Steeling a Dream
Part 1: Diamonds of Steele
Part 1: Diamonds of Steele
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Steele Holting On
Steeling a Dream
Part 1: Diamonds of Steele
Part 1: Diamonds of Steele
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Steele Holting On
Chapter 19 Sapphires
Later that morning, Laura found Remington mourning over his crumpled clothing on the closet floor.
“Couldn’t you have picked just a shirt or two? Or maybe a jacket I didn’t like?” he deadpanned.
Innocently, she shrugged while he picked up the clothes. She sidled around him on her crutches to brush
her teeth.
“Well, at least you can’t wrinkle a sweater.” He peered at a blue one that he had apparently used as a
pillow. The rest he swept into a pile for housekeeping to launder and return. He came up behind Laura
and rested his head against hers while he rubbed up and down her shoulders. She tapped out her
toothbrush and set it to the side before capturing his arms and bringing them around her.
They looked at each other in the mirror for a moment before they both broke up laughing. Laura should
have been shockingly sexy wearing nothing more than his white dress shirt; Remington should have been
achingly hot in only blue silk boxer shorts. But she was covered in green and yellow marks from head to
toe, and her nose was still taped. He was scruffy, with a heavy five o’clock shadow and his hair sticking
up every which way.
“Good thing you didn’t see me like this when we first met. You might have lumped me in with all the
other blokes on the block.”
“You would have given up on me as hopelessly clumsy. We look like ... like. …”
“Mutt and Jeff? George and Gracie on a bad day? A couple of circus clowns?” he offered.
“Something like that.” She tossed her hair back. “Think we can make a magical transformation into a
couple of powerhouse PI’s capable of matching wits with Interpol?”
“Certainly.”
One hour later, Laura shoved Remington out of the bathroom. The couple that walked confidently into
the living room of the Presidential Suite didn’t look like one that spent the past week living a nightmare.
He insisted she wear her electric blue pantsuit with the black silk jacket. In turn, he dressed in a jet black
suit, a white dress shirt he’d ironed himself--surprising the hell out of Laura--and a matching blue tie.
Only careful examination would reveal the remaining damage to her face. She made a mental note not to
accidentally touch her nose because, without the tape, it was still quite fragile. They both hoped heavy
doses of ibuprofen would keep the swelling down on her knee since she refused to use the crutches
today. Laura declined any other pain medicine for fear of clouding her thinking. She intended to appear
strong and confident for this meeting.
The other two detectives picked up the Steeles at the far side entrance so Laura had only a minimum of
walking to do. Murphy drove, and Remington and Laura sat in the back seat reading Mildred’s work.
The computer whiz had stayed up half the night to prepare the evidence Laura needed for Agent
Peterson. Crisp and clean, her dossier laid out point by point the illegalities O’Callaghan committed and
the proof for each. The photos Fallon took of Laura and the video Remington lifted were both in the
briefcase, and Laura dearly hoped they could stay where they were.
Murphy parked a half-mile from the hotel near a little seedy bar. While Remington flagged down a taxi,
Laura and her old partner tested the walkie-talkies he and Steele would carry. A yellow and green car
pulled alongside the team. Remington helped his wife from the Fiat and handed her Mildred’s black
leather briefcase as she and Murphy slid into the cab.
Remington leaned in to kiss Laura through the window. Disassembling, he said, “Oh, I almost forgot.”
He reached inside his suit coat and drew out the sapphire and diamond bracelet. Stunned, she could only
watch while he clasped it around her left wrist and caressed her cheek. “Happy Anniversary,” he said
before tapping on the roof of the cab twice.
The taxi rolled away while Laura’s jaw dropped at the jeweled dream wrapped around her forearm.
Two Interpol agents watched her step from the cab alone. Murphy had jumped out a block from the
hotel and sprinted the rest of the way. Another agent watched her walk confidently through the lobby. A
brief stop at the concierge desk gave her directions to the private dining room reserved in her name.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Murphy enter through the restaurant and follow. She straightened
her sleeve, pulling on it three times to indicate the number of agents she had already identified. The
dining room was empty but for a table in the center of the room. A quick glance indicated only two
doors, the front one she walked through and a back one that led to the kitchen. She set her briefcase on
the table and returned to the front door, glancing around as if she were looking for a waiter. She
fidgeted, touching her second fingernail as if she was inspecting a nick in her manicure. She waved down
a waiter and requested a glass of water before disappearing inside. Murphy slipped into an empty supply
closet and radioed Remington. Two doors.
Interpol Agent Brian Peterson watched Laura Steele from a tiny hidden camera. Cool and professional,
she drank her water while absorbing her surroundings. He snorted. She was smart. Maybe too
smart.
Five minutes into the routine background check he ran yesterday on “Miss Holt,” he was looking at a
photograph of her “boss,” Remington Steele. Crap. Richard Blaine in the flesh. For four solid years,
one of Peterson’s cases involved tracking the brilliant art and jewel thief using half a dozen different
names across four continents. The trail vanished in 1982. A whiff appeared three years ago when Blaine
took a flight from Los Angeles to Sydney but never reappeared. It seemed the thief had given up his
night job.
For a decade, Peterson had Blaine’s file sitting somewhere on his desk. For the first five, it was on the
hot where-the-hell-is-he-and-what-is-he-up-to stack. Now, for the past five, it was relegated to the cold-
case-but-still-better-look-into-it-occasionally pile.
Another ten minutes of research revealed that Miss Holt was actually "Laura Steele," wife of Remington
Steele, and they co-owned the agency. A quick scan of their joint assets revealed a comprehensive,
healthy portfolio.
More digging revealed that, by all concerned, the agency was well-respected and entirely on the up-and-
up. The Steeles had developed an impeccable reputation for providing unparalleled security for any
event or building as well as for solving complex cases requiring intelligence, daring and a healthy intuition
for the criminal mind. The list of high-dollar businesses that hired them to look into internal problems
was impressive.
A third PI with the agency was a highly-respected former IRS auditor by the name of Mildred Krebs.
Krebs was known to have magic fingers and could tickle any information out of any computer. That
ability, combined with her analytical brain and accounting background, was a dangerous combination that
could, and did, find evidence even on the best-hidden offshore account.
Damn the Holt woman. She had Richard Blaine/Michael O’Leary in the palm of her hand and Peterson
couldn’t touch him. Even his superiors had agreed that while Blaine would be a big notch in Interpol’s
belt, he had flown under their radar for six years. It had been decreed that the Dublin Six and Denis
O’Callaghan were far more important than a well-respected businessman who spent his youth as a light-
fingered con artist.
Peterson straightened his camel-colored coat and picked up his own briefcase.
Laura calmed her nerves by envisioning a baseball field. She was on the mound, scuffing up the ball
before the pitch. A nondescript sandy-haired man with intelligent brown eyes walked through the door.
He set his briefcase beside his chair.
“Miss Holt.” He held out his hand.
“Agent Peterson.” She rose to shake his. They took their seats and a waiter appeared to take their drink
orders. Laura shifted to keep the stress off her knee and placed her left hand in her lap.
“Club soda, please.” He really wanted a nice dark beer, but that wasn’t in the script today.
“I’m fine. Thank you,” she told the waiter.
Laura eyeballed Peterson. He looked as if he was resisting the urge to tug at his collar. Inwardly, she
danced a happy little jig. He was going to cave. She threw him a hard fast ball. “You might as well call
me Laura. Laura Steele. I’m sure you know that already.”
Damn. She was smart. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you know my husband.”
Fuck. No bluffing here. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then I’ll need to see the papers before we have any further discussion.”
“I have orders to see some evidence before we make the deal.” Laura nodded as if she was expecting it.
She considered what to pull out of her attaché as she placed it on the table. Making a sudden decision,
she selected one photo that Fallon took of her, along with one page of the dossier Mildred prepared, and
laid them in front of Peterson. She touched the dossier page. “This is information from his personal
computer about businesses he is currently blackmailing.” She tapped the photo. “This is the witness.
Her rape with O’Callaghan present, along with the subsequent beating, is on this video tape.” She tapped
the cartridge she kept under her hand.
While he took in the information, she continued, “At minimum, either of these scenarios will get a
conviction, and if you do not pursue this case, I will. But neither is enough to pull down his
organization. I have further evidence that may be able to do so. I also have an internal link that may be
able to obtain whatever evidence you require.”
“Your husband.”
“My husband. O’Callaghan’s expecting him to return with a particular item in a set number of days.”
“Has that item been, ah, obtained?”
“No.” She zinged a curve ball. “And the owner of that item has been notified personally of the
situation.” Laura narrowed her eyes. Remington was not going to be pinned with this one. Not on her
watch.
The agent picked up the photograph and examined it closely before he jerked and stared in surprise at
Laura. Now he saw the shadows of bruises on her that he failed to notice before. He tilted the page
toward her. “You?”
She threw her final pitch, hard and fast. “Me.”
“You’re willing to testify?” Holy crap. A respected American detective as a victim and witness? Half
the problem with prosecuting the Dublin Six was the lack of witnesses willing to go to trial. It didn’t get
better than this.
She nodded. “Got some papers for me?” she sassed.
He threw in the towel. “I do.”
For a full half hour, Laura read through the papers to make certain that Remington would be safe from
prosecution as well as she for harboring a fugitive. She made a few minor changes, and then, to Agent
Peterson’s surprise, rose from the table. “Please notify your agents. I have someone to courier the
documents before we proceed.”
Peterson’s respect for Mrs. Steele rose substantially. She wasn’t taking any chances with her husband.
At this moment, the cards were on the table and Interpol knew Blaine’s current identity. If Interpol tried
to renege on the deal, Blaine still had the opportunity to go underground. He had no doubt Mrs. Steele
would vanish as well before he could take her into custody.
Laura handed the documents to Murphy, who stepped into a taxi in front of the hotel. She watched to
ensure he wasn’t followed, at least not obviously. She returned to the table where the waiter refilled their
drinks and she made small talk with Peterson about the storms of the previous night.
Another thirty minutes passed and Murphy joined them carrying a sheaf of signed papers. He held out a
hand as he pulled up a chair. “Murphy Michaels.”
“Brian Peterson. Ah, you’re a former partner of Mrs. Steele’s.” Fortunately, the agent had a
photographic memory for details. It served him well at Interpol and not many got away from him.
“That’s right. Now I have my own private investigation firm in Denver.”
Peterson took careful note of the changes in the papers, seeing that Mrs. Steele had added Murphy
Michaels and Mildred Krebs to the list of people to be protected from harboring a fugitive. What was it
about Blaine that inspires this kind of loyalty? Both Krebs and Michaels had signed the papers.
He scrawled his own signature to the bottom of several pages and passed the stack to Laura. She
brought her left hand out of her lap. When she took the pen Peterson offered, her sleeve pulled away to
reveal the $40,000 bracelet she wore. His gaze locked on the stunning piece of jewelry while his brain
mentally flipped through files to see if it was stolen.
Another waiter appeared just then. Laura looked up into Mildred’s cheery face, smiled and nodded at
her. Mildred refilled her water glass and disappeared while Laura neatly sketched her own name
throughout the pile of paper.
When the kitchen door closed behind her, Peterson caught on. “Hey, that’s Krebs. She’s one of yours.”
“Correct,” Steele said from behind him.
Brian shook his head. Damn and damn again. The con man had a whole team just like him. He stood
up and shook the man’s hand. He shouldn’t have fallen for the simple distraction. It put him at a
disadvantage even though the negotiations were over.
“Mr. Blaine. Sorry. Mr. Steele.”
“Quite all right, Peterson, common mistake.” Steele flashed a charming grin. “I believe we’ve come to
terms we can all agree on?”
“Ah, yes.”
“Good. Then we’re all on the same team.”
Peterson winced visibly. It didn’t help much to see the twinkle in Laura Steele’s eyes. She had been in
his shoes more than once, wondering just how the conversation slipped out of her control.
Steele sat down next to Laura, squeezing her left hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “Nice
bracelet.”
“It’s from my secret admirer; do you like it?” she teased.
Catching the agent’s horrified expression, Steele cocked his head and said to his wife, “He thinks I lifted
it. No trust at all.”
“Did you?” she asked, just to needle Peterson.
“Of course not. Bought from Malone yesterday afternoon.”
“Rory Malone? The jeweler out of Dublin?” Peterson felt as if he was catching the third act of a very
long play.
“That’s the one.”
“Scoping it out?” Peterson threw his own jab.
“Of course. Cracked open two of his safes while I was there. Murphy here,” he waved a toothpick in
his brother-in-law’s direction, “overrode the security system.”
Peterson wasn’t sure whether to take him seriously or not. He rubbed his temple. “Can we start at the
beginning?”
Laura took pity on the poor agent and laid the entire dossier in front of him. While he began thumbing
through it, she sorted the papers they had all signed into two stacks--one set of originals for Interpol and
one set for the agency. She folded theirs carefully and gave them to Remington. “Happy Anniversary,
Rei,” she whispered.
The waiter returned, to Remington’s delight. “Ah, let’s eat. Perhaps you’ll bring us a bottle of
cabernet? Something decent, with a full body.” The waiter nodded and returned shortly with wine,
salads and bread for the table. “Come now, Brian. Put the papers down and let’s have a bite, eh? Give
us a chance to get to know each other. In person, I mean,” Remington cajoled the agent.
Peterson wanted to resist. That arrogant smile set him on edge. Steele knew he was the big fish that got
away and now was coming back to taunt him.
Throughout lunch, the conversation among the five of them was stilted and disjointed. No one wanted to
give away any private information, and they exhausted talking about the weather by the end of the salad
course. At the end of the meal, which was probably a record shortest in the history of the Kingsley,
Steele leaned back in his chair. “Murphy, why don’t you take the ladies home? I think Mr. Peterson
and I need to have a private discussion if we’re to get down the road on this case.” He slanted a look at
Laura and was pleased to see her nod in agreement. They'd all caught the waves of animosity rolling off
the Interpol agent.
“Sounds good to me,” Murphy nodded. “Peterson.” He shook the man’s hand and left to get the car.
Mildred left the room with Murphy and returned after a few minutes. “He’s here, Boss. Nice talking to
you, Mr. Peterson.”
Brian watched Steele help Laura up from her chair. Warm brown eyes warned him to make nice with
her husband. “Agent Peterson, I’ll assume we’ll meet again this evening?” He nodded curtly. “Thank
you. Then we’ll see you later.”
As Steele escorted her to the car, Brian noticed she favored her leg a bit. He flipped through the dossier
to find the notes about Mrs. Steele’s abduction. He read through it and looked at the stack of photos.
He would have never guessed Mrs. Steele had taken such a beating. He turned back to the first page and
began reading.
Ten minutes or so later, Steele returned and paused by his chair. “Come on. We’ll get a drink and hash
this out, eh?”
Brian eyed him warily and gave him a one-shoulder shrug. “Sure.” He stacked the photos into the file
and stuck them in his briefcase. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the former con man almost
imperceptibly clench his jaw at the pictures. Good to know. Steele had a thing for his wife.
The men took a seat near the back of a quaint smoky bar just a block from the hotel. Steele pretended
not to see the two agents discretely parked at a tiny table near the door. He stretched an arm out across
the back of the booth while a blond waitress dumped a couple of pints on the table. “Let’s hear it,
Peterson.”
“Hear what?” the agent practically snarled.
“You’re bloody well pissed that I’ve dodged your net all these years and now Interpol wants my help
enough to give me a free pass--flushing ten years of work down the loo.”
Brian fumed. “Goddamn right I am. You’re nothing but a high dollar thief and a con man. Millions of
dollars have been paid out so you and your ... your friend Chalmers could live the high life.” Peterson’s
hands gripped his pint so that his knuckles whitened in his ire. “I’ve cleaned up after your fucking
messes and taken the rap too many times when I couldn’t bring you in.”
Steele leaned in. “Did anyone get hurt. I mean really hurt--not a little society darling missing her favorite
pearls.”
Peterson had to give him that one, “No. I suppose not. Just one fucking hell of a lot of insurance and
security nightmares. It’s a pain in the ass to have a senator with money and power breathing down your
neck when his wife is missing a $75,000 necklace.”
“Can’t pin that one on me, mate. She gave it to her boy toy along with the red Corvette. He pawned it
for a pittance.”
Brian furrowed his brow. “How do you know that?”
“She bragged about it while attempting to convince me to be her newest plaything.” Steele swallowed
some Guinness.
Peterson raised his brows in surprise. “God, I would have loved to shove that down that asshole’s
throat.” He referred to the senator.
“Still could. I got pinned just because I showed up on the scene a day or two after the boy toy took off.
When I brushed off the wife, she told her husband I took it. Petty revenge because I passed on her
offer, but I preferred my women unencumbered with marital baggage.” He sipped his pint. “What do
you know about me, Peterson? I mean really know, not just speculation?
Peterson drank too, taking a deep breath afterward. “I know you have half a dozen aliases, but we’ve
never uncovered your real name. I know you ran with a man identified as Daniel Chalmers, who
somehow managed to get buried as a hero in London. He was more a con man and a pickpocket, so
Interpol wasn’t nearly as interested in him, except as a link to you. You don’t mess with drugs, guns, or
prostitution--which played in your favor when your wife set up this deal.”
“What else?” Steele probed.
Peterson frowned again. “You’re brilliant in what you do; you’ve built an excellent string of contacts and
a solid rep as a master thief. You trade on your good looks and charm to pull you through the toughest
of situations.” Privately, Peterson admitted the latter part pissed him off the most.
Steele leaned back again and pulled out a toothpick. “What do you know about me now, Peterson? I
know you did a deep background check on both of us.”
The agent threw Steele a hard glare before answering. “You and your wife seem to have a very
legitimate and successful private investigation agency out of LA. The books appear to be clean, but then
again, I’m talking to you, so I have my doubts about that. Although the fact you have Krebs on your
staff makes me think, perhaps, you might really be clean. She’s got a solid reputation that’s been in
place long before she hooked up with you two.”
“You still have a reputation for the limelight and fine living. Your wife is well-known for her brilliance
and ability to connect the dots. Interpol actually interviewed her straight out of college, but she had her
sights set on owning her own detective agency. You married her two years ago and there’s every
indication that you are faithful to her. Again, though, if anyone could hide anything, it would be you. On
the other hand, she’s a decent detective and might nail you to the wall.”
“With a very large stake. That’s a fair shake, Peterson. Now, did you ever bother to ask, ‘Why?’ ”
“Why what?”
“Why would someone like the person you described hang up the game and go straight all of a sudden?”
“Blaine, I’ve never been able to predict your next move. As far as I know, this is just one more long
con. I just have to figure out your angle.”
Steele leaned in and pinned Peterson with his icy blue eyes. “You want my angle? Here it is: Laura
Holt. She’s my entire world and has been since I tried to sneak one by her in 1982. She let me become
a part of her agency. She gave me a name, a real life, and a home. What I was before I met her doesn’t
matter. It’s what I am to her now.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Let me give you one more
thing. Because of what I was, O’Callaghan thinks he can use me by getting to Laura. He hurt her. I
have to live with that for the rest of my own bloody life. What I want to do is get on a plane with her
and never come back to Ireland, but my only salvation is to take him down so that he’ll not touch either
of us again. If we fly home without finishing this, he’ll have a contract on both of us before our plane
sets down.”
Brian eyeballed the former con man over his pint, trying to gauge his veracity. He gave up. “You know,
most of the time I’m considered a pretty good agent. I have a decent closing rate and pretty good
instincts. Steele, I don’t know what to believe when it comes to you. I’ve never been about to outthink
you and I doubt I’ll start now.”
Remington waved a waitress over for another pair of pints. “Well, if you can’t trust me, can you trust
Laura? And Mildred?” he said to the agent. Cautiously, Brian nodded. “Then follow their lead and
assume I’m along for the ride.” Steele looked him in the eye. “Just keep them safe and whole; that’s all
I ask.”
Again Brian nodded. “I’ll do that.” He didn’t want to like Steele, but perhaps he could respect him.
“Now,” the former thief added, “ask me anything. Anything you’ve always wanted to know. Except my
name.”
Chapter 20 -- Poker
Later that morning, Laura found Remington mourning over his crumpled clothing on the closet floor.
“Couldn’t you have picked just a shirt or two? Or maybe a jacket I didn’t like?” he deadpanned.
Innocently, she shrugged while he picked up the clothes. She sidled around him on her crutches to brush
her teeth.
“Well, at least you can’t wrinkle a sweater.” He peered at a blue one that he had apparently used as a
pillow. The rest he swept into a pile for housekeeping to launder and return. He came up behind Laura
and rested his head against hers while he rubbed up and down her shoulders. She tapped out her
toothbrush and set it to the side before capturing his arms and bringing them around her.
They looked at each other in the mirror for a moment before they both broke up laughing. Laura should
have been shockingly sexy wearing nothing more than his white dress shirt; Remington should have been
achingly hot in only blue silk boxer shorts. But she was covered in green and yellow marks from head to
toe, and her nose was still taped. He was scruffy, with a heavy five o’clock shadow and his hair sticking
up every which way.
“Good thing you didn’t see me like this when we first met. You might have lumped me in with all the
other blokes on the block.”
“You would have given up on me as hopelessly clumsy. We look like ... like. …”
“Mutt and Jeff? George and Gracie on a bad day? A couple of circus clowns?” he offered.
“Something like that.” She tossed her hair back. “Think we can make a magical transformation into a
couple of powerhouse PI’s capable of matching wits with Interpol?”
“Certainly.”
One hour later, Laura shoved Remington out of the bathroom. The couple that walked confidently into
the living room of the Presidential Suite didn’t look like one that spent the past week living a nightmare.
He insisted she wear her electric blue pantsuit with the black silk jacket. In turn, he dressed in a jet black
suit, a white dress shirt he’d ironed himself--surprising the hell out of Laura--and a matching blue tie.
Only careful examination would reveal the remaining damage to her face. She made a mental note not to
accidentally touch her nose because, without the tape, it was still quite fragile. They both hoped heavy
doses of ibuprofen would keep the swelling down on her knee since she refused to use the crutches
today. Laura declined any other pain medicine for fear of clouding her thinking. She intended to appear
strong and confident for this meeting.
The other two detectives picked up the Steeles at the far side entrance so Laura had only a minimum of
walking to do. Murphy drove, and Remington and Laura sat in the back seat reading Mildred’s work.
The computer whiz had stayed up half the night to prepare the evidence Laura needed for Agent
Peterson. Crisp and clean, her dossier laid out point by point the illegalities O’Callaghan committed and
the proof for each. The photos Fallon took of Laura and the video Remington lifted were both in the
briefcase, and Laura dearly hoped they could stay where they were.
Murphy parked a half-mile from the hotel near a little seedy bar. While Remington flagged down a taxi,
Laura and her old partner tested the walkie-talkies he and Steele would carry. A yellow and green car
pulled alongside the team. Remington helped his wife from the Fiat and handed her Mildred’s black
leather briefcase as she and Murphy slid into the cab.
Remington leaned in to kiss Laura through the window. Disassembling, he said, “Oh, I almost forgot.”
He reached inside his suit coat and drew out the sapphire and diamond bracelet. Stunned, she could only
watch while he clasped it around her left wrist and caressed her cheek. “Happy Anniversary,” he said
before tapping on the roof of the cab twice.
The taxi rolled away while Laura’s jaw dropped at the jeweled dream wrapped around her forearm.
Two Interpol agents watched her step from the cab alone. Murphy had jumped out a block from the
hotel and sprinted the rest of the way. Another agent watched her walk confidently through the lobby. A
brief stop at the concierge desk gave her directions to the private dining room reserved in her name.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Murphy enter through the restaurant and follow. She straightened
her sleeve, pulling on it three times to indicate the number of agents she had already identified. The
dining room was empty but for a table in the center of the room. A quick glance indicated only two
doors, the front one she walked through and a back one that led to the kitchen. She set her briefcase on
the table and returned to the front door, glancing around as if she were looking for a waiter. She
fidgeted, touching her second fingernail as if she was inspecting a nick in her manicure. She waved down
a waiter and requested a glass of water before disappearing inside. Murphy slipped into an empty supply
closet and radioed Remington. Two doors.
Interpol Agent Brian Peterson watched Laura Steele from a tiny hidden camera. Cool and professional,
she drank her water while absorbing her surroundings. He snorted. She was smart. Maybe too
smart.
Five minutes into the routine background check he ran yesterday on “Miss Holt,” he was looking at a
photograph of her “boss,” Remington Steele. Crap. Richard Blaine in the flesh. For four solid years,
one of Peterson’s cases involved tracking the brilliant art and jewel thief using half a dozen different
names across four continents. The trail vanished in 1982. A whiff appeared three years ago when Blaine
took a flight from Los Angeles to Sydney but never reappeared. It seemed the thief had given up his
night job.
For a decade, Peterson had Blaine’s file sitting somewhere on his desk. For the first five, it was on the
hot where-the-hell-is-he-and-what-is-he-up-to stack. Now, for the past five, it was relegated to the cold-
case-but-still-better-look-into-it-occasionally pile.
Another ten minutes of research revealed that Miss Holt was actually "Laura Steele," wife of Remington
Steele, and they co-owned the agency. A quick scan of their joint assets revealed a comprehensive,
healthy portfolio.
More digging revealed that, by all concerned, the agency was well-respected and entirely on the up-and-
up. The Steeles had developed an impeccable reputation for providing unparalleled security for any
event or building as well as for solving complex cases requiring intelligence, daring and a healthy intuition
for the criminal mind. The list of high-dollar businesses that hired them to look into internal problems
was impressive.
A third PI with the agency was a highly-respected former IRS auditor by the name of Mildred Krebs.
Krebs was known to have magic fingers and could tickle any information out of any computer. That
ability, combined with her analytical brain and accounting background, was a dangerous combination that
could, and did, find evidence even on the best-hidden offshore account.
Damn the Holt woman. She had Richard Blaine/Michael O’Leary in the palm of her hand and Peterson
couldn’t touch him. Even his superiors had agreed that while Blaine would be a big notch in Interpol’s
belt, he had flown under their radar for six years. It had been decreed that the Dublin Six and Denis
O’Callaghan were far more important than a well-respected businessman who spent his youth as a light-
fingered con artist.
Peterson straightened his camel-colored coat and picked up his own briefcase.
Laura calmed her nerves by envisioning a baseball field. She was on the mound, scuffing up the ball
before the pitch. A nondescript sandy-haired man with intelligent brown eyes walked through the door.
He set his briefcase beside his chair.
“Miss Holt.” He held out his hand.
“Agent Peterson.” She rose to shake his. They took their seats and a waiter appeared to take their drink
orders. Laura shifted to keep the stress off her knee and placed her left hand in her lap.
“Club soda, please.” He really wanted a nice dark beer, but that wasn’t in the script today.
“I’m fine. Thank you,” she told the waiter.
Laura eyeballed Peterson. He looked as if he was resisting the urge to tug at his collar. Inwardly, she
danced a happy little jig. He was going to cave. She threw him a hard fast ball. “You might as well call
me Laura. Laura Steele. I’m sure you know that already.”
Damn. She was smart. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you know my husband.”
Fuck. No bluffing here. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then I’ll need to see the papers before we have any further discussion.”
“I have orders to see some evidence before we make the deal.” Laura nodded as if she was expecting it.
She considered what to pull out of her attaché as she placed it on the table. Making a sudden decision,
she selected one photo that Fallon took of her, along with one page of the dossier Mildred prepared, and
laid them in front of Peterson. She touched the dossier page. “This is information from his personal
computer about businesses he is currently blackmailing.” She tapped the photo. “This is the witness.
Her rape with O’Callaghan present, along with the subsequent beating, is on this video tape.” She tapped
the cartridge she kept under her hand.
While he took in the information, she continued, “At minimum, either of these scenarios will get a
conviction, and if you do not pursue this case, I will. But neither is enough to pull down his
organization. I have further evidence that may be able to do so. I also have an internal link that may be
able to obtain whatever evidence you require.”
“Your husband.”
“My husband. O’Callaghan’s expecting him to return with a particular item in a set number of days.”
“Has that item been, ah, obtained?”
“No.” She zinged a curve ball. “And the owner of that item has been notified personally of the
situation.” Laura narrowed her eyes. Remington was not going to be pinned with this one. Not on her
watch.
The agent picked up the photograph and examined it closely before he jerked and stared in surprise at
Laura. Now he saw the shadows of bruises on her that he failed to notice before. He tilted the page
toward her. “You?”
She threw her final pitch, hard and fast. “Me.”
“You’re willing to testify?” Holy crap. A respected American detective as a victim and witness? Half
the problem with prosecuting the Dublin Six was the lack of witnesses willing to go to trial. It didn’t get
better than this.
She nodded. “Got some papers for me?” she sassed.
He threw in the towel. “I do.”
For a full half hour, Laura read through the papers to make certain that Remington would be safe from
prosecution as well as she for harboring a fugitive. She made a few minor changes, and then, to Agent
Peterson’s surprise, rose from the table. “Please notify your agents. I have someone to courier the
documents before we proceed.”
Peterson’s respect for Mrs. Steele rose substantially. She wasn’t taking any chances with her husband.
At this moment, the cards were on the table and Interpol knew Blaine’s current identity. If Interpol tried
to renege on the deal, Blaine still had the opportunity to go underground. He had no doubt Mrs. Steele
would vanish as well before he could take her into custody.
Laura handed the documents to Murphy, who stepped into a taxi in front of the hotel. She watched to
ensure he wasn’t followed, at least not obviously. She returned to the table where the waiter refilled their
drinks and she made small talk with Peterson about the storms of the previous night.
Another thirty minutes passed and Murphy joined them carrying a sheaf of signed papers. He held out a
hand as he pulled up a chair. “Murphy Michaels.”
“Brian Peterson. Ah, you’re a former partner of Mrs. Steele’s.” Fortunately, the agent had a
photographic memory for details. It served him well at Interpol and not many got away from him.
“That’s right. Now I have my own private investigation firm in Denver.”
Peterson took careful note of the changes in the papers, seeing that Mrs. Steele had added Murphy
Michaels and Mildred Krebs to the list of people to be protected from harboring a fugitive. What was it
about Blaine that inspires this kind of loyalty? Both Krebs and Michaels had signed the papers.
He scrawled his own signature to the bottom of several pages and passed the stack to Laura. She
brought her left hand out of her lap. When she took the pen Peterson offered, her sleeve pulled away to
reveal the $40,000 bracelet she wore. His gaze locked on the stunning piece of jewelry while his brain
mentally flipped through files to see if it was stolen.
Another waiter appeared just then. Laura looked up into Mildred’s cheery face, smiled and nodded at
her. Mildred refilled her water glass and disappeared while Laura neatly sketched her own name
throughout the pile of paper.
When the kitchen door closed behind her, Peterson caught on. “Hey, that’s Krebs. She’s one of yours.”
“Correct,” Steele said from behind him.
Brian shook his head. Damn and damn again. The con man had a whole team just like him. He stood
up and shook the man’s hand. He shouldn’t have fallen for the simple distraction. It put him at a
disadvantage even though the negotiations were over.
“Mr. Blaine. Sorry. Mr. Steele.”
“Quite all right, Peterson, common mistake.” Steele flashed a charming grin. “I believe we’ve come to
terms we can all agree on?”
“Ah, yes.”
“Good. Then we’re all on the same team.”
Peterson winced visibly. It didn’t help much to see the twinkle in Laura Steele’s eyes. She had been in
his shoes more than once, wondering just how the conversation slipped out of her control.
Steele sat down next to Laura, squeezing her left hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “Nice
bracelet.”
“It’s from my secret admirer; do you like it?” she teased.
Catching the agent’s horrified expression, Steele cocked his head and said to his wife, “He thinks I lifted
it. No trust at all.”
“Did you?” she asked, just to needle Peterson.
“Of course not. Bought from Malone yesterday afternoon.”
“Rory Malone? The jeweler out of Dublin?” Peterson felt as if he was catching the third act of a very
long play.
“That’s the one.”
“Scoping it out?” Peterson threw his own jab.
“Of course. Cracked open two of his safes while I was there. Murphy here,” he waved a toothpick in
his brother-in-law’s direction, “overrode the security system.”
Peterson wasn’t sure whether to take him seriously or not. He rubbed his temple. “Can we start at the
beginning?”
Laura took pity on the poor agent and laid the entire dossier in front of him. While he began thumbing
through it, she sorted the papers they had all signed into two stacks--one set of originals for Interpol and
one set for the agency. She folded theirs carefully and gave them to Remington. “Happy Anniversary,
Rei,” she whispered.
The waiter returned, to Remington’s delight. “Ah, let’s eat. Perhaps you’ll bring us a bottle of
cabernet? Something decent, with a full body.” The waiter nodded and returned shortly with wine,
salads and bread for the table. “Come now, Brian. Put the papers down and let’s have a bite, eh? Give
us a chance to get to know each other. In person, I mean,” Remington cajoled the agent.
Peterson wanted to resist. That arrogant smile set him on edge. Steele knew he was the big fish that got
away and now was coming back to taunt him.
Throughout lunch, the conversation among the five of them was stilted and disjointed. No one wanted to
give away any private information, and they exhausted talking about the weather by the end of the salad
course. At the end of the meal, which was probably a record shortest in the history of the Kingsley,
Steele leaned back in his chair. “Murphy, why don’t you take the ladies home? I think Mr. Peterson
and I need to have a private discussion if we’re to get down the road on this case.” He slanted a look at
Laura and was pleased to see her nod in agreement. They'd all caught the waves of animosity rolling off
the Interpol agent.
“Sounds good to me,” Murphy nodded. “Peterson.” He shook the man’s hand and left to get the car.
Mildred left the room with Murphy and returned after a few minutes. “He’s here, Boss. Nice talking to
you, Mr. Peterson.”
Brian watched Steele help Laura up from her chair. Warm brown eyes warned him to make nice with
her husband. “Agent Peterson, I’ll assume we’ll meet again this evening?” He nodded curtly. “Thank
you. Then we’ll see you later.”
As Steele escorted her to the car, Brian noticed she favored her leg a bit. He flipped through the dossier
to find the notes about Mrs. Steele’s abduction. He read through it and looked at the stack of photos.
He would have never guessed Mrs. Steele had taken such a beating. He turned back to the first page and
began reading.
Ten minutes or so later, Steele returned and paused by his chair. “Come on. We’ll get a drink and hash
this out, eh?”
Brian eyed him warily and gave him a one-shoulder shrug. “Sure.” He stacked the photos into the file
and stuck them in his briefcase. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the former con man almost
imperceptibly clench his jaw at the pictures. Good to know. Steele had a thing for his wife.
The men took a seat near the back of a quaint smoky bar just a block from the hotel. Steele pretended
not to see the two agents discretely parked at a tiny table near the door. He stretched an arm out across
the back of the booth while a blond waitress dumped a couple of pints on the table. “Let’s hear it,
Peterson.”
“Hear what?” the agent practically snarled.
“You’re bloody well pissed that I’ve dodged your net all these years and now Interpol wants my help
enough to give me a free pass--flushing ten years of work down the loo.”
Brian fumed. “Goddamn right I am. You’re nothing but a high dollar thief and a con man. Millions of
dollars have been paid out so you and your ... your friend Chalmers could live the high life.” Peterson’s
hands gripped his pint so that his knuckles whitened in his ire. “I’ve cleaned up after your fucking
messes and taken the rap too many times when I couldn’t bring you in.”
Steele leaned in. “Did anyone get hurt. I mean really hurt--not a little society darling missing her favorite
pearls.”
Peterson had to give him that one, “No. I suppose not. Just one fucking hell of a lot of insurance and
security nightmares. It’s a pain in the ass to have a senator with money and power breathing down your
neck when his wife is missing a $75,000 necklace.”
“Can’t pin that one on me, mate. She gave it to her boy toy along with the red Corvette. He pawned it
for a pittance.”
Brian furrowed his brow. “How do you know that?”
“She bragged about it while attempting to convince me to be her newest plaything.” Steele swallowed
some Guinness.
Peterson raised his brows in surprise. “God, I would have loved to shove that down that asshole’s
throat.” He referred to the senator.
“Still could. I got pinned just because I showed up on the scene a day or two after the boy toy took off.
When I brushed off the wife, she told her husband I took it. Petty revenge because I passed on her
offer, but I preferred my women unencumbered with marital baggage.” He sipped his pint. “What do
you know about me, Peterson? I mean really know, not just speculation?
Peterson drank too, taking a deep breath afterward. “I know you have half a dozen aliases, but we’ve
never uncovered your real name. I know you ran with a man identified as Daniel Chalmers, who
somehow managed to get buried as a hero in London. He was more a con man and a pickpocket, so
Interpol wasn’t nearly as interested in him, except as a link to you. You don’t mess with drugs, guns, or
prostitution--which played in your favor when your wife set up this deal.”
“What else?” Steele probed.
Peterson frowned again. “You’re brilliant in what you do; you’ve built an excellent string of contacts and
a solid rep as a master thief. You trade on your good looks and charm to pull you through the toughest
of situations.” Privately, Peterson admitted the latter part pissed him off the most.
Steele leaned back again and pulled out a toothpick. “What do you know about me now, Peterson? I
know you did a deep background check on both of us.”
The agent threw Steele a hard glare before answering. “You and your wife seem to have a very
legitimate and successful private investigation agency out of LA. The books appear to be clean, but then
again, I’m talking to you, so I have my doubts about that. Although the fact you have Krebs on your
staff makes me think, perhaps, you might really be clean. She’s got a solid reputation that’s been in
place long before she hooked up with you two.”
“You still have a reputation for the limelight and fine living. Your wife is well-known for her brilliance
and ability to connect the dots. Interpol actually interviewed her straight out of college, but she had her
sights set on owning her own detective agency. You married her two years ago and there’s every
indication that you are faithful to her. Again, though, if anyone could hide anything, it would be you. On
the other hand, she’s a decent detective and might nail you to the wall.”
“With a very large stake. That’s a fair shake, Peterson. Now, did you ever bother to ask, ‘Why?’ ”
“Why what?”
“Why would someone like the person you described hang up the game and go straight all of a sudden?”
“Blaine, I’ve never been able to predict your next move. As far as I know, this is just one more long
con. I just have to figure out your angle.”
Steele leaned in and pinned Peterson with his icy blue eyes. “You want my angle? Here it is: Laura
Holt. She’s my entire world and has been since I tried to sneak one by her in 1982. She let me become
a part of her agency. She gave me a name, a real life, and a home. What I was before I met her doesn’t
matter. It’s what I am to her now.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Let me give you one more
thing. Because of what I was, O’Callaghan thinks he can use me by getting to Laura. He hurt her. I
have to live with that for the rest of my own bloody life. What I want to do is get on a plane with her
and never come back to Ireland, but my only salvation is to take him down so that he’ll not touch either
of us again. If we fly home without finishing this, he’ll have a contract on both of us before our plane
sets down.”
Brian eyeballed the former con man over his pint, trying to gauge his veracity. He gave up. “You know,
most of the time I’m considered a pretty good agent. I have a decent closing rate and pretty good
instincts. Steele, I don’t know what to believe when it comes to you. I’ve never been about to outthink
you and I doubt I’ll start now.”
Remington waved a waitress over for another pair of pints. “Well, if you can’t trust me, can you trust
Laura? And Mildred?” he said to the agent. Cautiously, Brian nodded. “Then follow their lead and
assume I’m along for the ride.” Steele looked him in the eye. “Just keep them safe and whole; that’s all
I ask.”
Again Brian nodded. “I’ll do that.” He didn’t want to like Steele, but perhaps he could respect him.
“Now,” the former thief added, “ask me anything. Anything you’ve always wanted to know. Except my
name.”
Chapter 20 -- Poker