"Laura… maybe we ought to think about getting out of this business."
The head resting idly on Remington Steele’s shoulder jerked upright.
He met his wife’s indignant, confused eyes steadily, but Laura felt the length of his body tense up beside her own.
"What?" she managed to say, still unsure if she’d heard correctly.
He held up a hand. "Hear me out, please. I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, and I believe it’s something that we really must discuss."
Her eyebrows furrowed; the question in her eyes deepening. Steele felt himself reach out to stroke the tumble of hair framing her face.
"These last few months with you have been… the happiest I have ever known in my life," he said. "I never thought – I never even imagined that being married to someone could bring such joy."
Laura’s heart skipped a beat. Her head reeled. What brought this on? He stopped, and she wasn’t sure if he was waiting for a reaction or choosing his words. But the tenderness in those blue eyes made her reach up and grasp the hand that now caressed her cheek. Their fingers intertwined.
"Me too," she said softly. They both smiled.
"Every day, I wonder how we managed to resist this for four years," he continued. "Now it seems my every waking moment is filled with you, with ‘us’, our life together…and I just can’t imagine a future without this – without you."
Speechless at his words, her eyes misted.
"That’s why every time you leave my side to track down a lead, or follow a suspect, I’m consumed by the fear that something could happen to you and I won’t be there to stop it," he said with a catch in his voice. "I can’t lose you, Laura. I have waited far too long to find you."
She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. "I know," she whispered. "I know." They clung to each other fiercely, almost afraid to let go.
"I love you," Laura said at last.
"And I you," Steele answered.
Reluctantly, Steele pulled away and cupped Laura’s face in his hands. He must pursue the subject he’d had so much difficulty broaching.
"Perhaps now you understand why I had to bring this up," he said. "I know, probably better than anyone, how much you love your work. We both thrive on the excitement, the unpredictable lifestyle, the danger… but we’ve never really stopped and thought about what we’re risking each time we begin a chase, or find bullets sprayed all around us–– "
She pressed a finger to his lips. "That hasn’t happened since we got married."
"Yes, but do you honestly believe that it won’t happen again in the future?"
"No, but––"
"Laura."
Something in his tone sent a chill running down her spine. She finally saw what he was getting at.
"How many times in the past have we come close to losing our lives, Laura? How many split-second flashes between life and certain death have we slid through thanks to nothing but sheer, blind luck? And how much longer…?"
"—will our luck hold out?" she finished, her voice barely audible.
"Exactly," Steele said. A sigh emerged from lips. "I realize of course that the risks we face now aren’t any greater than they were before, but I just don’t feel comfortable challenging the odds anymore."
He suddenly looked away, remembering the pain of having someone torn away from his life without preamble nor apology. He remembered a white hot moment of clarity that had seared through his being, leaving a chill that radiated from the inside out and a scar that never quite healed.
Laura felt him shudder and saw the pain that clouded his eyes. For the second time, she folded herself into his arms and held on tight. "I understand. So many times in the last four years, I simply refused to accept the possibility that anything could happen to you. I couldn’t. I had to believe that you were immortal, and would somehow magically appear in front of me, intact, no matter what. And it’s worked so far."
He had to smile. The admission in turn surprised, then delighted him. For so long, the two of them had bottled up their sentiments and hid behind masks of feigned indifference. The ease with which they expressed their feelings now never failed to amaze both of them. They looked at each other, having achieved another level of intimacy they’d never thought possible.
"So what should we do about this, my darling wife?"
"I don’t know," she sighed. "I honestly don’t know."
"I know this: it’s not fair to ask you to give up everything you’ve worked for all these years. Even if you did, I cannot picture us having anything that even remotely resembles a normal domestic life. Can you?"
"What are you saying?"
"I’m saying I want you to be happy. Can you be happy as anything other than a detective?"
Laura chewed on a lip. "Truth is, I’ve never thought about NOT being a detective."
"I suspected as much," Steele mused. "If giving up the profession is not an option, then we must find a compromise somewhere. Maybe take only the more routine cases, or concentrate on those that are least likely to expose us to any danger."
"That’s difficult to say," Laura argued. "We’ve had countless cases that seemed open-and-shut at first and got tremendously ugly later on."
"Precisely. So short of not taking any cases altogether, how can we cut down the risks?"
A long silence followed. Laura planted her chin on his chest, enjoying its steady rise and fall, feeling the rhythm of his heart pounding through. One gunshot, one "accident" and this could all be gone. Their life together was that fragile. Could she go back to the way it was before him? Something in her chest tightened at the thought.
Finally, she spoke. "You were right to bring this up. We have to think about it. I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened…" She couldn’t even bring herself to say "to you".
"I wish I could just promise you that nothing won’t, but we both know there are no guarantees in this business."
"But can you see us in some regular nine-to-five job, doing the same things day in and day out? You’d be just as bored as I am. You can’t even stand paperwork."
"Touché," her husband smiled ruefully in agreement
"I’m not saying I won’t give it up; you know I would if I had to. I just don’t see a viable alternative at the moment… for both of us."
"Now you know why it was so hard to bring up the subject. I’m glad you understand why we have to at least consider it," he said.
"I promise I’ll keep thinking about it until we find some kind of solution. For now, we can just be more careful," she suggested. "That goes for both of us. No macho risk-taking on your part to try to protect me." She felt him bristle. "No buts!"
"Then none of that feminist-driven recklessness from you trying to prove yourself, either," he countered. "You don’t have to prove anything anymore, Laura. Least of all to me."
She drank in his words and saw pride mingling with the concern in his eyes. She leaned over and kissed him. When the kiss ended, he said, "I can’t promise not to look out for you. You know that."
"I know. And I can’t promise not to take risks if it means saving or protecting you. Let’s just pray that it never comes to that… ever."
She touched his face tenderly. Her fingers slowly drew across the lines of his eyebrows, his cheekbones, the aristocratic nose, down to his lips as she tried to memorize every handsome feature before her. Wordlessly, he mirrored her actions and her feelings before pulling her close for another kiss. This one seemed to last an eternity.
That night, they made love so slowly –– anxious to savor every moment, every kiss, every heartbeat. They traced the lines and curves along each other’s bodies, each leaving his or her mark with their hands and lips, hoping to sear the memory of every sensation into their minds. They moved together with a grace and certainty more powerful than they had ever experienced before, and when they finally collapsed into an embrace, passions spent, neither moved. With their bodies intertwined, they drifted off to a deep slumber, dreaming of each other and the possibilities ahead of them.
They sauntered into the office hand in hand the next day, oblivious to the knowing (and delighted) smile Mildred Krebs gave them.
"G’morning Mildred," both of them greeted in turn as Laura picked up the mail from Mildred’s desk.
"What have we got for today?" Steele asked.
"There’s a Miss Rothschild waiting in your office for you."
"Back to the salt mines," Steele answered with an exaggerated sigh. "Come along, Mrs. Steele. The client awaits." He put an arm around her shoulders and steered her towards his office.
They found a young lady dressed in an immaculate business suit pacing restlessly in front of Steele’s desk. During the introductions, they found out that Nancy Rothschild was employed at a downtown bank and had made the appointment more than two weeks before.
"I wasn’t even sure I would really need to come, but I talked to my mother again last night and decided I had no choice," she began. "It’s about my dad."
She explained that her father, a Judge Terence Rothschild of the LA district, had been acting strangely for the last few months. Every few weeks, he would come home late, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol. He refused to give any explanations to his wife other than it was business-related and the less she knew, the better. "My mother is worried about him and suspects he may be having an affair."
"So you want us to follow him and find out for sure?" Laura asked with a sidelong glance at Steele.
"Yes," Nancy Rothschild declared with a determined nod. "Even if he is cheating on my mother, at least we don’t have to wonder what’s really going on."
"Surveillance is a tedious and unpredictable task, Miss Rothschild," Steele offered. "It might take a while before we turn up anything conclusive."
"That’s okay," Rothschild said, "I just want to put my mother’s mind at ease, one way or another."
The two detectives glanced at each other. Steele raised his eyebrows questioningly, then Laura gave an almost imperceptible nod. They began grilling their new client on the life and habits of Terence Rothschild.
They followed the judge around uneventfully for the next two and a half weeks. The inevitable routine and accompanying boredom of a surveillance assignment became the venue for a strange brand of domesticity for the newlyweds. They lingered over coffee and pastries in a café while watching Terence Rothschild partake of his breakfast. They posed as lovers strolling in a park while the judge jogged. As their mark worked in his office, they munched on Chinese takeout in the car and brainstormed on alternative careers. The frontrunner choice so far had been to re-market the agency as a security specialist and dispense with other types of cases, but it would mean a possibly drastic cut on income plus insurance and litigation concerns if systems for the more valuable items were ever breached.
"You realize of course that if we weren’t committed to walk the straight and narrow, our options would multiply considerably," mused the former conman extraordinaire at one time. The comment extracted the expected glare from his wife and a chuckle from him.
This particular night, they were parked across the street from the judge’s office.
"You know what I like most about our stakeouts now?"
"What?" Laura asked suspiciously.
"You don’t think up creative excuses to spurn my advances anymore," he said with a wickedly smug grin.
"Ha! Don’t tempt me!"
"Oh, but I can’t help it…you are so irresistibly beautiful," he said, turning on the charm full force and making a grab for her. They were in the middle of a playful wrestling match, with Laura pretending (unconvincingly, we might add) that she didn’t find it all amusing, when Judge Rothschild walked out of his building.
"Don’t look now, but our quarry is on the move," Steele warned Laura as he continued to kiss her. When Laura made a move to sit up, he stopped her and pulled her lower on the car seat. "Stay down. He’s crossing the street to our side."
"Why? His car’s at the back of the building."
"Wait, I think he’s hailing a cab," he said. "Yes, he’s off. Tonight’s the night."
"Finally!" exclaimed Laura as they untangled themselves. Steele gunned the engine and they began tailing the cab.
They followed the judge to a seedy place called Vinnie’s. Spotting the judge at a table with three men and a couple of skimpily clad women, the two of them found a good view from the bar and started chatting up the bartender. He turned out to be a tight-lipped fellow, so they were stuck watching what looked like idle chitchat over another round of drinks at the judge’s table. About two rounds later, one of the men pulled out an envelop and shoved it across to the judge.
"We’re not making any headway; I can’t tell what’s going on," Laura commented. "I’m going over there."
"As what?"
She shook her hair loose, took off her jacket and tucked out her shirt. "Do I look scruffy enough to pass for a bar-hopping law student?"
"You should have brought your glasses," Steele answered with a smile. "Knock ‘em dead, Mrs. Steele. Or is it Myrtle Groggins tonight?"
"You know I hate that name."
Rothschild had just finished skimming the document in the envelop and was looking for a pen when Laura introduced herself as Tracy Andrews, a paralegal cum part-time law student at UCLA and a big fan of His Honor Terence Rothschild.
"I’m thinking of specializing in criminal law and have observed you in court so many times," ‘Tracy’ gushed at the somewhat flabbergasted judge. She tried to take in as much of the unsigned document lying on the table in front of him. "I’ve read some of your articles in the law review and I must say, your ruling on the Parsons case was fascinating." Thank heavens they’d attended some of his court sessions in the last two weeks.
"That was just a routine juvenile misdemeanor."
"Ooops," thought Laura. A dark, stocky guy sitting across the judge stood up and offered his hand, sparing her from a reply.
"Vinnie Prescott," he said. His other hand casually pushed the document on the table towards the judge, who took the hint and hastily shoved it back into its envelop.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Prescott. Vinnie’s… oh, you must own this place." She noticed that the man sitting beside Prescott, the one who’d handed the judge the envelop, was wearing a police uniform under his jacket.
"Yeah. So what brings you here?"
"Oh, I was just bar-hopping with a colleague and I couldn’t believe it when I saw Judge Rothschild. Do you come here often, your Honor?"
The judge began to look very uncomfortable.
"We go way back," Vinnie Prescott answered for him. "Is there something else we can do for you?"
Laura sensed that she had pushed far enough. "No, no; sorry if I interrupted your conversation. I just didn’t want to miss the opportunity to meet Judge Rothschild in person. I really should be getting back to my friend."
She beat a hasty retreat to the bar. The men at the table eyed her progress except for the judge, whose back was to the bar.
"Let’s go," she told Steele. Glancing back, she found the man sitting on Vinnie Prescott’s other side looking at her partner thoughtfully. "Uh-oh, turn away. They might recognize you."
Steele paid the tab and they quickly left. As soon as they got in the car, she filled him in on what happened.
"As far I can tell, he was about to sign a search warrant for a company called RCI Enterprises."
"A search warrant?" Steele exclaimed. "What’s he doing signing search warrants in a place like that?"
"Well, the guy sitting beside Prescott is a cop. He was wearing a uniform under his coat," Laura replied.
"Curiouser and curiouser. At least now we know that the good judge is not involved in an extramarital affair."
"Mrs. Rothschild will be happy to hear that, but I wonder if her daughter will be as pleased. Just what is old Terence up to?"
A background check on Vinnie Prescott the next day revealed that apart from owning the bar, he was a small-time mobster with police records for smuggling and narcotics.
"I’m not sure I like where this is going," Steele commented.
"Me neither," Laura said. "I still don’t understand why they would need a search warrant from Judge Rothschild if they’re into smuggling or narcotics."
"What about RCI Enterprises?"
"According to Mildred’s research, it’s a trading company based in LA that ships merchandise from all over the world, particularly coffee from South America."
"Coffee?" Steele’s eyebrows shot up. "If I remember correctly, coffee grounds are one of the best places to hide drugs. Beverly Hills Cop, Eddie Murphy, Judge Reinhold, Paramount 1984. The aroma foils the noses of canine inspectors."
"I thought that was bearer bonds being smuggled in shipping crates."
Her answer was greeted with a puzzled frown. "Hmm, now I’m not sure. Maybe I should rent that video again."
"Maybe you should go down to City Hall instead and find out if our client’s father has issued any other search warrants for coffee companies lately," Laura remarked with a chuckle.
"And what will you be doing?"
"I think I’ll visit my friend down at the police station and try to ID that cop at the bar."
At the end of the day, both of them turned up nothing. Terence Rothschild hadn’t issued any kind of search warrant in more than a year, and that was for the residence of a homicide suspect. Laura, on the other hand, had no luck going through the huge LAPD police database.
"He’s probably not even a cop," she complained.
Steele smiled at her frustration. "Well, I asked Mildred to check if RCI Enterprises has had any shipments lately. It seems they’re expecting one big coffee shipment from South America in a few days. How do you suggest we go about investigating this one?"
The look of frustration was replaced by a thoughtful one.