Steeling a Dream
Part 1: Diamonds of Steele
Part 1: Diamonds of Steele
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Steele Holting On
Chapter 15 Teamwork
Not long after that, Fallon and Dr. Hathaway took their leave, promising to return in a couple of days to
check in with their patient. While Laura slept, Murphy and Mildred worked on a press release that would
satisfy the reporters’ curiosity and get them to go away.
About the same time, Remington realized he had a phone call to make. He jabbed at the buttons, dialing
his mother-in-law’s house. “Hello, Abigail.” He yanked the phone away from his ear at her shriek.
“Yes, yes, I’m not dead. ... Yes, Laura is here with me. ... Ah, no, she’s sleeping at the moment. I can’
t tell you much, but we were both kidnapped and Laura was ... hurt. ... No, she’s not in the hospital; she’
s with me. ... Abigail, Laura will be fine. She needs time to heal from her injuries. ... Yes, it’s her knee
again.” He winced, knowing they would eventually pay for that white lie.
He cringed again. “No, Abigail, you don’t need to fly out here.” Laura would kill him if he let that
happen. “We’ll be home in a couple of weeks. She’ll be fine. I’ll have her call you in a day or two.”
He listened as Abigail babbled in confusion and spent quite a bit of time reassuring her they were coming
home soon.
Afterwards, Remington and Murphy took themselves off to have that chat with Sean Hennessy, and
Mildred began wading through the stacks of disks and papers. The papers proved to be bank records of
various accounts held in Dublin, Cork and Switzerland. Two of the accounts had healthy balances while
the third seemed to be a holding account where money deposits were immediately swept into one of the
other two accounts.
The disks were more interesting. Mildred found extensive lists of people and businesses, some with
notations about business dealings and private affairs. She leaned back in her chair, thinking this was all
too easy. Would a man known to be a ringleader of corruption really commit the details of his operations
to a disk file? Did he think his internal security would stand up to a man like Mr. Steele? Setting the
disks aside, she turned to the Filofax. The pages seemed to be marked in a code, just initials followed by
a short notation.
AK--bus op, CJ--pmt, RM--bus op.
Payments and business opportunities she could figure out, but who were these people? She paged
through the files on the disks, looking for connections. She found a Carter Jansen that matched the CJ
and Rory Malone matched the RM, but who was AK? The first two could be just coincidence, but
perhaps not. Hold it, Krebs. If Carter Jansen from the disk is being blackmailed, then maybe
O’Callaghan was picking up his payment. In that case, Rory wouldn’t be on the list. But what’s the
connection with Mr. and Mrs. Steele?
She flipped back through the Filofax and found the Steele’s flight dates and hotel information noted
down. Paging backwards, she found other notations on other dates. RS bkd flight. RS at RPH--Cork.
It seemed O’Callaghan knew about the trip to Ireland almost from the moment Laura bought the tickets.
But how? With four major airports and any number of airlines flying in, it would be almost impossible to
track a flight.
On the other hand, if O’Callaghan knew of the Steeles' penchant for staying in luxury hotels, a few well-
placed snitches could keep an eye out. And the moment Laura booked the Rothestown Park Hotel, O’
Callaghan would be notified. Now that made sense to Mildred. Perhaps Remington and Murphy would
get a bit more out of young Sean.
Murphy hardly recognized Remington when he emerged from the hotel. Dressed in worn trousers, a
black corduroy coat that had seen better days and a classic Irish cap, he would have mistaken Steele for a
local on the way to a nearby pub if he hadn’t been watching for the other man to come through the side
entrance.
While driving through the tightly winding streets of the old city, Remington shot a dirty look at his brother-
in-law. “You know I spoke with Abigail this morning.” Murphy nodded, keeping his mouth firmly shut.
He knew what was coming. “How is it that these three sisters can keep each other informed of every
little detail of their lives, yet I’m always the one that has to talk to their mother?”
“Last one to get married gets the short straw. Besides, she likes your accent.” It was a dodge Murphy
had used for two years and it still had legs.
“We were married for nearly two months before you two tied the knot.” And for two years, Remington
had been using the same counter-argument.
“That’s not how Abigail sees it. If she wasn’t there, it didn’t happen.” Murphy loved pointing out that
fact time and again.
Knowing he was right, Remington tried a new angle. “I thought you were her current favorite son-in-
law. I’m not the one that presented her with twin grandsons last year.”
“That was my get-out-of-jail-free card with her, not the I-have-to-be-the-bearer-of-whatever-news-needs-
to-be-told card. That one is permanently embossed with your name on it.”
“One of these days, I’m going to have a serious discussion with the Holt sisters.”
“Can I watch? You’ll lose. Donald will want to be there too. We can take bets on how fast you go
down.” Steele made a short pithy remark that make Murphy laugh out loud.
They drove. It seemed every building rose four stories tall, punctuated by the occasional medieval abbey
or modern office building. Gloomy grey clouds hovered overhead, promising rain before the day was
out. The place they were looking for was wedged among a dozen other buildings, and Remington drove
a couple of blocks away before finding a place to leave the car.
Murphy wasn’t used to Steele’s chameleon ability to blend in, so it was a bit of a surprise to see him
shuffle along the sidewalk. In fact, Steele kept his head down and nibbled a thumbnail while they chatted
about local pubs and decent pints of ale.
When they found the flat, Murphy knocked on the door sharply. Mumbles of "wait up, mate" and "be
there in two shakes" could be heard, along with random cursing and banging. Remington pressed flat
against the wall next to the door. When it opened, a bleary-eyed blond lad in his early twenties seemed
startled to find Murphy standing there.
“Hello, mate. What can I do for ye today?” he said.
Murphy smiled casually. “Are you Sean Hennessy?”
“Aye. That would be me.”
Murphy edged forward a bit, leaning against the doorframe so Hennessy wouldn’t look outside and see
Remington. He eyeballed the flat behind the lad, but it appeared to be empty. “I’m looking into a
problem for a friend, and I was hoping you might have some answers.”
“Oh,” he paused, “that’d be okay. Wha‘cha got?”
“Does the name O’Callaghan mean anything to you?” At that, sheer panic crossed Sean’s face, and he
tried frantically to slam the door, but Murphy threw his football player’s build against it while Remington
slid inside to grab the boy and shove him against his own living room wall.
“Hello, Hennessey. I hear you like to sing for O’Callaghan. I think I’d like to hear you sing for me.”
Steele’s dark and deadly tone caused Sean to blanche. Murphy quietly shut the door behind him.
Hennessey stuttered and sweated. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Steele shoved him a little higher on the wall. “I’m Remington Steele and you nearly got my wife killed.
Now--I’m going to put you down and you are going to answer my questions. O’Callaghan’s not here to
protect you, and you have every reason to be afraid of me.” Remington released his grip with a shove.
Hennessey staggered to the ratty old sofa and collapsed into a sitting position on the far end. He placed
his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, sir, about what happened to your wife. I ... I had no idea. I thought
you were dead.”
“Who else at the hotel is passing information to O’Callaghan?” Steele demanded.
“I don’t know. All I can tell you is that a few weeks after I started, I got a call from this guy about a
business opportunity. I met him in the hotel bar and he laid it out for me. He said he was a businessman
and had his eye on the competition. If he knew who was in town, it would give him a leg up. He would
give me a list of names to look out for, and if anyone on it ever booked or checked in, I was to give him
a ring.”
“What would you get in return?”
“He paid me a couple of hundred pounds up front and another hundred pounds every few months just to
keep me on tap. It seemed harmless enough.”
“Until. ...”
“Until you checked in. Then O’Callaghan told me to report every single thing you did, every call you
made, every meal you ordered. He said there would be a thousand pounds in it for me. I told him I
wouldn’t do it at first.”
“Then what happened?”
“He threatened to go to my manager and tell him I’ve been taking bribes under the table. He ... he also
said he had connections at UCC--that’s the college I go to, the University College Cork. He said he
would get me expelled for cheating.” Sean hung his head. “I can’t afford to lose either one. I don’t
know what to do. What I did was wrong, though it seemed harmless enough until the thing with the car.”
Remington crossed his arms and glanced at Murphy, who stepped in with his own questions. “When was
the last time you spoke to O’Callaghan?”
“Yesterday morning, when I saw Mrs. Steele come through the lobby to meet up with him.” He nodded
at Mr. Steele.
“How did you know it was them?”
The boy flushed. “’Tis my job to pay attention to people ... and the Steeles? They just kind of ‘click.’
I saw that click and knew it was them.”
Murphy snorted. The three of them steeped in silence for a few minutes. The two brothers sized up the
young man and decided that he was little more than a pawn in this game. Like most college kids, he was
relatively innocent of the darker ways of the world. Remington spoke first, “Do you want out?” There
was a touch of sympathy in his voice for the boy.
“Aye. I do. But I don’t know how to shake free.”
“Then here is what we’ll do. First, ask around your co-workers to find out who else is passing
information along to O’Callaghan, so we know who we’re dealing with here. Second, you’re only going
to pass along information I want him to have.”
Murphy added, “Leave a message for Mildred Krebs at the hotel if you need to talk to one of us. It’s
safe enough.”
Steele leaned in close to Hennessey, letting his Irish brogue seep into his voice. “Mate, I’m tellin’ ye
now, you’re in waters too deep to swim in. I’m your only lifeline in this. Don’t cross me. It’ll not be
worth your while.” The young man flinched and then nodded.
Murphy backed up Steele. “O’Callaghan is dirty business. The kind that gets you dead when you cross
him. We won’t leave you stranded. You keep giving him the information he wants, and we’ll make sure
you don’t get anything you don’t need. Understood?” Hennessey nodded again.
“Good. Now, will you be willing to sign a statement explaining all this?” Murphy asked.
The boy paled again. “Do I have to?”
“You owe it to my wife.” Steele gave him an icy stare. Sean nodded. He fumbled through his study
desk and found a sheet of paper. In neat printing, he wrote out a brief summary of his association with
O’Callaghan, signed it and dated it. He hesitated before folding and handing over the paper to Steele.
“I’ll give you this, mate,” Remington added, “I’ll keep your name out of it unless it becomes absolutely
necessary.” The boy nodded and Steele and Murphy left with an unspoken threat hanging in the air.
Hennessey was left wondering why he ever thought hotel management would be intriguing. Maybe it
was time to find a new job. It was a long time before he managed to drag himself off the sofa to get a
bottle of beer from the fridge.
Murphy watched Steele as they drove. He could see the strain in his friend’s face. Glancing at his
watch, he commented, “It’s only two. Let’s go take a load off before we go back to the hotel.”
Remington gave him a hard, quizzical look. “You want to take a break now? We don’t have time for
that, Michaels. Laura--“
“Laura is probably sleeping. The best thing for her right now is to have time to recover. You need to get
your head in the game. You nearly decked that kid, and he’s just a pawn in all this.” Steele’s hands
tightened on the steering wheel. “Find a bar. You can kick my ass at pool and get your head on straight.”
A ghost of a half-smile crossed Steele’s face, and he turned the car around. “Aye, mate.” He drove to a
seedy little tavern wedged into the back of an alley in the more questionable part of town.
At the bar, Steele looked Michaels up and down. “Going to drink like a real man and have a Guinness or
are you going to be an American pansy and sip Harp?” Murphy muttered a filthy curse and ordered two
pints of Guinness from the bar while Steele scoped out a pool table. Come hell or high water, he would
choke the thing down.
By the time he worked his way through the crowd in the dark and dingy room, wondering in the process
why all these people were at the bar on a Thursday afternoon, his brother-in-law was already chalking a
cue. He’d handily beaten the previous player and claimed the table for his own.
Murphy set the drinks on a side table and found his own stick. Graciously, Steele allowed him to break.
Graciously, because it was probably the only shot he would get for the whole game. Sure enough, when
he missed his second shot, Remington proceeded to drop ball after ball into the pockets. It wasn’t long
before a small crowd gathered to watch him play. In the background, Murphy could hear the whispers
starting.
“ ‘Tis Mick, Mick O’Leary.”
“No way. Mick’s been gone for half a decade now.”
“I’m telling ye--tha’s Mick. Wait until he looks up. Ye can’t miss those eyes. Icy cold blue, they are.”
Murphy didn’t know if Steele heard that last remark, but he looked up just then and let his eyes scan the
crowd and pin one of the watchers. “Gotta smoke?” The young man straightened and flipped him a
cigarette. Steele took a second to light it and take a deep drag before taking his next shot, sending two
balls into opposite pockets. Wisps of smoke spiraled around the yellowed light hanging over the table.
As he banked the last ball and watched it roll across the table to drop with a resounding "thunk," a cocky
little snot of about twenty-five dropped a fifty-pound note on the table. Steele just looked at him and
waited. “Think you’re good? I’m better,” the kid sneered. Murphy heard the sudden mutterings of the
crowd behind him. Apparently, the kid was a pretty decent player, but he’d challenged Mick O’Leary.
There were a couple of short, vicious debates over the odds.
Steele cocked his head and took another drag from the cigarette. “Aye, mate. Fifty a ball.” Casually, he
drank his pint and set it back on the table. “Blackball. I’ll rack; you break.” That was an insult, rather
like giving a chess player the white pieces. The better player always takes black and plays second.
The kid sneered again and didn’t let his sudden worry show. He’d planned fifty for the game. Fifty a
ball could get expensive. Summoning up his bravado, he nodded his head with another wide grin on his
face.
Steele looked up at Murphy, and with a small smile, shook his own head. The whole crowd caught it
and a ripple of laughter could be heard. The kid’s face hardened. Murphy could hear bets being placed
behind him. The one waitress in the bar sidled up to Murphy. “You know him?” she nodded toward
Steele.
“Sure. He’s my brother-in-law.”
“I didn’t know Mick had any family.”
“Our wives are sisters.”
“Mick is married?” She said it a little too loudly, and the crowd erupted into whispers and more muttered
comments. Steele only smiled as he heard the remark and watched the kid sink a couple of balls on the
break and three more before missing a difficult bank shot.
After that, he didn’t have a chance. Murphy could see Steele was showing off for the crowd, never
taking an easy shot when a tricky one would do. When the last ball dropped into the pocket, the crowd
broke into cheers and clapping, with a few detractors bemoaning their losses. The other player snarled
and threw his cue stick on the table. He started to leave, but Steele caught him by the shoulder. “I
dropped five balls over you, mate. Pay up.”
In response, the arrogant young pup spun around and threw a punch. Steele caught his wrist before it
could connect and used a foot to trip him up so that the young man landed hard on the floor. “‘Tis Mick
O’Leary you’re messing with, boy. I don’t take being cheated lightly. Maybe next time you’ll find out
who you’re taking on before you lay a bet.”
Reluctantly, the young man got up and reached for his wallet. He laid two hundred on the table. “It’s all
I’ve got.”
Steele tossed the money back at him--another insult. “I don’t need your cash. Cover my bill and get
out.” He turned his back and didn’t bother watching his defeated opponent make his way to the bar and
lay money on it. A couple of men who won easy money on the game clapped him on the shoulder and
shook his hand.
Remington waved them off with a smile and propped up against the tiny table holding his pint while he
watched Murphy take on another opponent. He would never admit that his brother-in-law was actually a
fairly decent player. But Murphy hadn’t grown up needing to win a game so he could afford a meal.
Breathing in the smoke that filled the little bar, he had a sudden desire for another cigarette and squelched
it. Laura didn’t like him smoking. She never said anything about it, only asking that he confine his
occasional cigar to his own office when he first started at the agency. But he had noticed long ago that
she was much freer with her kisses when he hadn’t been smoking that day.
Thinking of her made him frown. He stared into his glass while sordid images from his youth filtered into
his thoughts and reminded him of the promises to himself he had broken that awful night with Laura.
Shaking his head, he forced those dark visions into the background and closed the door on them. “Six in
the corner pocket, Murph.”
The detective looked up. “I can’t make that shot.”
“Sure you can. If you try for the three, you’ll bounce it off the wall and scratch.” Murphy rounded the
table and took his recommendation, successfully sinking the ball. The cue ball rolled into a perfect
position, and he was able to drop a second ball as well.
Murphy’s opponent shot Steele a sour look. “The Yank doesn’t need your help, O’Leary. He’s already
kicking me ass.”
“Aye, I’m just helping him do a better job of it.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Can’t have a lousy
pool player in the family.”
“Lousy, my ass, Steele,” Murphy muttered under his breath. He sank his third ball in a row, finishing the
game with flair. He held out his hand to the Irishman who’d offered to play him. The other man took it
and grinned.
“Me thanks, mate. I’ll stand ye another pint at the bar.” He turned and blended in to the crowd.
Murphy rolled his eyes as Steele watched and commented sardonically, “Great. Why your countrymen
think beer should taste like motor oil is beyond me. And now I get to choke down a second glass of it.”
Remington scratched his nose. “Just because you have to drink that nasty, weak American stuff you call
beer isn’t any reason to insult a decent glass of ale. Puts hair on your chest.”
Comically, Murphy threw a mock-punch at Steele, who ducked and laughed outright before holding his
hand out. “Thanks, brother. You’re right; I needed this.”
“Good. Now let’s get out of here before I have to drink any more of this swill.”
The two men returned to the hotel to find Mildred attempting to help Laura to the bathroom without
putting weight on her injured leg. They were giggling madly in between Laura’s yelps and groans.
Laura did a double take at Remington’s outfit. “Slumming, love?” She caught Murphy looking in from
the doorway and could smell the beer and smoke from across the room. “What have you two been up
to?”
Her husband flashed a smile at her. “Just having a bit of conversation. I figured Murphy ought to have a
chance to charm the ladies by turning down my own stunning nature a notch or two.”
Murphy rolled his eyes at Remington’s wry humor and handed Laura a pair of crutches the two men
picked up on their way home. “Laura, haven’t you trained him out of that yet? Besides, I might remind
you, Steele, it took a lot less time for me to hunt down my bride and convince her to marry me than it
did for you to con Laura into the same. I’m not sure if that’s my good looks or my inborn charisma, but
whatever it was, it worked.”
Steele started to reply, but Mildred quipped, "My, my, my! Such a lot of guns around town and so few
brains."
“The Big Sleep, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Warner Brothers, 1946,” Remington automatically
recited.
“Ah, I see you haven’t trained him out of that either.” Murphy rolled his eyes and left the room to make
a phone call before Steele could do anymore than shoot another dirty look after him.
The girls laughed at Remington’s expense. Steele arched a brow at both of them, and Mildred turned
away chuckling, “I’ll get dinner ordered. We’re having tortellini.”
Over dinner, the men filled in Mildred and Laura on their discussion with Hennessey, and then they
brought Laura up to speed about Rory Malone. “I need to talk with him, Laura,” Remington said simply.
She nodded in agreement. “You’ll take Murphy?”
“Yes, if you’ll manage without me for the better part of tomorrow.” He glanced up at the man. “Did
you get the appointment?”
Murphy nodded. “One-thirty. Our flight leaves at nine. That gives us a couple of hours to get the lay of
the land before we go into meet him. He thinks I’m buying a rock for my wife. I told him I might bring
a pal that’s knowledgeable in these things, so he won’t be surprised when two of us show up.”
“When will you be back?” That was from Laura.
“Our flight is scheduled to leave at six. We should be back by eight or so.” He didn’t miss Laura’s
forlorn grimace, but still couldn’t bring himself to stroke her hair or even pat her hand in comfort.
“What do you think you’ll find out, Chief?” Mildred wondered.
“I don’t know. With luck, we’ll pass it through Hennessey that I’m on my way to Dublin. Hopefully, O’
Callaghan will think I’m following through with the theft so he’ll leave Laura alone.” He tapped his
fingers absentmindedly on the table. “Did you find anything in all those records?” he asked Mildred.
“I’ve got a good look at his books, but I may have a good deal more from his day planner. I think I’d
like to visit a couple of the names on that disk and see if O’Callaghan’s shaking them down. If he is, we
might be able to start cracking this thing open.” Mildred raised her eyebrows. “One thing, Boss, it would
be helpful if we knew whether or not the local gardaí is involved with him or not. When it is time to
arrest him, we ought to know whom to call.” They had deliberately kept the local police out of the loop
on this one, and their time was running out.
Remington shifted his gaze to Laura. She drew in a deep breath as she caught on to his line of thinking.
“Chief?”
“Interpol. Interpol probably has a dossier three feet deep on O’Callaghan. The Dublin Six has fingers all
over Europe--mostly in Dublin, but it’s not possible to keep it just inside the borders of Ireland,”
Remington stated.
“But how do we keep you out of it?” Mildred asked. She knew quite a bit about Mr. Steele’s shady
past, and she was sure Interpol had a fairly hefty file on him, too, or maybe even five or ten smaller ones.
“We don’t.” Laura spoke in soft but firm tones.
“You’re sure?” Remington asked.
“I think we have bigger fish to fry, Mr. Steele.” Remington leaned back in his chair, frowning. Mildred
and Murphy both looked on in confusion.
“Laura, if this doesn’t work, we could lose the agency.”
“What good will it do us if we’re dead?”
After dinner, Mildred made contact with one of the names on the list and then questioned the remaining
concierges under Murphy’s watchful eye. Later, Murphy met with the local gardaí and tried to ascertain
exactly what they already knew.
In the Presidential Suite, Remington paced in the living room as Laura spoke on the telephone. “Yes,
yes, my name is Laura Holt.” She threw a quick apologetic glance at her husband. “I need Agent Brian
Peterson. ... I don’t know what department. Can you look him up? ... No, I can’t tell you what this is
about. I was directed to speak only to him.” Laura waited long minutes as she was transferred several
times and repeated herself.
Remington nervously chewed on his thumbnail.
His wife sat straight up in her chair. “Agent Peterson? Thank you for taking my call. Yes, I know it’s
late, but I have information I think you’ll be interested in.” She listened for a moment and continued.
“I’m a private investigator from Los Angeles. I have a client with some information for you, but I cannot
pass it along unless I can have some guarantees that charges won’t be brought against him.”
Her tone hardened. “Yes, I know that it’s standard procedure, but does the name Denis O’Callaghan
mean anything to you? Or the Dublin Six? ... Yes, yes, I thought it would. My client is being coerced
into committing a high-dollar property crime by O’Callaghan in ten days. ... Yes, I believe him and I
have quite a bit of evidence of the coercion.” She grimaced and absentmindedly rubbed her knee.
“I’m asking for full immunity for any past property thefts, identity thefts or scams run by this individual.
... Yes, I’m quite serious. In exchange, we’ll bring you in on this case and Interpol can have the credit.
Would it help if we--I told you I know where O’Callaghan is currently based and that I have a bag full of
disks and files from his office? I’ve got him cold on two kidnappings and I’ve already linked one name
and possibly others to a blackmail scam? ... Ah, it’s nice to know I have your attention.”
That little tidbit came from Mildred’s conversation just an hour earlier. The businessman was more than
happy that someone was looking into O’Callaghan’s activities and gave Mildred whatever information she
wanted.
“Yes, I know I’m in over my head. Why do you think I called you? … No, I won’t disclose any more
information on my client unless I’m guaranteed that he will be granted immunity. ... No, no murders, no
rapes, no physical violence at all--well, nothing serious anyway. Just a theft here and there and the
occasional con. No, no drugs or guns. ... Last one was at least five years ago. If I can’t guarantee it,
he’ll go underground and we’ll both be left holding the bag.”
“Yes, I know I’m asking a lot. ... All right, I’ve got one more for you.” She reached out blindly for
Remington’s hand, which he grasped this time. “I have a tape of a rape with O’Callaghan on it, ordering
it to be done. He watched the whole time. ... Yes, the victim is willing to testify.” Remington squeezed
her hand while she shuddered. “You’ll grant immunity? For any and all charges? ... Then how soon
can you get to Cork? ... Saturday morning, got it. Yes, it will hold until then, but not much longer. I’ll
call you within fifteen minutes with our meeting place. Let me write down the number. ... Thank you,
Mr. Peterson.” She hung up the phone and made arrangements for their meeting before calling Peterson
back on his private line.
“Saturday, 10 a.m. The Kingsley. We’ll be in a private dining room under the name Holt. H-O-L-T.”
She clicked off the phone and leaned back heavily in her chair. Looking up at her husband, she
frowned. “It’s done. Full immunity. He’ll bring the documents with him.”
Remington shook his head. “Laura, first you give me a name, then a home, and now you’re clearing the
slate for me. Keep this up and I’ll find out I’m a daddy with a white picket fence and a nine-to-five job
like every other John Jones in the neighborhood.” He drew her carefully to her feet and balanced her in
his arms. “Don’t think I don’t know how hard this will be for you, Laura. I know Peterson will need to
see the tape.” He tipped her chin up. “We’ll do this together.”
She rested her head on his chest, wearied by the stress and worry of it all. A dull thrum had begun
beating her skull. After a brief hesitation, he put his arms around her. As always, the scent of her hair
soothed him like no other aromatherapy in the world.
The door opened. “Hiya, kids,” Mildred sang out cheerfully. She loved catching the Steeles together.
The couple smiled half-heartedly and Laura broke the embrace. “Mr. Steele, I think I’ll let you give our
friends the details. I’m going to take a bath.”
“I’ll alert the media.” Remington grinned at her confusion. “Arthur, Dudley Moore, Liza Minnelli, Orion
Pictures, 1981.” She swatted at him before hobbling away on the crutches.
Chapter 16 -- Diamonds
Not long after that, Fallon and Dr. Hathaway took their leave, promising to return in a couple of days to
check in with their patient. While Laura slept, Murphy and Mildred worked on a press release that would
satisfy the reporters’ curiosity and get them to go away.
About the same time, Remington realized he had a phone call to make. He jabbed at the buttons, dialing
his mother-in-law’s house. “Hello, Abigail.” He yanked the phone away from his ear at her shriek.
“Yes, yes, I’m not dead. ... Yes, Laura is here with me. ... Ah, no, she’s sleeping at the moment. I can’
t tell you much, but we were both kidnapped and Laura was ... hurt. ... No, she’s not in the hospital; she’
s with me. ... Abigail, Laura will be fine. She needs time to heal from her injuries. ... Yes, it’s her knee
again.” He winced, knowing they would eventually pay for that white lie.
He cringed again. “No, Abigail, you don’t need to fly out here.” Laura would kill him if he let that
happen. “We’ll be home in a couple of weeks. She’ll be fine. I’ll have her call you in a day or two.”
He listened as Abigail babbled in confusion and spent quite a bit of time reassuring her they were coming
home soon.
Afterwards, Remington and Murphy took themselves off to have that chat with Sean Hennessy, and
Mildred began wading through the stacks of disks and papers. The papers proved to be bank records of
various accounts held in Dublin, Cork and Switzerland. Two of the accounts had healthy balances while
the third seemed to be a holding account where money deposits were immediately swept into one of the
other two accounts.
The disks were more interesting. Mildred found extensive lists of people and businesses, some with
notations about business dealings and private affairs. She leaned back in her chair, thinking this was all
too easy. Would a man known to be a ringleader of corruption really commit the details of his operations
to a disk file? Did he think his internal security would stand up to a man like Mr. Steele? Setting the
disks aside, she turned to the Filofax. The pages seemed to be marked in a code, just initials followed by
a short notation.
AK--bus op, CJ--pmt, RM--bus op.
Payments and business opportunities she could figure out, but who were these people? She paged
through the files on the disks, looking for connections. She found a Carter Jansen that matched the CJ
and Rory Malone matched the RM, but who was AK? The first two could be just coincidence, but
perhaps not. Hold it, Krebs. If Carter Jansen from the disk is being blackmailed, then maybe
O’Callaghan was picking up his payment. In that case, Rory wouldn’t be on the list. But what’s the
connection with Mr. and Mrs. Steele?
She flipped back through the Filofax and found the Steele’s flight dates and hotel information noted
down. Paging backwards, she found other notations on other dates. RS bkd flight. RS at RPH--Cork.
It seemed O’Callaghan knew about the trip to Ireland almost from the moment Laura bought the tickets.
But how? With four major airports and any number of airlines flying in, it would be almost impossible to
track a flight.
On the other hand, if O’Callaghan knew of the Steeles' penchant for staying in luxury hotels, a few well-
placed snitches could keep an eye out. And the moment Laura booked the Rothestown Park Hotel, O’
Callaghan would be notified. Now that made sense to Mildred. Perhaps Remington and Murphy would
get a bit more out of young Sean.
Murphy hardly recognized Remington when he emerged from the hotel. Dressed in worn trousers, a
black corduroy coat that had seen better days and a classic Irish cap, he would have mistaken Steele for a
local on the way to a nearby pub if he hadn’t been watching for the other man to come through the side
entrance.
While driving through the tightly winding streets of the old city, Remington shot a dirty look at his brother-
in-law. “You know I spoke with Abigail this morning.” Murphy nodded, keeping his mouth firmly shut.
He knew what was coming. “How is it that these three sisters can keep each other informed of every
little detail of their lives, yet I’m always the one that has to talk to their mother?”
“Last one to get married gets the short straw. Besides, she likes your accent.” It was a dodge Murphy
had used for two years and it still had legs.
“We were married for nearly two months before you two tied the knot.” And for two years, Remington
had been using the same counter-argument.
“That’s not how Abigail sees it. If she wasn’t there, it didn’t happen.” Murphy loved pointing out that
fact time and again.
Knowing he was right, Remington tried a new angle. “I thought you were her current favorite son-in-
law. I’m not the one that presented her with twin grandsons last year.”
“That was my get-out-of-jail-free card with her, not the I-have-to-be-the-bearer-of-whatever-news-needs-
to-be-told card. That one is permanently embossed with your name on it.”
“One of these days, I’m going to have a serious discussion with the Holt sisters.”
“Can I watch? You’ll lose. Donald will want to be there too. We can take bets on how fast you go
down.” Steele made a short pithy remark that make Murphy laugh out loud.
They drove. It seemed every building rose four stories tall, punctuated by the occasional medieval abbey
or modern office building. Gloomy grey clouds hovered overhead, promising rain before the day was
out. The place they were looking for was wedged among a dozen other buildings, and Remington drove
a couple of blocks away before finding a place to leave the car.
Murphy wasn’t used to Steele’s chameleon ability to blend in, so it was a bit of a surprise to see him
shuffle along the sidewalk. In fact, Steele kept his head down and nibbled a thumbnail while they chatted
about local pubs and decent pints of ale.
When they found the flat, Murphy knocked on the door sharply. Mumbles of "wait up, mate" and "be
there in two shakes" could be heard, along with random cursing and banging. Remington pressed flat
against the wall next to the door. When it opened, a bleary-eyed blond lad in his early twenties seemed
startled to find Murphy standing there.
“Hello, mate. What can I do for ye today?” he said.
Murphy smiled casually. “Are you Sean Hennessy?”
“Aye. That would be me.”
Murphy edged forward a bit, leaning against the doorframe so Hennessy wouldn’t look outside and see
Remington. He eyeballed the flat behind the lad, but it appeared to be empty. “I’m looking into a
problem for a friend, and I was hoping you might have some answers.”
“Oh,” he paused, “that’d be okay. Wha‘cha got?”
“Does the name O’Callaghan mean anything to you?” At that, sheer panic crossed Sean’s face, and he
tried frantically to slam the door, but Murphy threw his football player’s build against it while Remington
slid inside to grab the boy and shove him against his own living room wall.
“Hello, Hennessey. I hear you like to sing for O’Callaghan. I think I’d like to hear you sing for me.”
Steele’s dark and deadly tone caused Sean to blanche. Murphy quietly shut the door behind him.
Hennessey stuttered and sweated. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Steele shoved him a little higher on the wall. “I’m Remington Steele and you nearly got my wife killed.
Now--I’m going to put you down and you are going to answer my questions. O’Callaghan’s not here to
protect you, and you have every reason to be afraid of me.” Remington released his grip with a shove.
Hennessey staggered to the ratty old sofa and collapsed into a sitting position on the far end. He placed
his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, sir, about what happened to your wife. I ... I had no idea. I thought
you were dead.”
“Who else at the hotel is passing information to O’Callaghan?” Steele demanded.
“I don’t know. All I can tell you is that a few weeks after I started, I got a call from this guy about a
business opportunity. I met him in the hotel bar and he laid it out for me. He said he was a businessman
and had his eye on the competition. If he knew who was in town, it would give him a leg up. He would
give me a list of names to look out for, and if anyone on it ever booked or checked in, I was to give him
a ring.”
“What would you get in return?”
“He paid me a couple of hundred pounds up front and another hundred pounds every few months just to
keep me on tap. It seemed harmless enough.”
“Until. ...”
“Until you checked in. Then O’Callaghan told me to report every single thing you did, every call you
made, every meal you ordered. He said there would be a thousand pounds in it for me. I told him I
wouldn’t do it at first.”
“Then what happened?”
“He threatened to go to my manager and tell him I’ve been taking bribes under the table. He ... he also
said he had connections at UCC--that’s the college I go to, the University College Cork. He said he
would get me expelled for cheating.” Sean hung his head. “I can’t afford to lose either one. I don’t
know what to do. What I did was wrong, though it seemed harmless enough until the thing with the car.”
Remington crossed his arms and glanced at Murphy, who stepped in with his own questions. “When was
the last time you spoke to O’Callaghan?”
“Yesterday morning, when I saw Mrs. Steele come through the lobby to meet up with him.” He nodded
at Mr. Steele.
“How did you know it was them?”
The boy flushed. “’Tis my job to pay attention to people ... and the Steeles? They just kind of ‘click.’
I saw that click and knew it was them.”
Murphy snorted. The three of them steeped in silence for a few minutes. The two brothers sized up the
young man and decided that he was little more than a pawn in this game. Like most college kids, he was
relatively innocent of the darker ways of the world. Remington spoke first, “Do you want out?” There
was a touch of sympathy in his voice for the boy.
“Aye. I do. But I don’t know how to shake free.”
“Then here is what we’ll do. First, ask around your co-workers to find out who else is passing
information along to O’Callaghan, so we know who we’re dealing with here. Second, you’re only going
to pass along information I want him to have.”
Murphy added, “Leave a message for Mildred Krebs at the hotel if you need to talk to one of us. It’s
safe enough.”
Steele leaned in close to Hennessey, letting his Irish brogue seep into his voice. “Mate, I’m tellin’ ye
now, you’re in waters too deep to swim in. I’m your only lifeline in this. Don’t cross me. It’ll not be
worth your while.” The young man flinched and then nodded.
Murphy backed up Steele. “O’Callaghan is dirty business. The kind that gets you dead when you cross
him. We won’t leave you stranded. You keep giving him the information he wants, and we’ll make sure
you don’t get anything you don’t need. Understood?” Hennessey nodded again.
“Good. Now, will you be willing to sign a statement explaining all this?” Murphy asked.
The boy paled again. “Do I have to?”
“You owe it to my wife.” Steele gave him an icy stare. Sean nodded. He fumbled through his study
desk and found a sheet of paper. In neat printing, he wrote out a brief summary of his association with
O’Callaghan, signed it and dated it. He hesitated before folding and handing over the paper to Steele.
“I’ll give you this, mate,” Remington added, “I’ll keep your name out of it unless it becomes absolutely
necessary.” The boy nodded and Steele and Murphy left with an unspoken threat hanging in the air.
Hennessey was left wondering why he ever thought hotel management would be intriguing. Maybe it
was time to find a new job. It was a long time before he managed to drag himself off the sofa to get a
bottle of beer from the fridge.
Murphy watched Steele as they drove. He could see the strain in his friend’s face. Glancing at his
watch, he commented, “It’s only two. Let’s go take a load off before we go back to the hotel.”
Remington gave him a hard, quizzical look. “You want to take a break now? We don’t have time for
that, Michaels. Laura--“
“Laura is probably sleeping. The best thing for her right now is to have time to recover. You need to get
your head in the game. You nearly decked that kid, and he’s just a pawn in all this.” Steele’s hands
tightened on the steering wheel. “Find a bar. You can kick my ass at pool and get your head on straight.”
A ghost of a half-smile crossed Steele’s face, and he turned the car around. “Aye, mate.” He drove to a
seedy little tavern wedged into the back of an alley in the more questionable part of town.
At the bar, Steele looked Michaels up and down. “Going to drink like a real man and have a Guinness or
are you going to be an American pansy and sip Harp?” Murphy muttered a filthy curse and ordered two
pints of Guinness from the bar while Steele scoped out a pool table. Come hell or high water, he would
choke the thing down.
By the time he worked his way through the crowd in the dark and dingy room, wondering in the process
why all these people were at the bar on a Thursday afternoon, his brother-in-law was already chalking a
cue. He’d handily beaten the previous player and claimed the table for his own.
Murphy set the drinks on a side table and found his own stick. Graciously, Steele allowed him to break.
Graciously, because it was probably the only shot he would get for the whole game. Sure enough, when
he missed his second shot, Remington proceeded to drop ball after ball into the pockets. It wasn’t long
before a small crowd gathered to watch him play. In the background, Murphy could hear the whispers
starting.
“ ‘Tis Mick, Mick O’Leary.”
“No way. Mick’s been gone for half a decade now.”
“I’m telling ye--tha’s Mick. Wait until he looks up. Ye can’t miss those eyes. Icy cold blue, they are.”
Murphy didn’t know if Steele heard that last remark, but he looked up just then and let his eyes scan the
crowd and pin one of the watchers. “Gotta smoke?” The young man straightened and flipped him a
cigarette. Steele took a second to light it and take a deep drag before taking his next shot, sending two
balls into opposite pockets. Wisps of smoke spiraled around the yellowed light hanging over the table.
As he banked the last ball and watched it roll across the table to drop with a resounding "thunk," a cocky
little snot of about twenty-five dropped a fifty-pound note on the table. Steele just looked at him and
waited. “Think you’re good? I’m better,” the kid sneered. Murphy heard the sudden mutterings of the
crowd behind him. Apparently, the kid was a pretty decent player, but he’d challenged Mick O’Leary.
There were a couple of short, vicious debates over the odds.
Steele cocked his head and took another drag from the cigarette. “Aye, mate. Fifty a ball.” Casually, he
drank his pint and set it back on the table. “Blackball. I’ll rack; you break.” That was an insult, rather
like giving a chess player the white pieces. The better player always takes black and plays second.
The kid sneered again and didn’t let his sudden worry show. He’d planned fifty for the game. Fifty a
ball could get expensive. Summoning up his bravado, he nodded his head with another wide grin on his
face.
Steele looked up at Murphy, and with a small smile, shook his own head. The whole crowd caught it
and a ripple of laughter could be heard. The kid’s face hardened. Murphy could hear bets being placed
behind him. The one waitress in the bar sidled up to Murphy. “You know him?” she nodded toward
Steele.
“Sure. He’s my brother-in-law.”
“I didn’t know Mick had any family.”
“Our wives are sisters.”
“Mick is married?” She said it a little too loudly, and the crowd erupted into whispers and more muttered
comments. Steele only smiled as he heard the remark and watched the kid sink a couple of balls on the
break and three more before missing a difficult bank shot.
After that, he didn’t have a chance. Murphy could see Steele was showing off for the crowd, never
taking an easy shot when a tricky one would do. When the last ball dropped into the pocket, the crowd
broke into cheers and clapping, with a few detractors bemoaning their losses. The other player snarled
and threw his cue stick on the table. He started to leave, but Steele caught him by the shoulder. “I
dropped five balls over you, mate. Pay up.”
In response, the arrogant young pup spun around and threw a punch. Steele caught his wrist before it
could connect and used a foot to trip him up so that the young man landed hard on the floor. “‘Tis Mick
O’Leary you’re messing with, boy. I don’t take being cheated lightly. Maybe next time you’ll find out
who you’re taking on before you lay a bet.”
Reluctantly, the young man got up and reached for his wallet. He laid two hundred on the table. “It’s all
I’ve got.”
Steele tossed the money back at him--another insult. “I don’t need your cash. Cover my bill and get
out.” He turned his back and didn’t bother watching his defeated opponent make his way to the bar and
lay money on it. A couple of men who won easy money on the game clapped him on the shoulder and
shook his hand.
Remington waved them off with a smile and propped up against the tiny table holding his pint while he
watched Murphy take on another opponent. He would never admit that his brother-in-law was actually a
fairly decent player. But Murphy hadn’t grown up needing to win a game so he could afford a meal.
Breathing in the smoke that filled the little bar, he had a sudden desire for another cigarette and squelched
it. Laura didn’t like him smoking. She never said anything about it, only asking that he confine his
occasional cigar to his own office when he first started at the agency. But he had noticed long ago that
she was much freer with her kisses when he hadn’t been smoking that day.
Thinking of her made him frown. He stared into his glass while sordid images from his youth filtered into
his thoughts and reminded him of the promises to himself he had broken that awful night with Laura.
Shaking his head, he forced those dark visions into the background and closed the door on them. “Six in
the corner pocket, Murph.”
The detective looked up. “I can’t make that shot.”
“Sure you can. If you try for the three, you’ll bounce it off the wall and scratch.” Murphy rounded the
table and took his recommendation, successfully sinking the ball. The cue ball rolled into a perfect
position, and he was able to drop a second ball as well.
Murphy’s opponent shot Steele a sour look. “The Yank doesn’t need your help, O’Leary. He’s already
kicking me ass.”
“Aye, I’m just helping him do a better job of it.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Can’t have a lousy
pool player in the family.”
“Lousy, my ass, Steele,” Murphy muttered under his breath. He sank his third ball in a row, finishing the
game with flair. He held out his hand to the Irishman who’d offered to play him. The other man took it
and grinned.
“Me thanks, mate. I’ll stand ye another pint at the bar.” He turned and blended in to the crowd.
Murphy rolled his eyes as Steele watched and commented sardonically, “Great. Why your countrymen
think beer should taste like motor oil is beyond me. And now I get to choke down a second glass of it.”
Remington scratched his nose. “Just because you have to drink that nasty, weak American stuff you call
beer isn’t any reason to insult a decent glass of ale. Puts hair on your chest.”
Comically, Murphy threw a mock-punch at Steele, who ducked and laughed outright before holding his
hand out. “Thanks, brother. You’re right; I needed this.”
“Good. Now let’s get out of here before I have to drink any more of this swill.”
The two men returned to the hotel to find Mildred attempting to help Laura to the bathroom without
putting weight on her injured leg. They were giggling madly in between Laura’s yelps and groans.
Laura did a double take at Remington’s outfit. “Slumming, love?” She caught Murphy looking in from
the doorway and could smell the beer and smoke from across the room. “What have you two been up
to?”
Her husband flashed a smile at her. “Just having a bit of conversation. I figured Murphy ought to have a
chance to charm the ladies by turning down my own stunning nature a notch or two.”
Murphy rolled his eyes at Remington’s wry humor and handed Laura a pair of crutches the two men
picked up on their way home. “Laura, haven’t you trained him out of that yet? Besides, I might remind
you, Steele, it took a lot less time for me to hunt down my bride and convince her to marry me than it
did for you to con Laura into the same. I’m not sure if that’s my good looks or my inborn charisma, but
whatever it was, it worked.”
Steele started to reply, but Mildred quipped, "My, my, my! Such a lot of guns around town and so few
brains."
“The Big Sleep, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Warner Brothers, 1946,” Remington automatically
recited.
“Ah, I see you haven’t trained him out of that either.” Murphy rolled his eyes and left the room to make
a phone call before Steele could do anymore than shoot another dirty look after him.
The girls laughed at Remington’s expense. Steele arched a brow at both of them, and Mildred turned
away chuckling, “I’ll get dinner ordered. We’re having tortellini.”
Over dinner, the men filled in Mildred and Laura on their discussion with Hennessey, and then they
brought Laura up to speed about Rory Malone. “I need to talk with him, Laura,” Remington said simply.
She nodded in agreement. “You’ll take Murphy?”
“Yes, if you’ll manage without me for the better part of tomorrow.” He glanced up at the man. “Did
you get the appointment?”
Murphy nodded. “One-thirty. Our flight leaves at nine. That gives us a couple of hours to get the lay of
the land before we go into meet him. He thinks I’m buying a rock for my wife. I told him I might bring
a pal that’s knowledgeable in these things, so he won’t be surprised when two of us show up.”
“When will you be back?” That was from Laura.
“Our flight is scheduled to leave at six. We should be back by eight or so.” He didn’t miss Laura’s
forlorn grimace, but still couldn’t bring himself to stroke her hair or even pat her hand in comfort.
“What do you think you’ll find out, Chief?” Mildred wondered.
“I don’t know. With luck, we’ll pass it through Hennessey that I’m on my way to Dublin. Hopefully, O’
Callaghan will think I’m following through with the theft so he’ll leave Laura alone.” He tapped his
fingers absentmindedly on the table. “Did you find anything in all those records?” he asked Mildred.
“I’ve got a good look at his books, but I may have a good deal more from his day planner. I think I’d
like to visit a couple of the names on that disk and see if O’Callaghan’s shaking them down. If he is, we
might be able to start cracking this thing open.” Mildred raised her eyebrows. “One thing, Boss, it would
be helpful if we knew whether or not the local gardaí is involved with him or not. When it is time to
arrest him, we ought to know whom to call.” They had deliberately kept the local police out of the loop
on this one, and their time was running out.
Remington shifted his gaze to Laura. She drew in a deep breath as she caught on to his line of thinking.
“Chief?”
“Interpol. Interpol probably has a dossier three feet deep on O’Callaghan. The Dublin Six has fingers all
over Europe--mostly in Dublin, but it’s not possible to keep it just inside the borders of Ireland,”
Remington stated.
“But how do we keep you out of it?” Mildred asked. She knew quite a bit about Mr. Steele’s shady
past, and she was sure Interpol had a fairly hefty file on him, too, or maybe even five or ten smaller ones.
“We don’t.” Laura spoke in soft but firm tones.
“You’re sure?” Remington asked.
“I think we have bigger fish to fry, Mr. Steele.” Remington leaned back in his chair, frowning. Mildred
and Murphy both looked on in confusion.
“Laura, if this doesn’t work, we could lose the agency.”
“What good will it do us if we’re dead?”
After dinner, Mildred made contact with one of the names on the list and then questioned the remaining
concierges under Murphy’s watchful eye. Later, Murphy met with the local gardaí and tried to ascertain
exactly what they already knew.
In the Presidential Suite, Remington paced in the living room as Laura spoke on the telephone. “Yes,
yes, my name is Laura Holt.” She threw a quick apologetic glance at her husband. “I need Agent Brian
Peterson. ... I don’t know what department. Can you look him up? ... No, I can’t tell you what this is
about. I was directed to speak only to him.” Laura waited long minutes as she was transferred several
times and repeated herself.
Remington nervously chewed on his thumbnail.
His wife sat straight up in her chair. “Agent Peterson? Thank you for taking my call. Yes, I know it’s
late, but I have information I think you’ll be interested in.” She listened for a moment and continued.
“I’m a private investigator from Los Angeles. I have a client with some information for you, but I cannot
pass it along unless I can have some guarantees that charges won’t be brought against him.”
Her tone hardened. “Yes, I know that it’s standard procedure, but does the name Denis O’Callaghan
mean anything to you? Or the Dublin Six? ... Yes, yes, I thought it would. My client is being coerced
into committing a high-dollar property crime by O’Callaghan in ten days. ... Yes, I believe him and I
have quite a bit of evidence of the coercion.” She grimaced and absentmindedly rubbed her knee.
“I’m asking for full immunity for any past property thefts, identity thefts or scams run by this individual.
... Yes, I’m quite serious. In exchange, we’ll bring you in on this case and Interpol can have the credit.
Would it help if we--I told you I know where O’Callaghan is currently based and that I have a bag full of
disks and files from his office? I’ve got him cold on two kidnappings and I’ve already linked one name
and possibly others to a blackmail scam? ... Ah, it’s nice to know I have your attention.”
That little tidbit came from Mildred’s conversation just an hour earlier. The businessman was more than
happy that someone was looking into O’Callaghan’s activities and gave Mildred whatever information she
wanted.
“Yes, I know I’m in over my head. Why do you think I called you? … No, I won’t disclose any more
information on my client unless I’m guaranteed that he will be granted immunity. ... No, no murders, no
rapes, no physical violence at all--well, nothing serious anyway. Just a theft here and there and the
occasional con. No, no drugs or guns. ... Last one was at least five years ago. If I can’t guarantee it,
he’ll go underground and we’ll both be left holding the bag.”
“Yes, I know I’m asking a lot. ... All right, I’ve got one more for you.” She reached out blindly for
Remington’s hand, which he grasped this time. “I have a tape of a rape with O’Callaghan on it, ordering
it to be done. He watched the whole time. ... Yes, the victim is willing to testify.” Remington squeezed
her hand while she shuddered. “You’ll grant immunity? For any and all charges? ... Then how soon
can you get to Cork? ... Saturday morning, got it. Yes, it will hold until then, but not much longer. I’ll
call you within fifteen minutes with our meeting place. Let me write down the number. ... Thank you,
Mr. Peterson.” She hung up the phone and made arrangements for their meeting before calling Peterson
back on his private line.
“Saturday, 10 a.m. The Kingsley. We’ll be in a private dining room under the name Holt. H-O-L-T.”
She clicked off the phone and leaned back heavily in her chair. Looking up at her husband, she
frowned. “It’s done. Full immunity. He’ll bring the documents with him.”
Remington shook his head. “Laura, first you give me a name, then a home, and now you’re clearing the
slate for me. Keep this up and I’ll find out I’m a daddy with a white picket fence and a nine-to-five job
like every other John Jones in the neighborhood.” He drew her carefully to her feet and balanced her in
his arms. “Don’t think I don’t know how hard this will be for you, Laura. I know Peterson will need to
see the tape.” He tipped her chin up. “We’ll do this together.”
She rested her head on his chest, wearied by the stress and worry of it all. A dull thrum had begun
beating her skull. After a brief hesitation, he put his arms around her. As always, the scent of her hair
soothed him like no other aromatherapy in the world.
The door opened. “Hiya, kids,” Mildred sang out cheerfully. She loved catching the Steeles together.
The couple smiled half-heartedly and Laura broke the embrace. “Mr. Steele, I think I’ll let you give our
friends the details. I’m going to take a bath.”
“I’ll alert the media.” Remington grinned at her confusion. “Arthur, Dudley Moore, Liza Minnelli, Orion
Pictures, 1981.” She swatted at him before hobbling away on the crutches.
Chapter 16 -- Diamonds