Grabbing the day's newspaper, he glanced once at the photo of Laura and Philip Cameron at the charity opening of the Diamond Show at the Exhibition Center, then headed down to the garage, where Fred and the limo would be waiting.
In the elevator, he opened the paper again, reading the story- how Cameron had gotten the idea to gather all of the best known and most valuable diamonds in one location- and then to donate the money from their exhibition to his favorite charity- Cancer research. Everyone in LA knew that Cameron's wife had died several years before of cancer, and ever since then he had been a staunch advocate of finding a cure, donating a great deal of time and money to the cause. The previous evening's black-tie gathering had taken in an almost obscene amount of money. Remington had received an invitation- even before Cameron had approached the Agency about providing security for the show.
But he hadn't gone. His appearance would only have taken some the sparkle from Laura's triumph, and he'd known that it wouldn't help matters any. But he's sent a generous donation, and then, he- and Jessica, who had also refused to attend the gala, - had spent the evening with the children. But the act of writing the check had planted another idea in his mind. It was still just the barest, tiniest germ of an idea, however, and he hadn't even mentioned it to anyone else. But it had- possibilities . . .
He exited the elevator on the garage level and started toward the waiting limo, but was halted after a few steps by the sight of a short, nondescript little man who was somehow familiar. Where had he seen the man before, Remington wondered. A fleeting memory of the man- the Exhibition Center, he recalled. As he was leaving the room after talking to Laura. And- hadn't he caught a fleeting glimpse of the same wrinkled, ill fitting suit at the game the other evening?
The man nodded. "Evening, Mr. Steele."
"Good evening," Remington replied cautiously. "Have we met before?"
"Not - officially," the man confirmed, and flashed a press card in the dim light. "Sid Blake. I'm with the Trib."
"Ah." A reporter? Remington mused, looking the man over again. "What can I do for you, Mr. Blake?"
"For starters, you can tell me who you are."
"I beg your pardon?" Remington asked, an eerie sense of déjà vu taking hold of him.
"I've done a little research. You didn't spend much time in Los Angeles after the Steele Agency was formed, did you?"
"No," Remington admitted. "I had- other interests that required my attention. The Agency was in the excellent hands of Laura Holt, however."
"Hmm. And before you started the Agency?" Sid asked.
"Uh, Mr. Blake- I'm not sure where you're going with this."
"It's just that I can't seem to find anything about anyone named Remington Steele prior to the date that the Agency opened its doors. And there are no photos of you for another year, at least. No, longer."
"What are you planning on doing with this information, Mr. Blake?" Remington asked.
"I'm a newspaper reporter, Steele. I'm sure you can figure it out."
"It's funny, but I know most of the investigative reporters over at the Tribune. I don't think I've ever heard your name mentioned. When was the last time you had a story published?"
Sid met Remington's gaze, then his eyes dropped. "Well, okay, so it's been a few years," Sid admitted. "But *your* story is my ticket back into the big time."
"Kinda rough, all those kids, passing you by, stealing your stories out from under you?" Remington suggested sympathetically.
"College kids," Sid grumbled. "Got no idea how to go about getting a story."
"Mr. Blake, you're right. I think we do need to talk." He indicated the limo. "Care to join me for dinner?"
Sid looked at him uncertainly. "You mean- you're gonna give me that interview?"
"Well, we'll see. That, in a large part, depends on how much I can trust you." He held out a hand toward the car again. Sid stepped ahead of him and went to the limo. As he got into the back seat, Remington said, "Luigi's, Fred."
***
Sid picked up the red and white checked napkin and shook it out as he looked around the small Italian restaurant. "Nice, place, Steele," he said, tucking the napkin into his collar.
Remington watched him, then placed his napkin onto his lap. Luigi's wasn't a five star dining experience, by any means. "It has a charm all its own," he told the reporter. Picking up the menu, he opened it as the waiter approached. "Ah. Frankie," he said, smiling at the young man.
"Mr. Steele. It's been a long time," Frankie said with a welcoming smile. "Papa will be pleased to know that you were here."
"How is Luigi doing these days? Enjoying his trip to Rome?"
"He and Mama are having the time of their lives," Frankie said. His expression became embarrassed. "I- uh- heard about you and- Mrs. Steele. I'm sorry-"
"Don't be," Remington said. "Could you bring us a bottle of your best wine?"
"Right away," Frankie told him.
"Hope you like red wine, Mr. Blake."
"Sid. Not much for puttin' on airs. Now, about that interview."
"Have you any experience in public relations, Sid?" Remington asked, smiling as Frankie returned with the bottle of wine and poured two glasses.
"What would you like with that?" Frankie asked.
Remington indicated that Sid should order first, and sat back as the older man asked for spagetti. "Nothing fancy. Just spaghetti and tomato sauce," Sid ordered. "And meatballs."
"Spaghetti," Frankie nodded. "Mr. Steele?"
"Spaghetti," Remington decided, then shook his head warningly at Frankie's surprise. Luckily, Sid was busy concentrating on the wine.
"Spaghetti," Frankie repeated. "Anything- else?"
"But instaed of the- uh- tomato sauce, how about butter sauce with just a hint of garlic. And- forget the meatballs, hmm?"
Frankie smiled, looking relieved. "Coming right up."
"Now," Remington said, picking up his glass. "What were we talking about?"
"Public relations?" Sid questioned. "You asked if I knew anything about them."
"Ah, yes. I've been thinking that the Agency needs someone to ride herd, as it were, on all those young, clueless reporters who write stories about our cases. Make sure that they get the names right, things of that nature."
Sid studied the checked pattern on the table cloth. "Why?"
"I've noticed lately that they aren't getting it right," Sid agreed. "I saw the original copy that Len Davenport did on that last case- gave your wife all the credit. But after he edited it-" Sid shook his head.
"Why would he do something like that?" Remington asked.
"Because you're the one who's in the public eye, Steele. More colourful. Laura Holt Steele may be the best PI in the state, but she tends to fade into the woodwork. Especially when you're anywhere around."
"Which makes it all the more important that the Agency find someone who can stop things like that from happening. Maybe someone to -to find reporters with the various media outlets that *can* get the story right."
"Give credit where credit's due," Sid mused. "Sounds like a good idea."
"Think you could handle it?"
Sid finished his wine. "If I were a suspicious man, Mr. Steele, I'd think you were trying to bribe me."
"Bribe you? Why on earth would I want to do something like that?" Remington asked, trying to look innocent.
"Maybe to distract me from the story I'm planning," Sid suggested.
"Sid, Sid," Remington said. "What's a byline when you can make more money in a month that you've probably ever made in your entire life? Eh, mate?"
Sid poured another glass of wine. "How much money are we talking?" he asked in a speculative tone, then lifted his glass to his lips, only to sputter in surprise when Steele mentioned a figure. "Wha-?"
"Merely a round figure, I'm sure the actual amount- including an expense account-"
"What about an office?" Sid asked.
"Where's your office now?"
"The- uh- basement of the Trib," Sid admitted. "They- put me in charge of the morgue," he said.
"Then it would be a major promotion, wouldn't you say?"
"I don't know. What about the story?"
"Tenacious," Remington commented with a smile. "I like that, Sid. Tell you what, if the time ever comes when I *do* decide to, uh, spill my guts to a reporter, you'll have an iron-clad exclusive on the sotry."
"Can I get back to you, Steele?" Sid asked. "Monday? I can't just leave Mary in the lurch."
"Mary? Your wife?"
"I've worked with her at the paper for thirty years. Started out in the press room together. She's filed papers in the morgue for longer than either of us care to remember. Pity, though."
"What?"
"Well, they're talking about putting all of those back issues on computer. Won't be much for her to do once that happens."
Remington nodded sympathetically. "Modern technology," he said. "Before we know it, they'll be closing down the post office because everyone's 'on the net'," he commiserated.
"Yeah. Really stinks."
"So, Sid, how did you become a reporter?"
***
By Saturday afternoon, Remington was at his wits' end. With the children gone, he'd actually slept past ten for the first time in a long time. Then he had lolled around in the garden, enjoying the spring weather, talking to Harley as the gardener worked on the flower beds. He had a solitary lunch, perfectly prepared by Mrs. Hobbs, and then went out to the garage to the silver BMW that he'd treated himself to on his last birthday.
He got into the car and felt a momentary pang of regret for the loss of the Auburn. A reckless driver had missed a red-light, totaling the car two years ago. Luckily, he hadn't been driving fast enough to seriously injure Remington, but the vintage Speedster had been totaled.
At least, he reasoned, it was easier to tail someone in the BMW than in the limo- or even in Laura's MG. The sleek silver car fit into the Southern California scene easily. And it handled like a dream. It had a much better turning radius, and the fuel mileage was nearly three times what the Auburn's had been.
He drove to Jessica's loft on 10th, and instead of taking the lift, he deliberately took the stairs, pausing halfway up to check his pulse. Not bad, he thought. Not for a forty something, desk bound paper pusher, anyway.
Jessica sat, the velvet ring box in her hands. She'd expected Tony to call, at least. How the bloody hell was she supposed to return this if he made himself so scarce? A knock on the door caused her to start almost guiltily. Putting the ring box into her pocket, she slid the door open. "Remington. What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Hoping you'll take pity on your lonely big brother," he told her with a grin. "Can I come in?"
"Of course," she said, stepping back to allow him to enter, then closing the door. "At a loose end?" she questioned.
"A bit of one, yes. I suppose I've gotten used to having Laura and the kids about," he confessed. "Always something going on, even when we're not at the office. That house was like a bloody morgue."
"Well, it's only until tomorrow," Jessica reminded him. "Tea?" she asked, going toward the kitchen.
"Thank you." He wandered over to the kitchen, watching as she put the kettle on. "I thought we might do something," he suggested.
"Such as?" she asked, glancing up at him as she prepared the cups and saucers.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe- the Diamond show?"
Jessica stopped and stared. "I thought you were taking the children there tomorrow?"
Remington shrugged. "This way I'll know what they might like or dislike," he said. "Except for Megan. I have the uneasy feeling that she's got the same attraction to shiny objects that I do."
The kettle hid Jessica's chuckle of laughter. "And it doesn't hurt that Laura won't be there, since she's at Disneyland with the children, I suppose," she pointed out.
"Yes, well, I'm hoping I can get in and out without being recognized," Remington admitted. "That way I don't steal her thunder. The last thing she needs right now is to have some reporter suggesting that I went to check up on her work."
"Too true. Very well." She poured the boiling water over the tea. "After we have our tea, I'll change and we can go."
"Thanks, Jessica. You're an angel."
"No, I'm not, Remington," she said with a sigh. "I'm just your sister."
She turned her attention to the tea.
***
The exhibit room was filled with people, and Remington paused with Jessica on the edge of the crowd, his eyes aglow as he took in the cases spread around the room, all containing glittering, gleaming gems of every shape and size. "Some habits never die, hmm, big brother?" Jessica teased, slipping her arm through his.
"Nonsense," Remington insisted, a bit embarrassed at being caught out. "Shall we continue?"
"Lead on," she agreed.
As they moved from cabinet to cabinet, Remington noticed that Jessica's eyes were taking on a familiar gleam, and he leaned closer. "Seems that Megan and I aren't the only ones with a certain - appreciation," he noted.
Jessica smiled. "Perhaps it's hereditary," she suggested. "And if it is, I'd keep a close watch on Daniel."
"Hmm."
"Mr. Steele!" They turned to find Philip Cameron standing nearby, his hand outstretched. "What a surprise. I'm sorry that you missed the grand opening."
"I know, but it couldn't be helped," Remington explained, shaking Cameron's hand. "I thought it best if I kept a low profile."
"I understand. I do want to apologize for cutting you out that way. But your wife can be- very persuasive."
"yes. That she can. And I don't hold it against you. I quite understand."
Cameron's gaze turned to Jessica. "And you must be Mr. Steele's sister."
"Jessica Beecham," Remington said. "Philip Cameron."
"Miss Beecham."
"Mr. Cameron," Jessica said, shaking his hand. Remington noticed that Cameron retained her hand in his for a shade longer than absolutely necessary. "May I ask how you knew who I was?"
"I've been keeping an eye on you," Cameron confessed. "You're an attorney, aren't you?"
"Well, yes. I am."
"One of the best," Remington told Cameron proudly.
"Remington," Jessica chastised, but Cameron smiled.
"So I've heard. Cameron Industries is always interested in good attorneys," Philip Cameron assured her. "In fact, I'm been thinking about hiring a firm to handle my personal matters." He glanced at Remington. "You don't mind if I steal her away for a moment, Mr. Steele? To discuss business. And anything else that might come up."
"No. Be my guest," Remington said. "I'll just- continue examining this magnificent collection."
"Does take one's breath away, doesn't it?" Philip said, then offered an arm to Jessica. "Shall we, Miss Beecham?"
Remington turned back to the display of the Marchesa Collection, only to sense that someone was standing close by. Looking up, he found himself face to face with Tony. "Antony. What are you doing here?" he asked, then followed Tony's gaze to Jessica and Philip Cameron. "They make an attractive couple, don't they?"
"I didn't know they knew each other," Tony said.
"They only just met," Remington confirmed. "I believe I asked a question."
"Oh, I wanted to see the show," Tony explained. "I told Laura that I'd keep an eye on things while she went to Disneyland," he admitted under Steele's firm gaze. "I offered, she didn't ask." His eyes moved to Jessica and Philip again.
***
In another part of the Exhibition Center, four men stood near a laundry basket as one of them pulled out some guns. "Here you go," he said. "Now keep them hidden until you get the sign. And whatever you do, keep calm. Don't panic, okay?"
"Hey, we're professionals, Zachary," one of the men said. They were all similarly dressed, in dark slacks, black turtleneck sweaters and sports coats.
"You all got your masks?"
"Yeah," the other three answered, either in the process of checking their weapons or stowing them out of sight in their shoulder holsters.
"Okay. We'll go in one at a time. Remember the plan. When I walk into the room, put on your masks." He nodded at the first man. "Okay, Hank. Go. Lou, you follow in three minutes . . ."
To Be Continued . . .