STEELE ‘O MY HEART: INTENSIVE STEELE

BY: Susan Deborah Smith

SUMMARY:

DISCLAIMER: This "Remington Steele" story is not-for-profit and is purely for entertainment purposes. The author and this site do not own the characters and are in no way affiliated with "Remington Steele," the actors, their agents, the producers, MTM Productions, the NBC Television Network or any station or network carrying the show in syndication, or anyone in the industry.

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Outside the doors that guarded intensive care, she stood and shook. Then she lifted the receiver of the pay phone and dropped it. It took more than a few deep breaths to recover some kind of motor skill, enough to pick up the phone, hold it, put it between her shoulder and her ear.

Somewhere in her purse was her filofax. She focused her attention on finding it. Somewhere in the filofax was Gabbie’s number. Her attention shifted to finding that. Somewhere in her mind and in her fingers was the ability to work a touchtone phone. Focused on that, she dropped a quarter in the slot and punched in the number.

The phone rang, and then a message began to play. Laura waited impatiently for the beep.

“Gabbie,” she said. “This is Mrs. Steele. If you’re there, please pick up.”

There was no answer.

“All right. Okay. I forget your boyfriend’s name, but if he’s there — ” Nothing but silence met this plea. “Well,” she said finally, “if you get this message, please page me. The number is — ” God, she’d forgotten her own beeper number. “Wait. I’ll find it. Just don’t — ”

While she fumbled in her purse, talking all the time to keep the machine running, there was a clatter on the other end of the line.

“Mrs. Steele?” said a breathless voice. “Hi. It’s Gabbie. We were asleep.”

“Gabbie, oh, great,” said Laura, weak with relief that she now had a human to talk to. “Can you do me a really big favour? Mr. Steele — ” She took another breath. “Mr. Steele’s been — Oh, God,” she said. “Gabbie, Mr. Steele’s been shot, and I’m at the hospital, but Margarita has to go home and I can’t find Mildred and — ”

“Shot?” Gabbie repeated. “Oh, my God. Is he okay? I mean — ”

“I don’t know,” Laura told her. “They don’t know. He’s still in surgery.”

“Mrs. Steele — ”

“We’re at Cedars,” Laura went on, because if she stopped talking, if she stopped being in charge of something, she didn’t know what might happen. “And I was wondering if I could ask you a really big favour.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Margarita’s at home with Tracy. There are some cops there, watching the house, just in case, you know, because one of them, I guess, got away. But Margarita needs to go home. She didn’t say anything, and I know she’ll stay as long as we need her, but I’d rather — Well, Tracy knows you, and you’re close by, and if Margarita could go home and get some sleep and see her kids, then she could be back tomorrow, and I know it’s a lot to ask, but — ”

“Mrs. Steele, just give me ten minutes to get dressed. And tell me where you live.”

The Steeles in fact lived barely a mile from Gabbie’s apartment, but it might as well have been a world away.

“Okay,” said Gabbie, as soon as Laura gave the address. “Got it. I’ll call you the minute I get there.”

“You can’t,” Laura explained. “Cell phones do something to the equipment; I had to turn mine off. But you can page me, and I’ll call home in about an hour.”

“Forty five minutes,” Gabbie replied. “Tops.”

“Thank you so much,” said Laura. She hung up and found another quarter and tried Mildred’s number for about the tenth time.

***

The doctor, not the one from the emergency room who had greeted her when she first arrived, but the surgeon, came out to tell her that Steele was still alive, that he’d come through the surgery okay, that they had every hope and expectation but that they wouldn’t know for sure until he was stable.

“How long is that?” asked Laura.

“Probably about forty eight hours,” the surgeon replied.

Two days.

He described the injury in a way that went right over Laura’s head — she knew from the E.R. doctor that Steele had been shot in the chest, but beyond that she had the idea she was catching only every third word. Then he explained something she did understand, that if someone hadn’t seen the shooting and phoned for the paramedics practically instantly, the news he would be giving her would be very much worse.

“Can I see him?” she said.

“Just for a moment.”

It wasn’t really a moment; it was only a glimpse of her husband, surrounded by a medical team, being rolled down the hall toward intensive care.

***

Gabbie, her hair dripping wet and her lipstick on not too straight, showed her I.D. to a policeman who was waiting at the house. The policeman knocked on the door for her and announced himself; Margarita opened it after a considerable pause.

“Hi,” said Gabbie, taking her I.D. back from the cop. “I’m Gabbie. Mrs. Steele — ”

Margarita wrung her hand and pulled her through the doorway, all the way talking rapidly in Spanish.

“Oh,” said Gabbie, when the other woman took a breath. “Um. No hablo. I mean, I don’t really speak much espanol, senora.”

“No habla?” Margarita exclaimed. “But Mrs. Steele said you — ”

“That I’m bilingual. Yeah, well. I don’t know where they got that idea, except … ” She gestured, indicating herself. “You know.”

The other woman laughed her understanding, then checked herself. She shook her head. “ ’S okay. Forget about it. I’m just glad you’re here! Have you seen Mr. Steele?”

Gabbie shook her head. “Mrs. Steele called me from the hospital. I guess … ”

“It’s pretty bad for sure. And dangerous, too. You think the LAPD comes to somebody’s house for nothing? You think they arrange to have the Santa Monica police stay around at somebody’s house every day?”

Somebody was sitting at the top of the stairs, looking through the railing.

“Hey,” said Gabbie. “Aren’t you Tracy Steele?”

Tracy looked harder. “Are you Gabbie?”

“Sure. You know me. Right?”

Tracy clearly wasn’t sure, and remained at her post, guarding the stairs. Margarita led Gabbie back to the kitchen and showed her where things were and what might be suitable for breakfast. Gabbie trailed her upstairs, past the little girl and her Paddington Bear, to see a bathroom and a guest room and Tracy’s room.

“Little Miss Steele should be in bed, by now,” Margarita explained. “In bed a long time ago, but you can see how it is. I’ll be back tomorrow by nine o’clock — ten at the latest . She’s had her bath, and she knows what to wear to pre-school, so just make sure she has her breakfast by eight thirty, and everything will be okay.”

“Okay,” said Gabbie.

***

There he was, amid a tangle of tubes and wires. Someone set a chair for her on the side that was most free of these encumbrances.

“Remington?” she said, knowing full well he wasn’t awake. “Mr. Steele,” she said, going to him and taking his hand in hers. “It’s me. It’s Laura.”

The nurse checked something, then pulled a curtain so at least others in similar dire straits were out of view.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” she went on, sinking into the chair. “It was kind of a surprise, when they came and told me.”

She tried not to look at the tubes, at the ventilator. Another doctor had assured her that he could breathe on his own, that this was standard procedure, to give the patient a better chance. That was Remington Steele, now: a patient, a victim.

“This isn’t exactly the way I’d planned to spend my evening,” she said. “That was a pretty nice dinner I had going, and I thought that later, you know, we could … ”

He didn’t answer; she didn’t expect him to.

“I used to get so mad,” she told him, “when you’d go off without me. You didn’t know the business, you didn’t know what you were doing. Right? Well, now you do, and I still get mad. Like tonight. What were you doing down there? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The machine kept Steele breathing in a steady, mechanical way. The sound was familiar, somehow; it was as if Darth Vader (Star Wars. Harrison Ford, Carrie Fisher, Mark Hamill. Twentieth Century Fox, 1977) were lurking nearby.

The room was warm, but his hand in hers was almost cold. She could feel the pulse in his thumb; she could see his heart and his brain scrolling across the screen beside him. She knew he was there, and he didn’t need her anger just now.

While she tried to think of positive things to say, the nurse came back.

“Mrs. Steele,” she said. “We’ve got some time limits on visitors to patients in intensive care.”

“Of course,” Laura replied, rising automatically.

“I’m not throwing you out,” the nurse explained. “I just wanted to let you know, in case someone does look at the clock.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“In fact,” the nurse went on, “maybe I am throwing you out. I have to do a couple of things, so why don’t you go on, maybe there’s someone you need to call, comb your hair, whatever. Then you buzz me — there’s a button by the door — and I’ll let you right back in.”

Laura nodded, and squeezed Steele’s hand. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “Before you know it.” Smoothing the hair back from his forehead, she bent carefully to kiss him.

***

As soon as Margarita took her leave, the phone rang, and Tracy ran for it.

“Mommy?” she said. “Mommy! Are you and daddy coming home tonight?”

She listened intently, tears streaming down her face, and held the phone out. “She can’t come home tonight. She wants to talk to you.”

Gabbie took the phone. “Mrs. Steele?”

Mrs. Steele mostly had a list of eighteen things that Gabbie could do while she was at the house. Margarita had actually gone over each of those things already, but Gabbie listened, ruffling and smoothing Tracy’s hair the while. Little Miss Steele stood very close the whole time, as if her mother’s voice and presence might penetrate if there were less distance between her and the phone.

“Okay,” Gabbie said at last. “I think we’re fine. Right, Tracy? Sure, we’ll be fine. How are you doing, Mrs. Steele?” She couldn’t ask about Mr. Steele. What if he was worse? What if —

“Um, I’m okay. I’m okay, Gabbie,”said Mrs. Steele. “I think. I’m not leaving here. In case he wakes up, I want him to see me, but I’ll check back with you first thing in the morning unless — ” Something choked off her voice.

“Unless you have good news,” Gabbie suggested.

After a long pause, Mrs. Steele said, “Yes. That’s right. I’ll call as soon as I have good news.”

***

The back door banged shut, and Mildred leaned against it, easing off her shoes. Bob was a great dancer, and she hadn’t been about to let her sore feet talk her into saying no to one last number. Now, though, it was a relief to let those toes spread out.

On her way to the bathroom, she flipped on the news; on her way back to the kitchen, she heard a reporter saying something about a violent robbery — as if there were any other kind.

“The victim, a forty one year old male, was transported to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, where he is undergoing surgery for a bullet wound to the chest.”

Mildred put three cookies on a plate and poured a little glass of milk.

“The suspects escaped in a late model sedan, either gray or light blue, partial license plate number 1KLV.” An illustration of the type of car appeared on the screen. “If you have any information, you’re urged to contact the LAPD. This is Kelly Mack in the Wilshire District.”

Munching her way through the weather report, Mildred hunted for the TV Guide. She found it lying on the end table, next to her answering machine, where nine messages were stacked up.

The first three calls were hang-ups. The next was Mrs. Steele, on what sounded like her car phone. “Mildred, are you there? It’s Laura.” The next one was also Mrs. Steele, but with more interference, barely intelligible. Then, “Mildred, it’s Laura again. Please page me as soon as you can. I’m at Cedars-Sinai with Mr. Steele, and I can’t use my cell phone here.”

The next message was almost exactly the same. Putting two and two together, Mildred was already throwing off her bathrobe, tugging on a pair of slacks and punching in Mrs. Steele’s beeper number.

The closet was mostly empty and the hamper full; the only thing that came right to hand that was clean and presentable was her bowling shirt. A pair of loafers was the most her feet could hope for at this point; then she headed for the kitchen.

She’d made up a cheese sandwich and dumped half a dozen cookies into a ziplock when the phone rang. Mildred snatched it off the wall.

“Is that you, hon? How are you? How’s he? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, Mildred,” said Mrs. Steele. “They don’t know. Someone shot him and took his wallet, but not the car and — ”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Steele replied after a pause. “But I can only be with him for ten minutes. Once an hour.”

“I’m on my way,” Mildred announced, stuffing the snacks into her purse.

“Oh, no, Mildred, it’s late and I — ”

“No buts,” Mildred said sternly. “How do I find you?”

Obediently, Mrs. Steele gave her the floor number and directions, and Mildred was on her way.

***

To put off going to bed, Tracy was happy to show Gabbie all kinds of neat things about the house. The walk-in closet in the master bedroom, for instance. She put her slippered feet in a pair of her mother’s shoes and modeled them for Gabbie.

“Those are nice,” Gabbie told her. “But shouldn’t you — ”

“And these,” Tracy went on, shuffling in high heels to the other side of the closet, “are my daddy’s.”

It was a pretty impressive array, everything neatly lined up and probably coordinated with what hung on the rod above. Mrs. Steele had an enviable wardrobe, but Gabbie had never seen a man with so many clothes as Mr. Steele. She had worked at the agency quite a while before she’d seen any of his suits a second time.

“Those are really neat,” Gabbie agreed. Then she yawned dramatically. “Wow,” she said, yawning a second time. “I can’t believe I’m so sleepy!” Looking around blankly, she added, “Margarita showed me my room, but I forget where it is.”

Tracy kicked off her mother’s shoes, took Gabbie by the hand and led her down the hall. Since her audience was going to sleep, it didn’t take much to convince Tracy that it might be time to pack it in for the night.

Drink of water — check. Prayers said — check. Flashlight close by — check. Gabbie tucked Tracy in and said good night. Then she turned out the light and pulled the door most of the way shut.

She had just settled herself down in the guest room when a shadow appeared in the doorway. She sat right up again and found that it was only Tracy and her bear.

“Can I sleep in here with you?” said Tracy.

“Oh,” said Gabbie. “But you have your own room and -- ”

Since this was not a definite no, Tracy came forward and climbed up on the bed. Gabbie, who had a considerably younger sister and was not unfamiliar with the concept of providing reassurance against bad dreams, monsters under the bed and the general uncertainty of the world at large, blew out a deep breath and moved over.

***

When she was allowed to come back, Laura sat close to Steele, as close as she could.

“Tracy’s okay,” she announced. “Margarita had to go home, but Gabbie is there, and they left some cops, just in case, you know.”

Careful of the tubes and wires, she laid her hand against his forehead. Could he sense her touch? Was her warmth, her presence, getting through to him somehow?

“I don’t know if I should call your grandmother. Would you like her to come out here? It’s such a long trip, and — I don’t want to make this into more than it is. I don’t want to make it terrible, you know? If I just keep thinking everything’s fine, then it will be, right?”

He lay very still, not a sign, not a flicker to suggest that he could hear her.

***

Mildred lived only ten minutes from the hospital, but it took another twenty to get the car parked, and a few more to make her way through the maze of corridors. Not to mention the time it took her to get past the security desk. When she finally got upstairs, she found Mrs. Steele sitting on a chair, head in her hands, in the silent lounge.

“Okay, hon,” she said. “Here I am.”

Mrs. Steele looked up, stood up, and fell into her arms. Mildred patted her and soothed her and rubbed her back.

“All right, honey. Okay. It’s all right.” Maneuvering over to a little couch, Mildred sat and pulled Mrs. Steele down with her.

“The police came,” Mrs. Steele was saying. “He was late, so we were eating dinner; he wasn’t answering his cell phone, and I thought, oh, fine, he’s doing some after hours research on his own … ”

“That’s the chief, all right,” Mildred agreed.

“And then — ” Mrs. Steele began, her voice breaking. “And then … ”

Mildred tightened her hold and rocked her slowly back and forth. “Okay, honey,” she murmured, as she glanced around the dimly lit and empty room. “It’s gonna be okay.”

***

Somehow, she’d dozed off. One minute she was talking to Mildred, and the next someone was shaking her shoulder and talking about the time. She sat up, gasping.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Mildred said, “but the nurse said you could have another ten minutes if you — ”

Laura was through the doors of intensive care and gone before Mildred ever finished her sentence.

He looked exactly the same, pale and still, his face distorted by the ventilator.

“The police are looking,” she told him. “Somebody saw the car and got half the license number. But it would really help if you could talk to them. Not right away, of course. But soon. You know.” She brought his hand, clasped in both of hers, to her lips. Then, pressing it to her cheek, she added, “I’d like you to talk to me, too. Just — you know — let me know you’re there.”

She began to wonder if she were making any sense — to him, if he could hear her, to God, if God were listening.

“Don’t go,” she whispered, breaking her own vow to be only upbeat and positive and useful. “Please don’t go.”

***

Gabbie woke up once before the alarm went off. Something had disturbed her, and she sat straight up. It took her a minute to get her bearings as she stared into the unfamiliar dark. Fumbling for her beeper, she squinted at it; no messages.

Gabbie got out of bed carefully so she wouldn’t disturb the softly snoring Tracy and went out to the hall. The house was silent; she couldn’t hear anything, not even noise from the street, but red-tinged shadows played across what she could see of Mr. and Mrs. Steele’s room. Approaching the window cautiously, Gabbie peeked out.

A police car, its rack of lights cycling slowly, idled in the street behind another. Two cops leaned against the fender, talking. Then one of them got in the first car, started it up and rolled out. The other cop looked up at the house, then reached in and killed the lights. Satisfied that this was only a shift change, Gabbie went back to bed.

***

“We’ve gotten out of worse scrapes than this,” she reminded him. “Remember when Major Descoines framed you for murder? This isn’t any worse than that. We have other people to help us, now. All these doctors. They know what to do; they can help you. Back then, it was just us. Nobody but us knew you didn’t do it; nobody but us could prove it. And if just one little thing had gone wrong … ”

She took a deep breath, glanced at the clock, looked back at him.

“Yes, that was much worse.”

***

It was entirely possible for Mildred to be a tower of strength when Mrs. Steele was present, but during the intervals the boss was allowed to spend with the chief all she could do with herself was pace up and down. She was one who knew how to count her blessings; those two kids meant more to her than anybody in the world. What would she do without those kids, either one of them?

Just in case Mrs. Steele came back any time soon, she practiced taking deep breaths. She couldn’t let herself get out of control. That tower of strength had to be ready for anything.

***

The sounds of the intensive care unit were becoming more familiar. They didn’t unnerve her quite so much. Or maybe it was that her attention was concentrated so strongly.

“Didn’t we promise, a long time ago, that we would stop taking those kinds of cases? Didn’t we say, after Tracy was born, that we’d scale back from the kind of big, dangerous cases that always took up so much time? What good does that do if people are just going to come up to you on the street and shoot you?” She took a deep breath. “What were you doing down there?”

Steele didn’t answer; of course he couldn’t.

“Just standing on the street, and somebody — I mean, why didn’t you just give them your money? The car keys? Whatever they wanted?”

She tried to keep her voice low and even, not wanting to disturb anybody, not wanting to upset him, not wanting their one-sided conversation overheard.

“Mrs. Steele?”

The nurse had arrived to tell her their time was up again. It was a different nurse. Had there been a shift change? What time was it? Laura couldn’t tell if it was day or night.

“Did the doctor explain that we’re keeping him sedated?”

Laura nodded. “I’m just talking to keep myself company,” she explained.

“Then you keep talking. I think he can hear you. Not consciously, but I think it helps if he knows you’re here. They’ve done studies about that. Anyway, it can’t hurt.”

“Thanks.”

The nurse pointed to some of the blips on the screen beside Steele’s bed. “We’re monitoring all this, all the time. Over the last hour, we’re starting to see a stronger heartbeat, better BP — blood pressure, I mean. I’m not saying he’s fine. I’m just saying that we’re not losing any ground.”

Laura gazed at Steele, then glanced back up at the nurse. “Thank you.”

***

Mildred had found the coffee machine and drank two cups herself before Mrs. Steele was sent out again. The third cup was still warm, and Mrs. Steele drank it without comment.

“So?” said Mildred after a long time had passed.

Mrs. Steele shrugged. “He feels so cold. They’ve got the heater on and he’s all covered up, but he feels so cold.” She shivered. “The nurse said that was normal, after surgery.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“A fever would be bad, right? Infection . . . ”

“Best doctors in the world, right here,” Mildred reminded her. “He couldn’t be in better hands, honey.”

“I know.” Mrs. Steele slumped against her; Mildred put her arm around her and squeezed. “I know.”

***

Fortunately, Tracy wasn’t much of a fussy eater, and a bowl of cold cereal and a glass of milk were enough to satisfy her. Gabbie was spreading butter on her toast when the phone rang.

“Laura? Hi, it’s Frances.”

Frances? Gabbie wondered. Frances who? “Oh, no. This is — ”

“Is that my mommy?” Tracy demanded.

Gabbie covered the receiver with her hand. “No, Tracy. It’s somebody else.”

Tracy watched intently for signs of whether or not this was true.

Meanwhile, the woman’s voice kept going. “Margarita? I hope my sister hasn’t left for work yet.”

So this was Mrs. Steele’s sister. Mrs. Steele’s sister who didn’t know what was going on. Buying time, she said, “Oh. No. No. This is Gabbie. I work for the Steeles.”

“What happened to Margarita? She was there last week.”

“At the office, Mrs. Piper. I work at the office.”

“Oh, the agency!” Mrs. Steele’s sister laughed. “You can see why I was confused. What are you doing at the house? Would you put my sister on, please.”

“Mrs. Steele isn’t here,” Gabbie explained. “She’s — um — ” She tried to think of a way to explain with Tracy sitting right there.

“Is everything all right?” Mrs. Piper had several children; her ears were keenly attuned to nuance. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

***

It was actually possible to sleep sitting up. A person only had to be tired enough. An unwelcome sound — a voice saying her name over and over — cut through the exhaustion. Laura tried to ignore it.

The sound wouldn’t stop. Laura shuddered and opened her eyes. A woman’s knees, barely covered by a beige skirt, were right in front of her face. Apparently, she wasn’t sitting up any more. She pushed herself up off the couch.

“Frances!”

“Laura, what’s going on?” Frances demanded. “How is Remington? How long have you been here?”

Laura looked at her watch. It wasn’t quite eleven o’clock. Strange, she’d been sure it was long after midnight when — “Oh,” she said. “Since — since — ”

“That girl who works for you, Annie — ”

“Gabbie,” Donald interjected.

Laura looked at her brother-in-law for the first time.

“Yes, that’s it. Gabbie. Gabbie told me you called her at ten o’clock last night and told her to get over to the house.”

Last night! So it must be morning. Or was it night again? What time had Mildred gone home?

“She said Remington had been shot, and then I saw the news, and Donald — ”

It hurt Laura’s neck to stare up at her sister, so she stood up. Swaying slightly, she was surprised to see Frances and Donald and the room spin around.

Someone grabbed hold of her as Frances demanded, “Laura, are you all right?”

“No,” Laura said finally.

“Oh, my God!” Frances exclaimed, clutching her. “He’s not — ”

“No,” Laura repeated. “No, Frances. He’s — ” Only mostly dead, like in The Princess Bride? Mandy Patinkin, Cary Elwes, Robin Wright. Twentieth Century Fox, 1987 . . . “They’re getting him stable. That’s what they told me. Stable. Other than that — ”

“When was the last time you spoke to the doctor?”

Laura wasn’t very clear on that; it seemed to be daytime now, but which day?

“Donald!” Frances spoke urgently to her husband, then put her arm around Laura and guided her back to the couch. “You could’ve called me,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” said Laura.

“What are big sisters for?”

“I’m sorry,” Laura said again.

“Well.” Frances gave her a squeeze. “We need to get you home where you can rest and tidy yourself up a bit.”

“I’m not leaving here.”

“Laura — ”

“No.”

“Laura!”

She pushed herself away. “Frances, I’m not!”

Donald came back and sat on some magazines scattered on the little table. “Okay.” He reached out and tapped Laura on the knee. “Laura, sweetheart, listen to me.”

Laura turned her head and looked at him.

“I talked to the doctor.”

She took a sharp breath. “What didn’t they tell me?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. He’s still listed in critical condition, but he’s stable. They don’t expect that to change in the next couple of hours, so why don’t you let Frannie and me take you home. We can get you some lunch, you can get out of those clothes, you can kiss Tracy — ”

“And leave him?” she demanded. “What if he wakes up, and I’m not here? What if he — ” She couldn’t say it. It was uppermost in her mind, but she couldn’t say it. If she said it, it might be a curse, it might come true . . .

Frances put her arms around her. Donald reached out and took her hand.

“Laura, he’s stable. They can’t say more than that one way or the other because sometimes things do happen, but it’s very, very likely that he’ll come through this just fine. He’s only forty; they got to him fast; he started out in good shape. Those are all factors that affect the outcome.”

Outcome. That was a word she’d heard a lot since last night. Everybody was expecting and hoping for a good outcome. What they meant was, we think he’ll live, we think he’ll be okay, but we’re not sure.

“What if he wakes up? I want him to see me.”

“He’s not going to wake up. Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like that!” Donald mopped his brow. “They’ve got him on midazolam and succinylcholine. That’s a sedative and a muscle relaxant, to keep him unconscious and still. Since the ventilator’s doing the breathing for him, they have to arrest the muscles of the diaphragm so that — ”

“They said he can breathe on his own.”

“I’m sure he can. But they’re doing this to give him a better chance, to give him more time to heal.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Frances suggested. “That’s what you want.”

“The midazolam is what’s keeping him out,” Donald explained. “Someone in his situation can be very agitated by everything that’s going on. How would you feel, if they had you doped up so you couldn’t move or breathe on your own? Pretty upset, right? So they’re keeping him sedated until they decide the ventilator can come out. Then they’ll lower the dose and bring him around.”

Thinking this over, Laura asked, “When?”

Donald shrugged. “It hasn’t even been twenty four hours,” he reminded her.

“They said — maybe forty eight.”

“Okay, you see? They’ve been straight with you.”

“I thought maybe he’d wake up before then, and if he does — ”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Laura: They’ve got him sedated. He’s not going to wake up until they wake him up, and they’re not going to do that as long as they’ve got him on the ventilator.”

For a minute, Laura sat and mulled this over. Then Donald stood up and, taking her firmly by the elbow, pulled her to her feet. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to take you home where you can have a hot bath and a good meal and maybe a nap. And then we’ll bring you back. All right? Right.”

***

Mildred allowed herself to be shoved out of the elevator by a couple of lawyers. Propelled by their force, she continued on down the corridor and stooped in front of the glass doors to unlock the office.

She didn’t need to. The office was unlocked, the lights were on, and somebody was in there.

As Mildred pushed the door open, Gabbie swiveled around in her chair, took note of her entrance, and continued writing on the message pad. Then she hung up the phone.

“What are you doing here?” Mildred demanded.

“Sorting faxes. Logging expenses. Taking messages.”

Mildred grabbed the stack of flimsy papers and sorted through them. “Where’s Tracy?” she said, half expecting to see little Miss Steele parked in a corner somewhere.

“At home with Margarita. Mrs. Steele said I could leave when Margarita came back.”

The kid looked incredibly perky after this rough night, easy enough, Mildred supposed, considering her thirtieth birthday was still somewhere in the future. Still, there was no point in the entire work force operating on the brink of exhaustion.

“Mrs. Steele didn’t mean you had to come straight here. So go home. Get some sleep.”

“I did. Well, as much as I could.” She peered quizzically through her bangs at Mildred. “What about you?”

“I’m all right.”

“What about — you know — him?”

Mildred shrugged. “As of nine a.m. — no change.”

“And Mrs. Steele?”

“What do you think?’

Gabbie considered this as she followed Mildred to her office. “Her sister called. Mrs. Piper, right? I had to tell her something … ”

“It’s okay,” Mildred replied. She took the cup of coffee Gabbie offered and moved on to Mr. Steele’s office. “She would’ve heard it on the news anyway.” The couch looked very inviting, and Gabbie was so eager to do a good job, to be a good soldier. Might as well give the kid a chance. “If you need me,” she said, slipping off her shoes, “I’ll be trying to catch forty winks.”

***

Laura sat and stared out the window at the scenery passing by. In the front seat, Frances and Donald were discussing minor household matters; every now and then one of them would turn back to her and say, “What do you think, Laura?” She didn’t think anything about anything, except her own immediate concerns.

As they pulled into the driveway, a policeman got out of his car.

“Mrs. Steele,” he said.

She didn’t recognize him; he wasn’t the one who had come last night, and he wasn’t the one assigned to stay at the house. She figured he had a picture of her and shook hands. “Officer — ”

“Williams,” he explained. He showed her his I.D., which she scrutinized carefully. He didn’t take this amiss, merely made his report: “Your housekeeper took the little girl to pre-school; she said they’d be back at one thirty.”

“Thanks,” she replied, handing back his identification. “Any word from Sergeant Jarvis?”

“No, ma’am. Not to me. Sorry.”

Laura nodded and went up the front walk. Donald got the mail out of the box and followed with Frances. Unlocking the door, Laura slipped inside and tapped in the code to disable the security system.

“Donald,” Frances was saying. “Why don’t you make us some coffee? Laura, you’d like some coffee, wouldn’t you?”

“Fine,” said Laura, going upstairs. “Thank you, Donald.”

Her clothes fell around her in a heap. Kicking off her shoes, Laura peeled off her stockings and went into the bathroom. She was vaguely aware of her sister fussing behind her.

As the water hit her, Laura closed her eyes. Part of her rebelled at being more than a minute away from her husband; another part of her luxuriated in the simple pleasure of feeling hot water flow down her body.

The rush of water couldn’t quite drown out the world; when she opened her eyes again, Frances was still talking. Her sister had put the lid down on the toilet and was obviously prepared to sit and serenade her with her love and concern for as long as Laura stayed in the shower. Shampoo, soap, loofah: None of this was a deterrent to Frances’s monologue.

Turning off the water, Laura put out her hand. Like magic, a towel was thrust into it. She wrapped herself up and, after wringing the water out of her hair, stepped out onto the bath mat.

Frances gave her another towel. “Feeling better?” she asked.

With a weary smile, Laura admitted, “Much.”

***

About two seconds after she dozed off, Mildred opened her eyes. Gabbie was looking down at her.

“It’s Mrs. Steele,” Gabbie explained. “On the phone.”

Mildred floundered up off the couch. “Where is she? How is she?”

Gabbie lifted the receiver off the phone on Mr. Steele’s desk.

Mildred grabbed it out of her hands. “How are you, honey?” she demanded. “How’s he doing?” She sagged with relief and mouthed to Gabbie, “Slight improvement.” Then she said, “Oh, I’d love to, hon, but I don’t know. Between my knees and your stairs and that little bundle of energy … But she could come over to my place, how about that?” Mildred listened a moment. “Sure, honey. I understand. Hold on.” Punching the hold button, Mildred said, “Can you look after little Miss Steele again tonight?”

“Um,” said Gabbie. “Sure.”

“That’s a go, hon,” Mildred told Mrs. Steele. “The kid’s on the job. How about I bring you some takeout and the news of the day after we close up here? Around seven? You got it!”

***

“Everything okay at the office?” Frances inquired, when Laura came downstairs.

Laura pulled her bathrobe around her more tightly. “Fine. That’s one thing I don’t have to worry about.”

“It’s wonderful the way your staff rallies around.”

“Yes.” She glanced at her watch. Margarita should have been back with Tracy before this. Maybe she’d assign Fred to carpool duty.

A minute later, the front door opened and Tracy came tearing through. “Mommy!” she shrieked.

Laura caught her up in her arms and held her tight. “There’s my girl,” she whispered.

Margarita followed, carrying two bags of groceries. Donald hastened forward to lend a hand.

“Mrs. Steele!” she exclaimed.

“My sister and brother-in-law brought me home to have some lunch and give my little girl a big kiss.” Which she did, a sloppy one.

Tracy squealed with delight.

“And the senor?” Margarita asked tentatively, glancing around.

“I’m going to go back and see him after lunch,” Laura replied with forced cheer.

“Can I come, too?”

“Oh, my goodness, no, Tracy,” her mother told her. “Daddy’s very busy getting well. And I’ll be very busy helping.”

The child viewed this suspiciously.

To forestall tears, Laura added, “And you’ll be very busy drawing pictures for Daddy and things like that.”

A timer went off in the kitchen.

“Hey!” said Donald. “How about some lunch?”

Margarita took over and brought out the lunch and served it. Frances watched Laura closely throughout the meal as they all chatted pleasantly together. Tracy wanted to know more about what was wrong with her daddy — “Does he have the sniffles?” the most pleasant possibility she mentioned — and Laura deflected these questions with skill and reassurance.

Frances was pleased that Laura ate at least most of her lunch. As Margarita cleared the table, she asked her niece what she had planned for the afternoon.

“We could play on the swings,” said Tracy.

“What a wonderful idea!” Aunt Frances enthused. “I’ll bet Uncle Donald would really love to do that,” she added, nudging him.

“You bet I would!” Uncle Donald agreed. He held out his hand to Tracy, and they went into the back yard.

Laura looked at her sister, then at her watch. “I’ve got to get dressed,” she said.

***

Frances followed her upstairs. She obviously had something on her mind, which she’d been holding off on for quite a while. Being Frances, she beat pleasantly around the bush until she thought she had Laura right where she wanted her. Laura searched through the closet, trying to distract her sister with questions about outfits and requests that Frances find things for her in drawers.

Frances Piper was not to be deflected from her goal. The moment Donald, who had turned over the backyard to Margarita, arrived on the scene to lend general moral support, he was asked without prelude to take sides.

“Laura, be reasonable!” Frances insisted. “Wouldn’t Tracy be better off with her family than with some paid stranger? We’d love to have her, wouldn’t we?” She turned expectantly to her husband.

Donald acquiesced to this.

“And the kids — Well, there’s three ready-made playmates, right there!”

“I think Danny has a date tonight,” he cautioned.

Frances cast a baleful look in his direction.

“Of course your kids are always very good with Tracy,” Laura soothed her. “But they’re so much older than she is. They have things to do. They’re in school all day — ”

“I wouldn’t let her out of my sight for a minute,” Frances promised.

“I know you wouldn’t, Frances.”

“And I — ”

Frances was interrupted by the subject of their conversation as Tracy, abandoning outdoor fun, pounded up the stairs and into the bedroom.

“Hey!” said Donald, as Tracy bumped him on her way to her mother. “Here’s my favourite niece!” he added, swinging her up in his arms. He put his mouth close to her ear. “Listen,” he went on conspiratorially. “Your mommy has to go and stay with your daddy again tonight. How’d you like to come over and stay with me and your cousins and Aunt Frances?”

Frances smiled expectantly. Laura rolled her eyes and looked away before composing her expression sufficiently to face her family again.

Tracy was frowning. “Can’t Gabbie come back?” she asked.

Frances’ smile froze into a mask of mortification as Donald guffawed and planted a big kiss on Tracy’s cheek.

Laura lifted her arms, and her brother-in-law passed Tracy over. “Of course she can, sweetheart. But it might be nice, over in Tarzana. What do you think?”

Tracy shook her head.

Laura shrugged. She and Tracy were on the same page, the one that it would take a while for Frances to get to: Neither of them wanted to be far from Steele, or from each other. It might be easier, in the long run, for Frances to look after her only niece, but Tarzana seemed so far away. Santa Monica seemed far away from the hospital, too, but that was just because Laura was trying to do things by remote control.

Wrapping her arms around her daughter, Laura looked up at her sister. “Frances, I appreciate the offer. I do. But I think I’ve got things under control.”

Frances pressed her lips together, then relaxed. “All right,” she agreed. “But any time . . . ”

“I know.”

“All right,” Frances said again.

“We’ll take you back to Cedars,” Donald told her, “whenever you’re ready to go.”

“Thanks.”

“You get dressed or have a nap or whatever. Frances and I’ll watch TV or take a walk or something, right, princess?”

Smiling her thanks, Laura watched Donald guide her sister away. Then she pulled Tracy’s fingers out of her mouth, saying nothing about whether that was a bad habit or not.

“I’m going to take a nap,” she announced. “What about you, little Miss Steele? Want to take a nap, too?”

Tracy shook her head, but made no objection as Laura rearranged the pillows and stretched out on top of the quilt. Tracy wasted no time snuggling up beside her and was quickly asleep while her mother stared at the ceiling.

***

Being quiet and unobtrusive — unlike the two other visitors to the unit, one of whom had been removed, gently, when he began to cry hysterically — Laura was allowed to stay a little more of each hour than regulations stated. The nurses had been helpful and kind, and she focused a little of her precious energy on learning their names. She and Steele had to rely on them for everything, now, and she put forth extra effort for his sake.

“Is that something I could do?” she asked, when a nurse came to tell her it was time to do something for the patient and could she go and get herself some lunch or a Coke or something in the meantime.

Mrs. Brooks shook her head. “You go on and let me do my job. He’ll be here when you get back.”

That was some comfort, anyway. Probably Mrs. Brooks knew she dreaded going away, even to the ladies’ room, even for a minute in case, while she was gone he . . .

Of course he was in good hands. “Maybe there’s something I could bring back for you?”

“From the cafeteria?” snorted Mrs. Brooks. “Maybe a Snickers bar, if there’s an extra one lying around.” Taking Laura by the shoulders, she turned her around and headed her toward the door. “You go on. Come back at two. That’s forty five minutes.”

“I’ll be back at two,” Laura told Steele, and went out, still not sure how to fill forty-five minutes without him.

***

Normally, Margarita had weekends off, but nothing about this week had been normal so far. “I don’t think Mrs. Steele knows what day it is,” she remarked to Gabbie, who arrived at 5:30. “She sent her sister packing, which I don’t think is such a good idea, even though I know her sister. She tell you what to do tomorrow?”

“We’ve got it worked out,” Gabbie replied. “Mildred’s going to come over after lunch, and on Sunday — ”

Possibly Margarita didn’t entirely trust the child-care team of Mildred and Gabbie, or maybe she was just really devoted to a loyal employer. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll come in tomorrow, a couple of hours in the morning. How’s that? But Sunday, you’re on your own. Unless . . . ” she added soberly.

Gabbie didn’t want to think about the “unless”, and she appreciated the help offered. The weekend stretched out in front of her and she wasn’t sure how to occupy a little kid for that long by herself.

Right before dinner, Mrs. Steele called. She had no news to speak of, only seeming glad that Gabbie was there. Gabbie sort of mentioned how things were arranged for the weekend; Mrs. Steele seemed somewhat taken aback by this.

“Margarita said what?”

“That she’ll come in for a couple of hours tomorrow. And not to worry.”

There was a long pause. Now Gabbie was wondering if Mrs. Steele knew what day it was.

“Is everything all right, there?”

“Oh, sure,” said Gabbie. “We’re fine. But Mrs. Steele — ”

“He’s still the same,” Mrs. Steele told her. “They think maybe tomorrow, they can wake him up. I hope so. I just . . . I don’t know. I’m just waiting . . . ”

“I know,” said Gabbie. “But don’t worry about us. Do you want to talk to Tracy?”

Tracy got on the line, and explained all kinds of complicated things about her day, and listened to her mother, and tried not to cry but couldn’t help it. Her mother kept talking and after awhile Tracy seemed happy again, and hung up.

***

As promised, Mildred arrived around seven with take-out. Laura ate ravenously; when Mildred asked what she’d had for lunch, she couldn’t remember. She’d had something, though, of that she was sure, but it hadn’t been memorable and it probably hadn’t been much.

When she was finished, Mildred bagged up the trash and tossed it in the bin by the elevator. Then she held out her keys.

Laura frowned. “What are those for?”

“I want you to go to my house,” Mildred explained. “Take my car. Have a hot bath. You’ll feel a lot better.”

“Mildred, I’m fine.”

“Uh huh.”

“Really, I’m fine. Dinner was great. They’ll give me a blanket and I can get a little sleep out here — ”

“I’ll stay here and keep an eye on things. You go and wash your face and put on something more comfortable. I know Frances packed a little bag for you.”

“How — ”

“She told me.” Mildred toed a small shoulder bag lying by Laura’s purse. “Is that it?”

Laura shook her head. “I can’t leave.”

“For two hours?” Mildred exclaimed. “That’s all it’s going to take. Aw, honey. Ask the nurse if anything’s going to happen in two hours. And if it does,” she added, “I’ll page you quicker than you can say ‘boo’.”

Laura considered this. Then she pressed the button for the nurse, who, when told of Mildred’s idea, chimed in and said she thought it was a good one. Nothing had changed since her last report: Steele’s vital signs were stable, they had no indication of any postoperative complications; she would certainly keep Miss Krebs apprised during Mrs. Steele’s absence.

Outnumbered, Laura accepted the keys and drove to Mildred’s to sit in a tub of hot water and worry about her husband.

***

On Saturday morning, Margarita’s main contribution was to help Gabbie figure out what she could make for dinner. “My boyfriend usually cooks,” she explained. “Or we go out.”

“Nice,” Margarita smiled. “What till you marry him.”

Closing a cupboard, Gabbie straightened and stared at her.

Margarita laughed. “You don’t think about it?”

“Not very often.”

“You’re just going to play house all your life?”

Gabbie shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Or maybe not with him.” Margarita arranged the dinner fixings on the counter along with a note containing complete instructions for the non-cook and went away laughing. “I sent a card to Mr. Steele,” she explained, gathering her things. “They’d better get it to him before he gets out of the hospital! If the senora needs me, she knows where I am.”

At the stroke of noon the doorbell rang. Gabbie opened the door for Mildred and ran back to the kitchen as the microwave beeped.

“Auntie Mildred!” Tracy shrieked.

Mildred hoisted her up for a big hug and let her down again. “I’ve just been to see your mommy and daddy,” she announced, “and they sent you a big kiss. Mmmwwwwaaaaa!”

After settling a few administrative details, Gabbie departed. Mildred and Tracy went outside to check on the garden.

***

When the doctors finally let her come in again, Steele’s eyes were open and the ventilator was gone. Laura was by his side in an instant, smiling uncertainly, tears threatening, hands shaking. To hide this, she put one hand on his forehead, held his good hand with the other.

“Hey,” she whispered, smoothing back his hair.

He blinked at her and opened his mouth and coughed. Quickly, as the nurse had taught her, she pressed a pillow against his chest to support him so he wouldn’t tear the stitches. The spasm passed.

“It’s all right,” she went on. “Don’t try to talk. The doctor says you’ll have a sore throat for a while.”

A faint, croaking sound was barely recognizable as her name.

“I’m going to stay right here,” she promised. “And if I’m not here, I’m just on the other side of that door. All right?”

Frowning slightly, he tried to speak and then shook his head and winced.

“Do you have a headache?” she asked. “I’ll get the nurse. She can — ”

His grasp on her hand was weak, but he pressed hard and mouthed, “No.”

“Okay. Because if you need anything — ” Laura took a deep breath. Probably her nervousness was coming through to him full strength. She kissed his forehead, and then she kissed him. His mouth was dry and faintly bitter. Pouring out a cup of water, she adjusted the straw and helped him take a little sip.

That seemed to be enough for now, so she sat and tried to make casual, quiet conversation. Steele kept his eyes on her, watching and listening intently, but soon, his eyelids heavy, he drifted off again.

A nurse — Terry? Mary? — came and double checked everything and smiled at her and went away. Laura, holding his hand, closed her eyes and offered a little prayer of thanks. It occurred to her that she should have called their minister long ago, if not for Steele, then for herself, but she hadn’t even thought of it.

She hadn’t thought of it. Her mind hadn’t turned in that direction.

Had they even been to church since Easter? She didn’t think so. And what about all those months between Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday? Maybe once, after the earthquake. No, twice, because the youth coordinator had introduced herself and suggested they might like to sign Tracy up for Sunday School for next year.

Was it guilt, then, that prevented Laura from reaching out for help? Embarrassment that she be seen as someone who only made use of faith in extremity? Or was it deeper than that? Had she found the situation manageable — if only barely — by concentrating on concrete details? Would the larger issue have forced consideration of a real possibility?

She could pray, certainly. She had, endlessly. It was the idea of asking someone else to do so that struck her with some kind of finality. Like phoning his family. They had a right to know what was happening, but the idea of them packing up and flying out here, the idea foremost in their minds that it might be a funeral they were coming to, was too much for her to take.

***

On Sundays, Gabbie was accustomed to sleeping late. Tracy wasn’t; it was up and at ‘em for her. While Gabbie struggled into her bathrobe and tried to figure out what time it was, the little girl bounded off to grab the phone, hoping that it was her mom or her dad, but reporting in disappointment that it was only Aunt Frances.

Gabbie wasn’t sure what to do. She doubted that Mrs. Piper intended to kidnap Tracy, but she also doubted, based on a few things she’d heard around the office, Mrs. Piper’s respect for Mrs. Steele’s wishes. Without promising anything, except to call back, she hung up and called Mrs. Steele’s beeper. Instead of her own number, or the Steeles’, she tapped in Mrs. Piper’s and sat back to wait.

Soon enough, Mrs. Steele called, with an update on Mr. Steele’s condition, and to chat with Tracy, and to tell Gabbie that it was all right for the Pipers to pick Tracy up for lunch and take her somewhere and that they would bring her back before five.

***

Although he was still in intensive care, he was at least off the ventilator — a big improvement — breathing normally (more or less) and able to speak. The doctors explained that there was no sign of kidney failure, which they’d been afraid of, nor of infection or abnormal clotting. They were hopeful that the patient would make a full recovery, but warned that it might be slow. It was not a minor injury they were dealing with, as if Mrs. Steele didn’t know that.

An orderly moved a small, naugahyde chair into the space beside the bed and carted away the one that was just a step above the kind that folded up. When Laura sat down in it, she found that it reclined a little and the bottom came up to support her legs.

“Comfy?” asked one of the nurses.

Compared to what she’d had before it was heaven.

“You’re real quiet,” the nurse went on, “and you don’t cause trouble, so if we need you to leave, we’ll let you know, otherwise, you’re fine right there.”

“Thanks!” Laura replied. Always holding Steele’s hand, she propped a book open on her lap. A moment later, she felt like someone was watching her and looked up to find Steele’s eyes open and his head turned a bit in her direction. She jumped up and offered him some water.

He gathered enough strength to speak. “Where’s Tracy?”

“Tracy’s fine. She’s home. Gabbie’s staying with her.”

He looked at her, then his eyes wandered around the room. When they came back to her, they had a weird, desperate, questioning look. “Who — ”

“Gabbie,” she repeated, holding down her fear. A scene from a movie popped into her head: The husband is shot, and wakes up in a hospital, blank-minded and drooling. “She works for us? Kind of short. Has long dark hair . . . ”

Regarding Henry. That was it. Harrison Ford, Annette Bening. Paramount, 1991 . . .

She patted his hand to keep from clenching it too hard. “We hired her a few months ago. Right after the earthquake.”

“Miss Reyes,” he gasped out at last.

“Yes,” she agreed, greatly relieved. He knew her. He remembered other people. He wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t drooling. Snuffling back some tears, Laura told him, “Miss Reyes has been staying at the house every night.”

***

A noise downstairs brought Gabbie full awake around midnight. First, she checked on Tracy. Finding the little girl fast asleep, she armed herself with a heavy flashlight and pepper spray and stood at the top of the stairs. She was sure she’d set up the security system properly, which meant whoever was down there was either okay or knew how to disarm such precautions.

Probably a thief wouldn’t be clanking, however softly, around in the kitchen, but it didn’t pay to take any chances.

Descending a few steps, she crouched and looked through the banister. Much surer, but still carrying her weapons, she went down the rest of the way.

“Mrs. Steele?”

Her employer jumped. “Oh,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest. “Gabbie!”

“I thought I heard someone in the house.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you’d both be asleep, so I didn’t call.”

“Is Mr. Steele okay?”

“Sleeping. Really sleeping, so I thought I’d come home and . . . ”

“Sure,” Gabbie agreed.

“I’ll get Tracy up in the morning,” Mrs. Steele added. “Don’t worry about that. Unless they call me.”

Mrs. Steele looked haggard, and yet somehow a bit more relaxed. “You know, whatever,” Gabbie told her. “It’s okay.”

“I’ll probably be keeping these hours for a while. I don’t know exactly how long before someone is really — before you’re sure . . . ” Her voice trailed off. “Do you?”

“Um,” said Gabbie, whose cousin had been shot by gang criminals last spring and died. “No.”

Leaning back against the sink with her glass of wine, Mrs. Steele said, “I just need a couple of hours’ sleep. That’s all.”

“Sure,” said Gabbie.

***

She slept only fitfully, plagued by nervous dreams, but when she awoke the sun was up and bright. Laura turned over and buried her face in the pillow before the nervousness of her dreams plowed into reality. She couldn’t just lie in bed and sleep and wait for everything to be better. She had to get up, had to face the day, had to steady herself, for him, for Tracy.

Struggling into her dressing gown, she brushed her teeth and dragged a comb through her hair. Tracy’s bed was empty, and she heard voices as she went downstairs.

“And then, Margarita’s mother, she makes us tamales,” Tracy was explaining, “and Auntie Mildred comes over, and sometimes Aunt Frances and my cousins and Uncle Donald, and my grandma, too, one time.” There was a pause, as a spoonful of cereal was consumed. “And then my daddy brings us the tamales on a big plate, and we eat them.”

“Wow,” said Gabbie. “That sounds like a nice way to spend Christmas Eve.”

“Can you make tamales?” Tracy asked.

“No,” Gabbie answered. “But I can make macaroni and cheese.”

Later, when she recounted this anecdote to Steele, he laughed and coughed and suggested the child was in good hands. Laura agreed. She wanted him not to worry; she wanted him to understand that she had everything under control.

So far, she’d managed to dodge reporters, but Mildred had told her there’d been a mention about the case every day in the Metro section of the Times. Steele loved to see his name in the papers, so Laura read aloud to him that he was now in guarded condition — “Guarded?” he repeated. “I thought I was merely serious.” — and that the LAPD was following up all leads.

“As they should do,” he said, and asked her to turn to the more important part of the paper, the Calendar section, where the movie reviews were. “When do I get a telly?” he asked.

Laura looked up. It had been a while time since he’d used anything but the American word. “Ask the doctor,” she suggested.

“This room is very small,” he told her.

“True.”

“No privacy,” he added, gazing out at the nurses’ station.

“They are treating you very badly,” she agreed, giving his hand a little squeeze.

The next time he woke up, he asked about Tracy first thing and who was looking after her and how. He seemed a bit agitated by these concerns, and Laura didn’t mention that they’d been over this a couple of times. She’d expressed her fears to the doctors, who promised her that this was perfectly normal, that Steele didn’t have much to occupy his mind and was likely to brood over one thing or to disregard answers he’d already heard in favour of hearing them again for reassurance.

So she told him again that Fred was taking their daughter to pre-school, and that Margarita was there until dinner time, as usual, and that Gabbie was making sure that Tracy got to bed on time. He was satisfied with this report and listened to her read out loud from a magazine she’d bought at the newsstand downstairs.

“AMC,” he said after the nurse brought him some juice.

Laura looked up. “What?”

“My room with a telly, Laura. Make sure it has AMC!”

“Next time you see your doctor, be sure to mention it.”

He settled back. “I need it to fill in the empty hours when you’re not here,” he added.

She pondered this for a moment. “What hours are those, Mr. Steele?”

Perhaps he caught her tone, which she’d tried to keep even. “Laura — ”

He made a weak attempt to draw her out of her chair. Laura got up and put a hand behind his neck and pressed her lips to his. His mouth opened to her, and her eyes drifted shut. She wasn’t sure how long the kiss lasted, except that she was getting a cramp from leaning over the side rail, before a young man in a white coat and stethoscope suggested that Mrs. Steele had happened upon a more strengthening therapy than any he had prescribed so far.

***

Now that Steele’s condition had been upgraded, the doctors gently suggested that Mrs. Steele might want to sleep a little later in the mornings, in her own bed, and hold off coming to see him until after morning rounds. Of course she’d balked at this at first, but Steele, his voice still hoarse, had made some little joke about it, and she realized that maybe he’d appreciate a little privacy when the doctors examined him. Maybe the days and nights of terrified waiting were beginning to tell on her, were visible, at least to him. She didn’t want him to waste his energy worrying about her so, reluctantly, she agreed.

Instead of going straight to the hospital, she went to the office and sat at Steele’s desk and went over everything in the file on the Peterson case. She hadn’t been there long when there was a quiet knock on the door.

“Mrs. Steele?” said Gabbie, opening it a crack.

What did Gabbie expect to find, that required all this caution? The boss sound asleep? Crying? That would impress a client.

“Yes?”

More of their assistant appeared as the door swung wider. “Sergeant Jarvis is here.”

Laura shot to her feet. Jarvis wasn’t alone; he had another detective with him, whose name Laura didn’t catch.

“Mrs. Steele,” said the other detective, taking a seat after Laura accepted their commiseration and concern. “We think your husband was targeted by these thugs.”

“Of course he was,” Laura answered. “My husband dresses well. He drives a flashy car. But he’s no fool. If he’d seen it coming — ”

“We think there may be a link to a case you’re working on.”

“Oh,” said Laura. “You boys have really taken a bite out of crime?”

Jarvis suppressed a wince. “A witness said there was no contact before the shooting. No scuffle. No conversation. A mugger after a wallet usually asks for it first. And your husband was shot at close, but not point-blank, range.”

Laura considered this. “Usually we get a heads up when someone involved in one of our cases is out on parole.”

“We checked. That’s why we think this may be related to something you’re currently investigating.”

Wheels were already turning in Laura’s mind. Steele shot a dozen steps from Mr. Peterson’s business. Obviously the police didn’t think this was a coincidence, even though they didn’t know, yet, anything about the case.

***

Mr. Peterson looked up as Laura was announced and came around his desk to greet her. “Mrs. Steele,” he said, clasping her hand in both of his. “I heard what happened! I’m so sorry. I hope your husband — ”

“They’ve upgraded his condition to serious, Mr. Peterson.”

Mr. Peterson seemed uncertain how to react to that.

“That’s an improvement,” she offered.

He relaxed slightly. “That’s good. I’m glad. Won’t you sit down?”

“Thanks, no. I just came by to let you know that we’re still actively investigating your case.”

“Mrs. Steele! That’s the furthest thing from my mind right now.”

“Is it? You’re paying us to do a job, and we’re doing it. I suppose the police have already been here.”

“Well, yes. It — happened — right out in front. They were hoping someone here was working late, might have seen something.”

“And had they?”

“No. The person who saw it happen works for another company, on the fourth floor.”

“I see. I thought Mr. Steele might have been here to talk to you about some particular of the case.”

“No. He spoke to my assistant. I’d gone home already. Little League practice.”

“And she didn’t see anything?”

“Would you like to talk to her? Myla? Would you step in a moment, please?”

Laura had already met Myla, but hadn’t realized that she might have been the last person to speak to Mr. Steele before …

“I know you’ve already talked to the police, but Mrs. Steele has a few questions for you.”

Most of it Laura had already heard from Jarvis, but she was able to tease a few more memories out of the nervous assistant.

“He didn’t say he was Remington Steele,” the young woman explained. “He said he was from the building, checking for water damage from a broken pipe.”

That was a fairly standard cover.

“He had the right kind of I.D. I mean, it looked all right.” She turned to her boss to emphasize this fact.

“It’s fine, Myla,” he answered.

“Were you alone?” Laura asked.

“Oh, no. Vanessa was here. And Tom and Mike. We don’t usually clock out until six. Usually Mr. Peterson or Mr. Bleeker stay even later than that.”

“What about Mr. Bleeker? Was he here?”

Mr. Peterson shook his head. “Alan’s been at a conference all week.”

“Maybe I could speak to one of the others, Vanessa or — ”

“Dave, have you got the grant forms from the — ” A blond, bearded man was brought up short in the doorway. “Whoa, sorry. Didn’t realize you were in a meeting.”

“Not at all. Mrs. Steele, this is my partner, Alan Bleeker.”

Laura recognized Bleeker from the company dossier Mildred had put together. She shook hands. As far as she was concerned, the case wasn’t blown yet, but maybe Mr. Peterson thought otherwise. Or maybe he’d taken his partner into his confidence.

“Steele?” Bleeker repeated. “Like the guy who was — ”

Laura found she couldn’t control the expression on her face.

Mr. Bleeker turned red. “Ah. I’m sorry. That was your husband.”

“My husband, yes.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Better. He’s only in serious condition now.” She tried to put on at least a weary smile; it wasn’t his fault.

He returned the smile. “Great. Oh, I’m glad. Right out in front of our building!” Turning to his partner, he added, “Dave, did you get my email about security?”

“Thanks, Alan, I got it.” Mr. Peterson guided Laura toward the reception area. “It looks like Vanessa’s gone out. Mrs. Steele, if we hear anything else, we’ll — ”

“Please call me,” she said. “Tell Sergeant Jarvis, of course, but please let me know, too.”

Mr. Peterson assured her that he would do so.

***

From PBcomm, Laura went straight back to the hospital. She’d promised Tracy she’d be home for dinner, and she intended to keep that promise, but even a few hours away from Steele was too much at this point. He’d waved her off cheerfully enough when she came to share lunch with him — well, to eat a candy bar while she helped him sip his soup — but now he’d be waiting for her, looking at the clock, worrying — worrying about her! Ha! With all those tubes and stitches and barely enough breath and strength to lift his head and whisper …

Steele wasn’t flat on his back. He was walking, slowly, awkwardly, back from the nurse’s station. Not entirely — not even mostly — under his own power, but he was on his feet.

“Hey,” she said, maneuvering him into a careful hug.

He released his hold on the nurse’s arm to pull her closer. Laura softened herself against him. It had to hurt, this pressure against his arm and chest, but as she relaxed into his weak embrace, he didn’t flinch.

“Good day?” he asked.

He was leaning on her, heavily. Laura found herself supporting most of his weight, and that was okay with her. “Better, now,” she replied, shifting to gain some more stability.

“Your daughter called, Mrs. Steele,” the nurse told her.

“To tell me,” Steele explained, “to tell you that you promised — ”

“I know. But you’re on the way, and I couldn’t not stop by — ”

“Maybe when we get you into a regular room, Mr. Steele,” the nurse obliquely suggested.

If the nurse stayed or left, they didn’t notice.

Steele kissed Laura’s forehead and rubbed her back with his free hand. “I’m glad you did.”

She noted considerably less bravado now that they’d gotten him up on his own two, unsteady feet. It would have frightened her, except she’d been so frightened before that this seemed minor.

***

Even though Steele was on the mend, Laura still jumped every time the phone rang. Her mother, her sister, Mildred, Gabbie, everybody had to listen to a breathless, demanding, “What is it?” before they got a standard “Hello?”

This time it was Sergeant Jarvis, with some news.

“Nailed our suspect last night, Mrs. Steele,” he announced.

“The shooter?”

After a pause, Jarvis said, “Driver. That’s half the job. Shooter’s next.”

“I see.”

“Just wanted you to know we’re making progress.”

Not enough, with the triggerman still out on the streets. Still, it was a start. They weren’t searching blindly anymore.

“How’s your husband?”

Of course Jarvis would already know, but she appreciated the expression of interest. “A little better.”

“Great!” Jarvis sounded relieved. “You know, I’d always rather book a guy for attempted murder.”

A sentiment they both shared. Laura hung up the phone. Maybe soon she could breathe.

“Was that daddy?”

“No, sweetheart.” She lifted Tracy up into her booster seat. “Daddy gets to sleep late, so he’ll get better quicker.”

***

“So she comes in at two, and leaves at six?” said Mildred.

Gabbie pressed her finger against the remaining doughnut crumbs on the waxed paper. “Mm hm.”

“Or she comes in at three and leaves at eight?”

“Or nine. Well, except last night, she came home for dinner, and then went back, and then she was home again this morning for, like, ten minutes.”

“You’d think she’d get a room across the street.”

Gabbie shook her head. “It’s Tracy.”

Nodding sagely, Mildred agreed, “Of course it is. Not that she doesn’t trust you, you know.”

“Oh, I know. It’s like she doesn’t even want me to know she’s there. She slips in; she slips out again.”

“Same thing, years ago, when she was in the hospital,” Mildred told her. “You couldn’t get him to leave. And when Tracy was born — ” She laughed. “They had the crib in her room, and a cot for Mr. Steele. One of the nurses almost broke her ankle, falling over him. She hadn’t been warned the place would be so crowded.”

***

Sitting in traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard, Laura held the phone to her ear. At times like this, she missed Fred the most; it was so much easier, so much more graceful, to sit in the back and talk and leave the driving to him. With Fred on security detail, driving Tracy back and forth to preschool, there was no such luxury.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Steele,” Mr. Peterson was saying. “Your agency’s become just a bit too high profile.”

“I have other investigators working for me, Mr. Peterson,” she replied. “Investigators no one in your company would recognize.”

“I’m sure you do, and I’m sure they’re all very good. But you see my situation here. Maybe Mr. Steele’s — accident — Well, maybe we can write it off to — ”

“Coincidence?”

He was overjoyed that she was so reasonable. “Yes! A coincidence!”

“Fair enough, Mr. Peterson,” she said. “We’ll send a bill for services rendered to date.”

Tossing the phone aside, Laura looked up and slammed on the brakes. The very conscientious driver of a new Lexus had stopped at the first sign of a yellow light. Thwarted in her expectation of getting through the intersection, Laura leaned on the horn. For good measure, she honked the horn again, long and loud, and sat back in frustration.

The driver of the Lexus had heard enough. He threw the door open and stepped out into the street. Without stopping to think, Laura leaned across toward the glove compartment. The other driver kept coming; the glove compartment popped open, and Laura reached inside.

As she straightened up, her eyes met his through the windshield.

He might have guessed what was in the glove compartment; he might have noticed that the brunette behind the wheel of the Rabbit was operating on her last nerve. He might just have remembered that he was in Los Angeles.

Whatever, he retreated to his Lexus, slammed the door and put it in gear. Laura jammed her foot on the accelerator, yanked the Rabbit around the corner onto Beverly, pulled over to the curb on a side street and sat in the car and cried. Then she locked the gun back in the glove compartment, made a quick U-turn and sped off toward Cedars.

***

Steele wasn’t alone. “Ah, Laura.”

She bent to kiss him, keeping an eye on his visitor. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Traffic.”

Steele looked at her strangely; she pushed her hair back and tried to look bright and interested in what Sergeant Jarvis had to say.

“I just stopped by to see if your husband could identify someone.” He was tucking a sheaf of mug shots into his briefcase.

“And did he?”

“I’ll let you know.” He shook Steele’s free hand, nodded to Laura, then turned at the door. “Until the LAPD has this wrapped up,” he suggested, “we’d appreciate it if you’d back off this case.”

“What case?” said Laura.

Jarvis gave her a look. “For your own safety.”

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Steele called.

The door swung shut. He watched as Laura turned and paced around the room. She glanced briefly through the blinds at the brown hulk of the Beverly Center, read through some of the get well cards arranged on the ledge (the ones from Ireland had come express, while the one from her mother was bigger than the rest), then paced some more.

“He’s right, you know, Laura,” he offered. “I’d rather not see you traipsing around, playing detective, while I’m laid up here.”

“Playing detective?” she repeated, incredulous.

He held up a placating hand. “You know what I mean.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“And Tracy?”

She looked up, and around, then straight at him. “Doesn’t matter,” she shrugged. “We’ve been fired.”

“Have we?”

“Too high profile, your getting shot right on the doorstep.”

“He was a street thug, Laura,” he told her. “It could’ve happened anywhere.”

“If you hadn’t been there, it never would have — ”

“I was doing my job. Just like you’re doing yours.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You need to rest.”

“I’ve spent the whole day resting. The whole week.” He patted the bed beside him. “Now come here.”

She came and perched, tense and awkward, on the edge of his bed. Steele scooted over enough for her to be comfortable. After a while, she began to lean, but there was nothing to lean against, and she slumped down beside him on the pillow.

“There we are,” he said into her hair. He reached over and began to pet her shoulder.

“I almost killed someone today.”

There was a long pause before he said, “Did you?”

“There was a lot of traffic, and this guy got out of his car — ”

“Carjacker?”

She shook her head and stared unblinking at the wall. “Just a guy.”

Steele was obviously waiting to hear more, but she couldn’t explain it. She took a long, shuddering breath, but she couldn’t make any words come out.

“Perhaps we should take your sister up on it,” he suggested. “Let Tracy stay with the Pipers until this is resolved. Let Fred do the driving.”

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are,” he agreed. “No sleep. Probably nothing to eat since breakfast. The only thing keeping you on your feet is adrenaline. Adrenaline and your insane dedication to your work. And your much appreciated devotion to your family.”

***

On her way home from the office, Mildred stopped by Canter’s delicatessen and picked up a pint of chicken soup and drove back to Cedars. Since Mrs. Steele hadn’t checked in, she assumed she’d gone home to have dinner with little Miss Steele. Instead, she found the chief making a face and aiming the remote control at the TV, and the boss sound asleep, both in the same narrow little hospital bed. Mr. Steele was as close to the far edge as he could be; Mrs. Steele was curled up and wedged in between him and the guard rail on the side nearer the door.

“Ah, Mildred!” Mr. Steele sang out, catching a glimpse of her in the doorway. “Come to rescue me from hospital food and reruns of Atomic Man!”

Keeping an eye on Mrs. Steele, who seemed oblivious to the world, Mildred guided the bed table into position and opened the Styrofoam container.

“The nectar of the gods!” Steele exclaimed. “Really, Mildred, you can’t imagine what it’s like here. Watery broth. Rubbery jello. I feel like Oliver Twist. Alec Guiness, Robert Newton. Rank Films, 1948,” he added absently as Mildred discovered there was no spoon in the bag and departed to get one from one of the nurses.

“What?” muttered Mrs. Steele, struggling up from sleep.

Mr. Steele put his good hand over her arm to keep her from flailing the soup onto the bed. “Dinner, love. The faithful Miss Krebs has brought us our dinner.”

While Mildred steadied the table, Mrs. Steele sat up, crumpled and rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to go home and get a good night’s sleep,” Mr. Steele told her.

“I’m all right.”

“I know you are. And you’ll be even righter if you go home and get a good night’s sleep. And,” he reminded her, “you can drop off that piece of equipment you don’t really need after all on your way.”

Mrs. Steele smoothed her skirt and tucked in the errant tail of her blouse, gave him a kiss and nearly came off balance as Mr. Steele held her close. He whispered something into her hair that Mildred couldn’t hear, since she was surfing the limited channels for something that might keep the chief entertained.

Shaking back her hair, Mrs. Steele smiled and said, “Mr. Steele, sleep well.” Then she said, “’Night, Mildred.”

“Good night, Mrs. Steele. Take care.” She’d found Perry Mason on channel 56 and pulled up a chair. That guy who played Paul Drake could still set her heart a-flutter.

***

That night, Laura did as Steele suggested: went back to the office and locked the gun and the clip in their drawers. It wasn’t as if the thing were actually useful, most of the time; generally, it was more trouble than it was worth. If she were that worried about driving the mean streets in the wee hours, she might as well leave the Rabbit at home and drive the Cherokee, which was what Frances had suggested whenever that was and which she had ignored, she thought guiltily, simply because Frances had suggested it.

She and Tracy spent a nice evening together, going for a little walk and reading some stories they’d read many times before. Gabbie, whose novelty with Tracy had not yet worn off, went off somewhere but returned in time to reassure her that the morning would be taken care of if the alarm failed to get through. If asked, Laura would have admitted that it was nice to have another person in the house.

Sure enough, it was nine o’clock and Fred was at the door, ready to chauffeur the glamourous detective’s daughter to nursery school before the glamourous detective’s daughter’s mother had dragged herself out of bed. Her hair was a total mess and her bathrobe was on inside out, but at least she was present and accounted for as her child took her leave.

“Bye, Mommy!” Tracy called gaily, taking Fred’s hand. “Give Daddy a kiss!”

Laura blew another kiss and promised and closed and locked the door. Margarita put a piece of toast in her hand as she went back upstairs to dress.

Through the glass doors, Laura could see Mildred at the reception desk. She was scribbling something on a message pad.

“Mildred?” said Laura.

Mildred looked up and handed over a sheaf of messages. “Your sister called. Three times. And Mr. Peterson called.”

“Mr. Peterson? He fired us.”

“Wants to reconsider. New developments.” Mildred offered up the last message. “Mrs. Westfield just hung up. She says they got back from Maui last night and heard the news. Wants to know what they can do to help.”

Help. People could help, if she’d let them. Steele was right. Frances and Donald could do more — were chomping at the bit to do more — if she’d let them. Then there were Chloe and William, ready to do anything, and she should call the Hendersons. God, even her mother — Well, maybe not . . .

“Where’s Gabbie?”

“Out on the Zheng case.”

“The Zheng case?”

“She’ll be fine,” Mildred soothed her. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

What was it she’d just been thinking? Let people do more. Gabbie was smart and reliable. She trusted her with Tracy, for heaven’s sake. What was she thinking?

She wasn’t thinking. Laying on her horn in traffic; pulling a gun. Steele was right. No sleep, no lunch, no perspective, and Laura Holt Steele became a time bomb.

“Have a sip of this, honey.”

Laura recoiled from something cold against her lips. She took the mug in both hands and obediently swallowed some water.

“Feeling all right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Nothing,” Mildred said with a shrug. “It was like you zoned out for a minute. Not, of course, that you don’t have every reason.”

“I’m fine,” said Laura.

“Sure,” Mildred agreed.

“Okay.” Laura looked through the messages. She handed back the last one. “Please call Chloe back and thank her. Maybe some of William’s friends at the D.A.’s office can find out a little more about this investigation than the LAPD is telling me.”

“You got it.”

“I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Take care of yourself, too, hon.”

With a deep breath, Laura forced a smile. “Right.”

***

The employees of PBcomm were standing around in little knots, looking at each other, glancing toward an open doorway. When Laura arrived, Myla showed her straight in to Mr. Peterson’ office.

“Somebody cleaned us out,” he said.

“Bank accounts? Equipment?”

“Software,” he replied. “Tons more valuable. Files. Paperwork. Alan’s office is bare.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I wanted you to take a look, first. I’d rather not have this all over the news. We have investors. We have patents pending!”

“Is Mr. Bleeker here?”

He spread his hands, indicating the empty office. “Do you see him?”

“When was the last time you did?”

“Yesterday, quitting time.”

“Anyone else?”

Several staffers said they’d seen Mr. Bleeker in the parking structure, getting into his car.

“Have you called him?”

“No answer.”

Laura looked around the office. It was a mess, wires dangling from disconnected terminals, a file cabinet standing lonely without its file drawers. There wasn’t much in the wastebasket except an empty bottle of Snapple and half a bag of chips.

“I think you’ve been holding back on us, Mr. Peterson.”

Mr. Peterson glanced around furtively. “I didn’t have any proof.”

“But you never told us what you did have. You asked us to start from ground zero. We may have wasted valuable time — ”

“I figured it was more than just him. Somebody else in the company, somebody outside, who knows? You’re the detectives!”

“Yes,” she agreed. “We are.”

Mr. Peterson seemed to shrink under her gaze. “Look,” he went on. “Alan and I have been friends for years. Since high school! We built this company up from nothing, working in his dad’s garage. I didn’t want it to be him. I wanted it to be anybody else but him.”

She dropped the squashed bag of Doritos back into the trash. “Did you talk to my husband that night?”

What Mr. Peterson might be thinking Laura could only guess, but it seemed that his side of the room was much warmer than hers. “I told you,” he said. “I left early to be with my kids.”

Laura thought this over. As she sat down and began to search through the desk, someone pulled Mr. Peterson aside.

“Mrs. Steele,” he said.

She looked up.

“There’s a call for you.”

Mildred sounded excited. “Sergeant Jarvis is looking for you,” she explained.

“Did they find the shooter?”

“They found somebody. The driver gave them a statement that led ‘em right to him.”

Surprised to find her knees weak, Laura sank down in a chair. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “That’s great.”

“Yeah. I can hardly wait to tell the chief.”

“Oh, Mildred, let me talk to him first.”

Mildred was disappointed but loyal. “You got it.”

“Thanks, you’re terrific.”

“Wait! You didn’t let me explain. Jarvis wants to see you.”

“Now?”

“He says he can come here, unless you want to stop by his office.”

Parker Center was downtown; Laura was halfway there already.

“Please call the lieutenant and tell him I’m on my way.”

Mr. Peterson was hovering nearby. “Any news?”

“They think they’ve found the man who shot my husband,” she explained. “I have to go down there.”

“Of course. But what about — ”

“Report your partner as a missing person. I’ll contact you as soon as I’m done with the police.”

***

Laura sat in Jarvis’ cramped office and stared at the picture of Mr. Peterson. It was a torn and crumpled snapshot, probably taken at a company picnic, that had been pieced together carefully with tape and sealed in a plastic bag. She smoothed out the creases in the baggie.

“Is that the shooter?” she asked innocently.

She and Jarvis had known each other too long.

The other detective said, “We found it in a dumpster near the shooter’s girlfriend’s apartment.”

“What’s the connection?”

With a sigh, Jarvis flipped open the report. “According to the driver, his buddy had some kind of big deal going down. They were supposed to meet a man at an address near the corner of La Brea and Pico. This man.” He tapped the photo.

“So what happened? Why’d he shoot Mr. Steele?”

“Apparently the shooter thought Steele was David Peterson.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Laura exclaimed. “They don’t look anything alike.”

“Mrs. Steele, please. They’re both tall, dark haired men. Steele came out of the building at the time they’d been told to expect Peterson. They’re amateurs. They shot the wrong guy.”

Little League. Peterson had left early to take his kids to Little League. Meanwhile, Mr. Steele, thinking to get a jump on the case headed down to Mid-Wilshire and …

Her jaw clenched, she asked, “Who paid them?”

“We’re still checking that out. It was all done over the phone.”

“Has Mr. Steele identified them?”

Jarvis shrugged. “Doesn’t have to. Stupid kid bragged to too many people that he was the bad ass who shot the big detective. Not to mention the driver is talking a mile a minute and plea bargaining himself down to a minimum.”

“So these are just a couple of thugs — ”

“Minor leaguers looking for a score,” the other detective suggested. “Thought they’d hit the big time.”

“I see.”

“And Mrs. Steele — Laura — ” Jarvis leaned forward with clasped hands. “The D.A. was already on my back about this. You think we weren’t working our butts off to find these guys?”

Laura gazed across at him.

“LAPD has always worked well with your agency. You don’t need to pull strings and call your friends in high places to get more action, okay?”

Friend that he was, William Westfield had probably been on the phone to his old buddies in the D.A.’s office the instant he learned what had happened to Steele. Laura hadn’t even needed to mention it.

Jarvis was right — they had a pretty good working relationship with the LAPD. If the cops took it into their heads that Steele was one of their own — a brother officer in civilian guise — they wouldn’t rest until the case was solved.

It was all over the TV — Jarvis solemnly declaiming that the gang bangers who gunned down a decent citizen in cold blood wouldn’t escape the dragnet of the LAPD — and in all the papers. What had Steele shown her the other day but a front page story in La Opinion — “Continua la busqueda del asaltante que baleo al famoso detective Remington Steele” — featuring, among the translated official statements coming out of Parker Center, glowing comments from Margarita (and when had she found time to give interviews?).

“Listen to this, Laura!” Steele had crowed. “ ‘ … el mejor jefe que alguien pueda pedir; generoso, amable, caritativo … ’ That’s the kindest, best, most considerate boss.”

“Thanks for the translation.”

He skimmed down the article. “Ah. There’s more. Listen. ‘ … El y la senora Steele han resuelto muchos casos famosos,’” he continued with a flourish and much rolling of r’s, “‘siempre arriesgando sus vidas para ayudar al projimo… ’ He and Mrs. Steele have solved many famous cases, putting their lives at risk … Now here’s— ”

Laura had snatched the paper out of his hands. “Where does it say ‘Mrs. Steele’?” she demanded.

Steele laughed and tugged at her belt, pulling her down to sit on the edge of the bed. “‘La senora Steele,’” he pointed out helpfully.

Laura studied the paper.

Over her shoulder, he read out Officer Dominguez’s dramatic statement: “‘No descansaremos hasta que encontremeos a esos canallas. ’” He puzzled over this a moment, then said, “We won’t stop until we nail those … creeps, I suppose, is a close match. It lacks the punch of ‘canallas’, but you get the drift.”

“Oh, yes.”

“‘Lo que ocurrio es terrible …’ That’s ‘What has happened is — ’”

“Terrible,” Laura suggested, settling against him more comfortably. “Yes, I figured that out.”

Steele continued to read aloud, translating from Spanish to English, probably not too well, but not too badly, either.

In the midst of the words of yet another citizen who extolled the virtues of Mr. Steele, Laura asked, “Did they interview Gabbie?”

“Gabbie?” Steele repeated. “La Opinion interview Gabbie? Don’t be ridiculous. She doesn’t speak a word of Spanish.” His attention returned to the article. “Ah. Here. Now listen to this . . . ”

He was certainly on the mend if once again he was believing his own publicity.

She wondered what Officer Dominguez had been doing to help nail those creeps. Sifting through dumpsters? That was real detective work; she could empathize with anyone who performed that kind of thankless task.

With her husband conscious and in constantly upgraded condition, Laura could afford to be conciliatory toward Jarvis.

“I know you’ve all been doing your best,” she said.

***

Half an hour later, she blew into the office. “Have you gotten a line on Alan Bleeker?”

Mildred turned from her computer. “Just came through. Remember I told you the only splurge I could see was a new weekend house in Santa Barbara?” Proffering a printout, she announced, “Master Card says he bought a tank of gas in Oxnard last night around midnight.”

Snatching the paper, Laura continued on into Steele’s office. “Oxnard,” she repeated, turning over pages in the Peterson file. “That’s halfway up there.” She pulled a photo of Bleeker out of the folder. “Where’s Fred?”

“Downstairs.”

“Great.” Laura grabbed up her purse. “Give me that address in Santa Barbara. Tell Mr. . Steele — ” Bad idea. “Tell Mr. Steele Fred’s taking me to run some errands, and I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“Wait. What about — ”

The door swung shut behind her.

***

Fred got the call and was waiting with the door to the back seat open as Mrs. Steele barreled through the revolving door and down the steps to the limo. He shut the door quietly and went around to the driver’s side.

“Where to, Mrs. Steele?” he asked, sliding in behind the wheel and starting ‘er up.

Mrs. Steele leaned forward with a map. “Oxnard.”

Oxnard. A long drive. Early afternoon. Maybe no traffic. The ocean. Not a bad way to earn a living.

Fred waited for the bar to swing up on the gate and pulled out onto Century Park East. Behind him, four happy drivers pulled into the parking spaces he’d been blocking with the limo.

Making an immediate right turn onto Olympic, he headed for the 405.

***

Somewhere in Encino, Laura curled up in the back seat to take a little nap. The impressively soft shocks on the limo soon rocked her to sleep. She was halfway involved in a dream in which neither one of them were in danger as they lay on a beach smoothing oil all over each other when an annoying beep began to come closer and closer and closer.

“Mrs. Steele?” said Fred. The limo was idling alongside the freeway in what looked like Calabasas.

She took her phone out of his hand. “Hello?”

“Laura!” Steele sounded impatient. “Laura, where are you?”

“Fred’s taking me to Trader Joe’s,” she explained, as the limo lumbered back out into traffic.

“Mildred told me Fred’s taking you to the Hall of Records.”

Laura winced. This was a bad day for improvisation. “Hall of Records, then Trader Joe’s, then — ”

Fred kept his eyes on the road.

“Laura, if this is about the Peterson case — ”

“What?” Laura shouted into the phone. “This connection is really bad!”

“Tell Fred his job’s on the line, love. If you’re not back in time for dinner — ”

“Don’t wait up,” said Laura.

***

“Boyfriend called,” Mildred announced as Gabbie shouldered the door open. “He’s wondering if he’ll ever see you again. I told him no, you’d found somebody who was worth a damn.”

Arms around a big brown grocery bag, Gabbie came to a halt and stared at her.

“Little joke,” Mildred advised. “I did get the impression, though, that someone’s gonna starve and run out of clean socks if someone else doesn’t get home soon.”

Gabbie eased the bag down on the desk and began to unpack cartons of Chinese food. Mildred laid the message slip aside and opened one of the cartons.

“Kickbacks?”

“I had to look like I was there for a reason.”

“Mu shu pork!” Mildred shoved some papers out of the way. Drawers snapped open and shut as she hunted for napkins.

Gabbie picked up the message and read it and reached for the phone. Then she put it down again.

“You want me to take over babysitting — oh, I mean security — duty tonight?” Mildred offered.

Gabbie peeled the wrapper off some chopsticks. “Oh. I thought Mr. Steele — ”

“He’s fine,” Mildred assured her. “Change of plan. Mrs. Steele is on the road to Santa Barbara and probably won’t be back till late. By the way, if Mr. Steele calls, she’s at the Hall of Records.”

“Right,” said Gabbie. Sliding up onto the desk she opened a carton of kung pao chicken and began to shovel it in.

Mildred was doing the same with the mu shu pork. “Mmm, heaven!” she moaned over a mouthful. Then they ate in silence for a while until Mildred said, “So?”

Gabbie chewed and swallowed. “Do you want to?”

“Do you want me to?”

There was long moment of hesitation. “It’s kind of nice,” she hedged. “I know it’s terrible to say it but — it’s been kind of fun.”

“She’s a cute little kid, isn’t she?”

Gabbie nodded. Tracy was a cute little kid, and the house was big and nice to be in, and it was a vacation from Keith, which was turning out to be not a bad thing at all.

***

The phone in his room apparently had automatic redial. “Laura, I want you to stop whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Fred,” said Laura in an artificially loud tone of voice, “get a case of that merlot for me, please.”

“Yes, Mrs. Steele,” Fred called back from the front seat.

“Laura, there’s no way you’re convincing me that Fred is loading a case of that two dollar wine.”

“It’s the three dollar stuff.”

“Laura — “

Changing the phone to her other ear, she said, “Look, Mildred got a lead. I’m following it up.”

Satisfied that he had gotten to the bottom of things, he asked more calmly, “Where are you?”

She looked out the window. “Oxnard.”

“Oxnard?”

“This case is wide open, Mr. Steele.”

“Laura, what are you talking about? What’s going on?”

“There’s a lot more to this than we first thought.”

He seemed to consider this. Then he said, “When Tracy was born, didn’t we say we weren’t going to take any more of these big, dangerous cases?”

“Funny how they never seem dangerous when we sign on,” she replied. “If I ever thought someone would just shoot you down on the street do you think — ”

“They were street kids, Laura. Crackheads.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Peterson’s partner, Alan Bleeker, disappeared last night with just about everything the company had.”

“And fled to Oxnard?” This in the tone of someone who knew all the correct destinations for flight, none of which included Oxnard.

“He has a new house in Santa Barbara; Oxnard’s on the way.”

“I’m delighted for him. What has that got to do — ”

“Bleeker paid the man who shot you.”

A simple statement. There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

Then, “Why?”

“Their instructions were to target a tall, dark-haired man who normally left the building at seven o’clock.”

“Peterson?”

“Peterson. Except Peterson went home early to take his kids to baseball practice. But they didn’t know that. And a tall, dark-haired man did come out at six fifty five, and I guess he looked a lot like — ”

“Peterson.”

“Give the man a dollar.”

They both considered this, Steele for the first time, sitting in his hospital bed, Laura for the millionth, in the back seat of the limo.

“Preposterous,” he protested when he found his voice. “Peterson and I look nothing alike. Have you seen those suits he wears?”

“Obviously those thugs didn’t bother to check the tailoring.”

“They don’t even wear suits,” he added in disgust. “It’s casual Friday every day down there.” Considering his weakened condition, her husband recovered rather quickly from this general affront. “Laura, this man is obviously dangerous. I want you to back off and let Jarvis and his boys in blue take care of it.”

In the driver’s seat, Fred kept his eyes on the road while simultaneously checking Mildred’s printout for the location of the Mobil station where Bleeker stopped for gas.

“The man nearly murders my husband, and I’m supposed to back off?”

“Laura!”

“What did you say? I can’t hear you … ”

Fred pulled up to the pumps and jumped out to open the door for Laura. While he filled the ever-bottomless tank, she went into the SnakShop.

Presenting her private investigator’s license., she asked the cashier, “Were you working the late shift yesterday?”

“Yesterday, everyday, senora,” he replied.

She smiled and held up Bleeker’s photo. “This man is missing. We think he may have stopped here for gas last night.”

The cashier studied the photo. “He drive a blue Saab?”

Laura nodded.

“Sure, he’s here all the time.”

“Did you happen to notice if he was alone?”

With a shrug, he replied, “Maybe. I was setting the pumps.”

“But you did see him?”

“Oh, yeah. For sure. He was, like, my last customer before Javier came on.”

Laura paid for a Hershey bar and a diet 7-Up and a coffee for Fred and left with many thanks.

***

Gabbie left her coffee behind and dashed back to her desk to grab the phone. “Remington Steele Investigations.”

“Where’s Mrs. Steele?” barked a familiar voice.

“Mr. Steele? How’re you doing? You sound — ”

“Where is she, Miss Reyes?”

“— a lot better,” Gabbie concluded.

“Mrs. Steele, Gabbie,” he demanded. “Where’s she gone?”

“Um,” she gulped. “Uh. Hall of Records.”

“She’s not at the Hall of Records.”

“She’s not? Oh. Trader Joe’s?”

“In Santa Barbara?”

“Wow. That’s a long way to go for that cheap wine.”

“Miss Reyes.”

Mr. Steele had to be getting better; he didn’t sound like a guy who’d just gotten out of intensive care.

“Mrs. Steele is on her way to find a very dangerous man. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t bother me at all, since I’d be there to back her up. But this time, as you know, I am trapped in the confines of Cedars Sinai Medical Center, and I’d appreciate a bit of help.”

Reluctantly, Gabbie pulled up the data on Bleeker.

***

It was peaceful, watching the ocean as the limo sped up the highway. The sun slid down the western sky toward the horizon, and a low bank of clouds promised fog and haze for tomorrow. After most of another hour, Fred turned got off the freeway and turned, a few minutes later, onto a winding road lined with rather new, rather ostentatious houses. As they came around another bend, they were faced with fire trucks, an ambulance, and a lot of police cars. Neighbours were standing around mailboxes, arms folded, watching.

Laura jumped out of the car. “What’s going on?” she demanded of the nearest cop.

“Ma’am, go back to your car. This is a controlled area.”

“But what’s going on?”

“There’s a guy holed up in his house,” a helpful neighbour offered. “He’s got a gun.”

“Really?” She sidled over to this group to hear further developments.

“There was this helicopter,” a boy, trailed by three other boys and a golden retriever, told her. “And it, like, tried to land in the street — ”

“Right over there!” another boy exclaimed, pointing.

“ — and Mr. Costaniero came out and asked what was going on, and Mr. Bleeker ran back into the house, and Mrs. Bleeker ran out, and then the fire trucks came and the police — ”

Laura could see the fire trucks and the police.

“They’ve got tear gas,” the third boy announced. “And a SWAT team!”

“Mrs. Steele?” said Fred. He handed her the phone.

Moving a little away from the general hubbub, Laura put the phone to one ear and her hand to the other.

“Mrs. Steele?” said a familiar voice.

“Sergeant?”

“Mrs. Steele, you’re not interfering with a police investigation, are you?”

“A what?”

“Your husband says you’re in Santa Barbara.”

“He says I’m where?”

“Mrs. Steele, Alan Bleeker is a dangerous man. Let us handle it.”

She glanced around. “Oh, I think it’s being handled already.”

“Santa Barbara PD has a line on this.”

“You better believe it.”

A news helicopter flew low overhead and banked away as a police helicopter maneuvered closer.

“What?” Jarvis yelled over the noise.

Brushing her hair out of her face, Laura repeated, “You’re right. They’ve got it covered.”

Then she heard a shot, and the clatter of glass as tear gas was lobbed into the house. Cops started running.

Jarvis was still talking as the neighbours scattered and Fred pulled her down behind the shelter of the limo.

“Just don’t get in the way,” he was saying.

She peeked up over the trunk, shading her eyes, and tried to see what was going on. “Do I ever?”

Jarvis didn’t have much of a response to that.

More police cars rolled up. After a moment, an all-clear was signaled from the house, and three paramedics rushed forward. Laura followed, casually, her private detective’s license in hand.

***

Steele wasn’t alone when she arrived; he was playing the generous host. The room was almost cheerful, with more cards, and drawings from Tracy, strewn around. A new bouquet of flowers — from her mother? Abigail Holt had reached her daughter at last the night before when she got back from Santa Barbara, full of love and concern and reproach — brightened one corner.

“Ah, Laura,” said Steele with as extravagant a beckoning gesture as he could manage. “Sergeant Jarvis here was just filling me in.”

She smiled at Jarvis, and at Mr. Peterson. Her smile for Steele asked a million questions.

“It seems that the Peterson case was a good deal more complex than Mr. Peterson let on,” he continued blithely.

“I was beginning to get that impression,” she admitted.

“Of course you were, love. That’s just what I was telling the good Sergeant. Wasn’t I, Jarvis? Wasn’t I just saying that Mrs. Steele had done all your work for you?”

Carefully ignoring this, Jarvis explained, “We traced back his phone records for the past six months. It seems your company had some government contracts after all, Mr. Peterson.”

Peterson shook his head. “We’ve applied for some grants, but so far our business has been with — ”

“All kinds of government agencies. Just not any of our own.”

Skimming down a report, Jarvis reeled off the names of six or seven countries, none of them considered very friendly to Uncle Sam.

Laura handed over her own list. Jarvis, his eyes popping, let out a low whistle and made a note. “The Feds are gonna love this.”

“Bleeker was dealing big,” Mildred agreed, bustling in with a tray of coffees. “None for you, chief,” she told Steele as she passed them around, then pulled up a chair and opened her briefcase. “He had the money funneled into a number of dummy corporations. Two of those corporations are listed as clients of yours, Mr. Peterson.” She handed the paperwork over.

“Oh, my God,” Peterson muttered.

“The first one I’m still working on, but the only information I could dig up on the second, Fantex,” Mildred went on, “is that in the last four months, they’ve purchased a Bell JetRanger helicopter and a long range Lear, and there are three pilots on the payroll.”

Consulting his notes, Jarvis said, “One of those pilots was supposed to pick him up at his house yesterday.”

“That’s where Fred and I came in,” Laura explained.

“With no escape route and the place surrounded, Bleeker decided not to put up a fight and just pulled the trigger.”

“Stupid,” Peterson muttered. “What the hell was he thinking? We were making money! We were going places!”

“Without Mrs. Bleeker,” Laura explained. “She wanted out, and was hiring detectives to locate all of Mr. Bleeker’s assets.”

“One off shore account led to another, and I guess somebody tipped him.” Mildred shook her head. “Mrs. Bleeker should’ve hired us,” she said. “I’d’ve nailed the creep and he never would’ve known until — ”

“Thank you, Mildred, your expertise in this area is known throughout the family court community.” Steele and Mildred exchanged smug and congratulatory looks.

“But why shoot Mr. Steele?” Peterson wondered. “I mean, why’d he want to shoot me?”

“With you out of the way, Mr. Bleeker would take over the company and come to some kind of terms with your wife, probably hoping the uproar and confusion would buy him some time on his own domestic troubles.”

“And obviously Bleeker didn’t think the investigation would point to him as the culprit,” Jarvis added. “LAPD would blame gang violence, there’d be some hand-wringing, maybe he’d put up a reward that would come to nothing, and after a cooling off period, he’d fly the coop.”

“But when it turned out his hired gun had blasted the wrong guy — ” Mildred began.

“He had to go to plan B.”

“It seems pretty open and shut, Mr. Peterson,” Laura told him. “But if I were you, I’d have a good lawyer in the background. Your close association with Mr. Bleeker, these dealings with foreign governments . . . ”

Still stunned, Peterson nodded his head. “Yeah. Thanks.”

As Mildred shepherded them away, Steele put out his hand and pulled Laura down onto the bed. With his good arm around her, there was just enough room for them to lie side by side.

“Another mystery solved by Remington Steele Investigations,” he observed.

“Mmm hmm.”

“And me flat on my back the whole time.”

“Amazing,” she agreed.

“Well, that’s what I get for having an excellent staff.”

Laura snuggled closer. “Mmm.,” she sighed. “An excellent staff indeed, Mr. Steele.”

***

Paperwork was piling up. Mildred and Gabbie had done a great job of keeping things under control, but there were some things only the boss could do and Laura, seated at Steele’s desk, plowed through them one by one. When the doctors began setting a date to discharge him, he insisted that he was perfectly fine, perfectly well, would not need a nurse, had no need of round-the-clock home care, did not need anything except the occasional cup of tea and a new film popped into the VCR now and then during his first week home.

Laura didn’t believe it. They could do without a nurse, she was fairly sure; Steele needed, and would insist upon, her, Laura, twenty four hours a day, and that was fine. She was ready for that; she looked forward to that, to having him home, to doing whatever was needed, just to have him back alive.

Being there round the clock for Steele meant not much time at the agency, and she wanted to tidy up as much of the stacked-up work as she could before he left the hospital, so Mildred and Gabbie would have a relatively clear field to carry on the business of the day.

She’d signed the paychecks and some letters and a report and was just winding up approving a set of expenses when she heard someone quietly clear her throat.

“Yes, Gabbie,” she said, without looking up.

“Sorry, Mrs. Steele,” said Gabbie, approaching the desk. “But there’s — um — there’s something kind of wrong with — um — ”

There didn’t seem to be an adequate word to describe Gabbie’s problem.

Laura focused on her. “What?”

Gabbie held out an envelope. “There’s something wrong with my paycheck.”

Laura took the envelope and pulled out the check. Had she forgotten to sign it? No, that was fine. The amount was fine; she’d double-checked that. The name was fine. The date was fine. The deductions were fine. She shook her head, puzzled.

“It’s too much,” Gabbie explained. “That’s more than I make in three weeks.”

“Ah.” Laura leaned back in her chair and considered this. Then she stood up. “There is no way,” she said, “that I can ever thank you for all your help, these last few days. No way. Ever.” She spread her hands to emphasize her helplessness in this regard. “All I can do is pay you. You’ve been on the clock, twenty four hours a day, for how many days?”

“Well, I guess, yeah, but — ”

“Do you know how close Mr. Steele came?” she asked. She didn’t want to think about that, herself. “The one thing I didn’t have to worry about,” she went on, “was Tracy. The fact that you went out on the Zheng case, too, well, that’s icing on the cake. You and Mildred kept everything going,” she added. “Mr. Steele and I are very grateful. There’s just nothing else we can do.”

“I was glad to help.”

“And I appreciate it. Tracy misses you already.” Laura handed back the check. “Thank you,” she said.

***

After signing the discharge papers and a receipt for his belongings, Laura laid out some fresh clothes and helped him dress. Mostly she ignored his editorial comments about her technique. The rather salacious suggestions he made were, at this point, bravado; the doctors had suggested a timetable for when they might “resume sexual relations” which wasn’t any time in the immediate future.

When he was fully dressed — he looked a bit sloppy with the sling, but it was the best she could do — a nurse arrived with a wheelchair for the official trip downstairs.

“Home, Mr. Steele?” Laura suggested.

He looked deep into her eyes. “Home, Mrs. Steele,” he agreed.