"Glad to hear it," David muttered as his shoulders slowly unclenched.

There was a timid knock at the door. In David's experience there was only one person who could make a knock sound reluctant. "Come in, Agnes."

She cracked the door open and peered in. "Sorry to interrupt Mr. Addison, Ms. Hayes, but there's a client out here."

"Real or stuffed?"

Maddie rolled her eyes with exasperation. "Like it would matter! We need the business."

"He's real all right, and he's hopping mad."

"At us?" David asked. He looked at Maddie. "What'd we do?"

"We? We don't get people mad. What did you do?"

"Me?"

"Not you," said Agnes. "Remington Steele."

David raised an eyebrow. "The plot thickens."

Maddie shook her head. "So do you. Send him in Miss Dipesto."

Once Agnes left, David grinned at Maddie. "Hopping mad, huh? Always makes me think of red toads. Hop, hop, hop." He laughed as he hopped over to the edge of Maddie's desk and took a seat.

Maddie gave up rolling her eyes and exercised her frustration by straightening the desk instead. "Will you at least try to behave like you passed kindergarten on your first time through? Please, David?"

He smiled down at her and brushed a stray hair out of her pleading eyes. "For you, Maddie Hayes, I'll pretend I skipped kindergarten all together."

"That's small consolation," she said dryly as the door opened, and Agnes entered leading their prospective client.

"Mr. Jacob Grove," she said, and then gestured to her employers. "Ms. Madelyn Hayes and Mr. David Addison."

The man following Agnes accepted David's handshake and made Maddie giggle by kissing her extended fingers, tickling her with his mustache. He smiled at them both. "Call me Jake," he said with a soft southern twang.

Maddie returned the smile, and nudged David to follow suit. "David and Maddie, please," she said, motioning him into a seat. "How can we help you, Jake?"

He waited for Maddie to take a seat before finding his own. "I'm getting married this weekend," he announced.

David nodded sympathetically. "I understand your problem, Jake, but I'm not sure what we can do to help you." David winked at Maddie; she ignored him.

Jake shook his head. "That's not my problem. I want to get married—Charlotte's the love of my life." He sighed, a dreamy look coming to his eyes and a small smile playing beneath his mustache. "Have you ever met someone like that? Someone who just makes the rest of it go away 'cause when you look at her you think if God could create that, then everything else can't be half as bad as you think it is. And you think that when He created her, He had to take the next day off just because perfection is a hard act to follow. And you are the luckiest son-of-a-bitch just to be able to look at her and hold her and love her and know she loves you back. Have you?"

David stared at him for a full minute before swallowing and shaking his head. "Depends on the day."

"No, it doesn't. Once it hits you, it never really goes away."

David cleared his throat, all too aware of Maddie's eyes boring in to the back of his head. "Good to know. Why don't you tell us about your real problem, Jake?"

"It's pretty simple. Some smarmy detective agency is poking around, saying my Charlotte killed a man and causing all kinds of hell, and I want it stopped. And if you can't stop it, I want you to prove Charlotte didn't touch a hair on that man's head."

David and Maddie looked at each other.

Maddie bit her lower lip. "And this detective agency, which one did you say it was?"

"Remington Steele Investigations. What the hell kind of a name is that anyway?"

"We'll take the case," David said, anticipation in his voice.

Maddie cleared her throat. "What my partner means is that we've had previous relations with Mr. Steele and his associate and would be more than willing to discuss your concerns with them and, of course, begin an investigation of our own."

"Is that what I meant?" David asked, as Maddie ushered Jake out the door. "You got all that from four little syllables?" He met Jake's amused and slightly baffled expression over Maddie's shoulder. David smirked. "Do we make great partners or what?"

"Things aren't looking good for Charlie Gear, Boss." Mildred looked up at Steele from the pile of papers on her desk. "Not only does the hair Miss Holt found seem to place Charlie in the apartment where the doctor died, but that note you dug up clearly matches her hand writing on the forms we have all our clients fill out. Add to it the fact that all of Dr. Symmons' crooked money's been filtered into an account under the name Charles Gear and, well, she looks about as innocent as Nixon."

"Mm—that's just the problem, Mildred," Steele muttered. "She looks like a great many things, but there's no proof of any of it. If only we had a witness—preferably two: one to place her at the scene of the crime and one to tie her into the bank account, then we could be sure. We could hand her over to Detective Jarvis and have done with the whole sordid business—maybe even work in a vacation as a reward for a job well done." He crossed his arms and pouted for effect.

Mildred shook her head. "Easy, Chief. Miss Holt will have something, just you wait."

"Where the devil is the woman? Lunch was over an hour ago."

"Here," croaked Laura, dragging herself through the door as she shook her hair out and clutched a sealed packet to her chest. "It's pouring buckets out there. You must feel right at home, Mr. Steele. Here—take this." She handed the packet to him and shook herself like a dog. Droplets splattered everywhere. With very deliberate, staid motions, Steele removed his handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed his face dry.

Laura laughed. "Sorry about that. Give it here." She snatched the handkerchief out of his hands and finished the job before applying it to her own dripping face. She looked down at the rest of her and sighed sadly. "Well, there's another pair of pantyhose ruined. This job is just not nylon friendly." She looked up to meet her partner's amused expression and blushed because he had her favorite look in his eyes—the one that said 'she looks like any other woman, she dresses like other woman, and then she opens her mouth…' It was a look of perpetual amazement, and while it had originally annoyed her to no end, now it only reaffirmed her long held belief that they would be surprising each other for years to come.

She nodded to the packet in his hands. "Copy of the autopsy report. Open it up and tell us some good news." She looked back down at her jacket and plucked the sodden material away from her body carefully before giving up with another sigh.

Steele worked the seal open and withdrew the papers within with a flourish. He read silently for a few moments. "Murder. Trace amounts of poison in his system." He handed the report to Mildred for further scrutiny and turned back to Laura. "Well, that's something, anyway. We're no longer trying to prove a man didn't kill a man who wasn't killed."

"On the other hand, now we have to prove that a woman with an airtight alibi poisoned our doctor," Laura said. "I checked with her fiancé earlier. She was on a bridal retreat half a state away for the entire weekend—Friday through early Monday morning. Presumably our office was her first stop after arriving home and discovering that Dr. Symmons was dead. He was killed Saturday night and three of Charlie's good friends plus two manicurists will swear she was at the spa the entire time."

"Perhaps she left the poison in something she knew he would be likely to consume while she was away?" Steele suggested, grasping at straws.

Laura shook her head. "It hardly seems likely. If I were going to murder someone, I'd want to be damn sure of when he died so I could be somewhere else."

"It does seem rather far-fetched. Still, we have a motive. Mildred's been brilliant, as usual. Tell her, darling."

Mildred looked up from the autopsy report. "What? Oh—the money."

"The dirty money?" Laura asked with interest.

"The very same. It's been siphoned off into an account under the name Charles Gear, and it's set to close by the end of the week. Someone's cleaning up shop."

"That's terrific, Mildred!" Laura exclaimed, already planning. "We can stake out the bank and see who turns up."

"Boss—there's a problem with this report."

"What is it, Mildred?"

"Well, the poison—when they say trace amounts, they mean trace amounts. It'd kill you, sure, but very slowly over a very long period of time. Someone was feeding Dr. Symmons poison little by little, no doubt hoping the added stress on his system would cause the old duffer to keel over one day soon. Without an autopsy his death would be put down to a life lived beyond the limitations of his health, and our murderer would get away with all that money. But apparently that plan wasn't working fast enough. Someone skewered him instead—right through the base of the skull. Quick, bloodless, and for our docs sake, I hope painless. The ME never noticed." She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "I heard Saturday is his drinking day."

Steele clucked his disapproval. "Charming."

Laura wrung the water out of her hair with another sigh. "Well, that rules out Charlotte, doesn't it? She'd have to physically be there to stick a needle in his brain, and five witnesses swear she was getting French tips at the time."

"Pity," Steel agreed, watching water drip off Laura and onto the floor. "What did you do—stop to bathe in it?"

Laura glared at him through her mussed hair. "If you must know, I had to walk five blocks through what felt like a fish tank because someone stole my umbrella last week to use as a sword, since he'd misplaced the Agency gun yet again."

He grinned. "Yes, we really should do something about that, Laura. It's beginning to become a bit of a safety hazard."

"You're a bit of a safety hazard," she grumbled, peeling off her suit jacket. "Lord, I feel like a drowned rat."

"You smell better at least."

Laura pulled her wet, pink camisole out of her skirt and rested her hands on her hips. "Thank you for those words of encouragement, Mr. Steele."

Steele smirked, noticing with distinct pleasure the way water made that particular shade of pink almost see-through. "Anytime, Miss Holt, anytime."

The door opened behind them, heralded by the voice of David Addison.

"Whoa—Stats—figures always were your strong suit."

Mildred read the look of distaste on Steele's face and employed her detective training. "Let me guess, David Addison?" She looked behind him to the beautiful blonde in soft pink. "Then you must be Ms. Hayes. Pleasure to meet you both, I'm sure. Tea? Coffee?"

While Mildred distracted their company, Laura took the time to hide behind Steele, who was suddenly feeling a lot less pleased by the amount of Laura revealed in the drenched camisole.

He straightened and swept his jacket back with his hands on his hips to provide Laura more coverage. "Mr. Addison, Ms. Hayes—to what do we owe the pleasure?"

David grinned, a wicked glint in his eye. "Oh, the pleasure was all mine."

"Davy, behave yourself," Laura chastised, emerging from behind Steele, re-clothed in her soaked blazer.

"Yes, Davy," Maddie chimed in. "Behave yourself."

She turned back to Laura with a smile. "We're working on manners. Soon we might even let him answer the telephone without supervision."

"Hey—" David started to protest, but his partner cut him off.

Maddie address Laura again. "We were hired by a client who is concerned that the Remington Steele Agency believes Charlotte Gear is a murderer. We assured our client that we would be willing to talk to you about your findings and proceed with our own investigation to prove otherwise."

"I wish you luck," Steele muttered before Laura placed a restraining hand on his arm.

She smiled back at Maddie, just as sweetly. "If we were investigating a murder involving Miss Gear, all information pertaining to the case would fall under client confidentiality. We would need to check with our client before we could discuss any details with Blue Moon Investigations."

David met Steele's eyes and despite their mutual animosity, the two shared a common thought. It went something like this: Red tape really only applies to those not sharp enough to slice through it.

David cleared his throat. "There a bar 'round here? I'm a little dry."

"There's a pub around the corner," Steele volunteered, the picture of helpfulness. "I'll just walk you down. Wouldn't want you to get lost, and I'm certain these ladies have more than enough business to discuss without us under foot. Eh, Miss Holt?"

He grinned at her, and she surveyed him with a skeptical eye. "I'm sure," she said, tacitly agreeing to trust him in the face of all evidence once again.

"Good. Grand. We shall return, ladies, never fear."

"Tootles," David said, giving Maddie a finger wave and blowing Mildred a kiss.

Outside the office he looked at Steele, respect growing in his eyes. "You sure are one smooth operator, Charm Boy."

Steele smirked with amusement. "Oh likewise, David, likewise."

When they were at the bar and clutching two glasses of beer (which David would have called sixteen ounces each, but Steele would have sworn were two pints), David bravely broached the subject lurking in the awkward silence between them.

"So, about Stats—"

"Her name is Laura or Miss Holt, and she happens to be a woman I care about rather deeply, so I'd appreciate a little decorum from you on her behalf."

David took a sip of his beer, considering the man seated beside him. Taken on the whole, Remington Steele didn't make a hell of lot of sense. The man was an enigma—all polished surfaces and smooth talk until the shit hit the fan, and then his diamond sharp edges became terrifyingly obvious. Who the hell was this guy? Only one thing was clear—whatever else this man was, whoever else he'd ever been—he truly did care for Laura Holt.

David returned his glass to the counter, ignoring the coaster Steele nudged his way without looking up from the wood of the bar. David rested his chin in his palm, the better to watch Steele almost imperceptible expressions. "All right," he said, as if finally deciding Steele was worthy of Stats. "Good. That's what I wanted to hear."

Steele looked up from his glass, brow furrowed with irritation. "What possible difference could it make to you?"

David winced—obviously this was also a man who didn't appreciate another man caring for a woman he cared deeply about. Well, David could sympathize with that, too.

"Look, I think I'd better explain about the nature of my previous relationship with your—associate."

Steele snorted and looked back into his glass, straightening his coaster in agitation. "You'll forgive me if I'm not positively electrified by the prospect."

"Yeah, well, it was a long time ago—spring break week back when we were both young enough and stupid enough to think it was the best excuse for a party since the bomb gave the world that timeless pickup line, 'You know, the world might end tomorrow—better live while we still can.'"

Steele snorted. He'd used that one himself with varying degrees of success. Once, he'd even contemplated using it on Laura—obviously he hadn't known her all that well at the time…

David took another sip before continuing. "Anyway, I wasn't in college, but I needed to get the hell out of New York, and Florida seemed as good a place as any to crawl inside a bottle for a couple weeks. So I'm in this beach hut bar one night, going to hell the best way I know how, when I see Stats—Laura, I mean. Her bare feet are planted on the bar between a bottle of rum and an empty martini glass, and she's wearing one of those Hawaiian lei necklace things and not a whole lot else, if you catch my drift."

"Consider it caught."

"Yeah, well, she was something else all right."

"The mind reels."

"Anyway, the speakers are blasting behind her, and there's this sea of dipshits surrounding the bar, staring at her like they've never seen a chick before—I know 'cause I was one of them."

"Does this story have a conclusion or are you enjoying the exposition too much?"

"I'm getting there, Charm Boy. Anyway, Stats—Laura—starts dancing—middle of a mob with a very low brains to testosterone ratio, and the damn fool starts dancing—this big, ridiculous fan dance—"

"Let me guess, the dance was big—"

"—And the fans weren't. You better believe it. So she's doing this dance on top of the bar, in a sea of guys, on a beach lit by a hell of a lot more than just moonlight. And I get to thinking: 'once this song ends, once those fans fall, this chick is toast. They are going to swallow her alive and spit out the feathers in the morning.' Needless to say, I was getting a little concerned. So I start inching my way toward the bar, fighting my way through these shitfaced guys, and I get there just as the song ends.

"There's this one moment of perfect silence, and she looks down at me, just as the reality of the situation hits her. I mean there is nothing but sheer panic in this woman's eyes, and before I know what I'm doing, I'm on the bar, dragging her behind the counter with me just as the crowd surges forward. We look at each other, and I have just enough time to yell 'Run!' before she grabs my arm and a bottle of tequila and breaks through the back of the hut. We're talking plywood and four inch framing, and her in bare feet and a flowery necklace. I have no idea how she made it through that wall—I figure she broke through by sheer force of will alone."

Steele smiled and took a sip from his glass. That sounded like his Laura, all right. "And what did the two of you do next?"

"Do? I didn't have time to do—this crazy chick is dragging my arm out of its socket so hard she's dislocating my brain. I have two very simple options—follow the madwoman or lose the arm."

Steele snorted. "I've been there once or twice myself."

"I believe it. Anyway we escape the mob, and she stops running long enough for me to free my arm from her grasp. I'm breathing heavy and sweating like a pig, but she's just standing there, hands on her hips, shaking her head at me."

"I've been there, too."

"Yeah. So I'm sitting down, trying to figure out what the hell just happened, and she starts pacing, firing off questions one after the other. Finally, she looks at me and asks me where I'm staying. She actually gives me a chance to answer this one, so I do and she says great, we'll go there. And I say 'we will?' She asks me if I have any better ideas. This is a time of my life when the better ideas I do have always involve scantily clad women in my hotel room with tequila, so I don't put up a whole lot of protest."

Steele felt his teeth clench and tried to remind himself that he too had gone through a similar period of better ideas. But visions of scantily clad Laura Holt of the tiny fans were dancing through his head, and he was feeling less than charitable toward the man seated beside him.

David noticed the new tension in his drinking partner and shook his head. "Calm down, Charm Boy. She wasn't that kind of girl, which was fine because by the time we found our way back to the hotel, I wasn't feeling much like that kind of guy. She was cold, even with my jacket on, and I was hungry and growing more and more sober, which was a condition I'd hoped to avoid by going to Florida in the first place. So she took a shower and got into some of my sweats, and I ordered us some food. Then we cracked the tequila bottle and settled into our respective corners of the room. She was a great listener, which I needed more than the tequila really, and she had a few stories to tell herself—stuff about her dad and Stanford and hating being a math major. I teased her about being stuck in stats and voila—a nickname was born.

"She said she wasn't cut out for columns of figures and boring equations. She was going to be a ballerina—no, a tightrope walker—no, wait, better still—a private detective. She was so excited—so vibrant. She was giddy over this idea—about becoming the world's greatest PI—the fame and glamour, the daring and intrigue. Hell, she made it sound so good the idea got stuck in my head, too."

He smiled slightly—memories of the infallible, unflappable Laura Holt floating past his eyes. "But more than all that—more all the fame and fortune, she wanted to know; she wanted the truth—she wanted justice. And she wanted to be the one to deliver the two. She wanted to know who the bad guys were, and she wanted to take them down—all of them—as many as she possibly could. That's what I remember most about her—not the fans and the body, but the fire behind them. She was going to fix the world, one bad guy at a time, come hell or high water."

Steele smiled fondly, picturing the young Laura Holt the way she must have looked to the man beside him all those years ago. Earnest and pure, so sweet you might think she was easy until you realized the soft heart was backed by a spine of steel. Young Harry would have taken one look at her a gone running, but Davy Addison had just sat and stared in wonder. "She still is. Fixing the world, I mean. We haven't had a vacation that didn't end up as a case since I met her, and it doesn't look like the situation will be remedied anytime soon."

David laughed. "Good. I'd hate to think that fire could ever go out."

"Mm. Well, the coals show no sign of cooling yet. Am I then to understand that you two spent the evening together and that was the only fire you shared?"

David met Steele's eyes and nodded solemnly. "We shared a hotel room, our life stories, and a bottle of tequila, but that was it. She wasn't interested, and I was more than satisfied just talking to her. She was going to save the world—it was kinda flattering that I got to help save her."

Steele smiled and nodded, looking at the wall in front of him. "I suppose I understand that feeling, too. She's a hell of a rescue-e, our Miss Holt, not that she often gives me the chance." He pushed his glass away and crossed his arms on the bar. "Now, shall we get back to what we escaped down here to discuss?"

"Sure, fire away."

"Yes, well, it seems to me that we both have information the other might desire."

"Yeah. I'm sure we could really help each other out, you know, if it weren't for two very lovely ladies and this pesky client confidentiality thing."

"Mm. Tricky thing—confidentiality."

"Tricky ladies."

"I'll drink to that."

They did and silence descended as they contemplated the situation.

Finally, David set his glass down in order to lean closer to Steele's ear. He spoke quietly. "You know, confidentially to confidential—we could really use a little of that glowing limelight your agency seems to be swimming in all the time."

Steele nodded, considering the proposition. "Mm. Well, confidentially to confidential—the faster this case is wrapped up, the more time I'll have to talk Laura into taking her fan dance routine on a well deserved tropical sojourn sans investigation."

"Well then, it sounds like a little trade of information may be just what the doctor ordered."

"Not likely—the doctor's dead. And I'm afraid the condition may be catching, if and when Miss Holt discovers we've had this conversation."

David snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure Maddie will be thrilled, too."

"I suggest a partnership. I propose we present a unified front to our lovely, leading ladies and suggest a little cooperation between agencies—not unlike your FBI and CIA, only friendlier and with fewer casualties. That way we both might actually get somewhere as opposed to stepping on each other's toes at the starting line."

David raised his glass to toast the proposition. "You're not bad, Charm Boy. I think this just might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Steele grinned, delighted with the Casablanca reference. "Oh, I hope so, David. I certainly hope so."