Steele Investments
Part 2
by Melinda
 
 
Damn him!
 
Laura ground her teeth, staring at the downcast profile of her Mr. Steele. His voice had acquired the vulnerable quality of a hurt little boy, and it just drove her batty to find her concern for his feelings overtaking the more important matter of The Body.
 
"I--" Against her better judgment, her hand found his shoulder, pressing in light reassurance. "I'm sorry. I wasn't running from you. It was the whole situation… The gun. The Body."
 
"It's not like you to panic over a body, Laura," he responded wryly, gaining strength. He ran a hand through his hair, a telltale and habitual gesture of agitation.
 
"It was--" How could she explain that the vision of her entire world crumbling around her had created a momentary panic attack? That the prospect of losing him too, following so closely on the heels of both Bernice's and Murphy's departures, had terrified her.
 
"It wasn't you. Never you." Her fingernails drove into the muscle of his shoulder to drive the point home.
 
He nodded and touched her hand, fingertips brushing over the back. She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.
 
"It was The Body," he agreed, nodding his understanding. "Yes, well, I do seem to have screwed up royally this time, eh?"
 
Rocking forward, he sat up, leaning forward against his knees. Laura followed suit, possessing zero desire to remain on the pavement, which stank of motor oil and tar, still warm because the LA sun sets late during the summer. Even at nine o'clock a halo of orange rays clung to the western sky.
 
His words made her heart sink. It was a confirmation that he had been the one to kill the man in the alley. A part of her had been clinging to the distant hope that he had just come to be standing over the corpse--while holding a gun--coincidentally.
 
"What the hell were you doing down here?" Laura demanded, flying from calm to furious in a heart-beat. "I got your message to meet me here, but--"
 
The shrill of police sirens in the distance cut Laura off. "Damn," she muttered, shooting to her feet. "Where's the gun?"
 
"I dropped it." He also stood, gazing downward. It was a pointless endeavor. The alleyway was pitch black. It was on the tip of her tongue to continue with her inquisition, but there was no time. She poked at the ground with her foot and heard the sound of cloth rustling.
 
"Give me a moment." A second later he struck a lighter, and the radiance of an orange flame illuminated the darkness. They both searched in silence for a minute or so.
 
"Found it!" Laura exclaimed, bending over and reaching for the gun. Before her hand touched it, a thought crossed her mind, and she stopped, thinking. Then, with a soft "ah ha", she removed the silk scarf that bound her pony tail and used it to pick up the Eagle 357. Handling the weapon only through the silk, she engaged the safety.
 
"The smoking gun," he said, the words clipped. He was taking the killing hard, as he rightfully should, and although she did not know the specifics yet, Laura knew that this man could only have taken the life of another in self-defense or error. If she knew anything about him, it is that he is gentle. He is not a killer.
 
He held the flame steady, but she could see the tension in his lean frame. He was poised to flee, every fiber of his being screaming for him to cut and run.
 
His nature is that of a free bird. Laura knew intuitively that prison would destroy him more surely than knives and bullets. It was some sort of miracle that he squared his shoulders, exhaling hard, and said, "Time to face the music, eh?"
 
Laura's finger shot out and thumped his chest, the gesture catching them both off-guard. "I want you to go home and wait. I'll meet you there." She spun on her heel and started away from him, returning to the scene of the crime.
 
"Laura, wait," he called. His hand caught her elbow. His voice held a tenuous note of inquiry, doubt and fear.
 
She steeled herself and looked back. "Go home. I'll come when I'm through." A simple command. Demand. A test of faith.
 
If he is not at Remington Steele's penthouse apartment when she arrived, then her wait would finally be over. She would finally know that he was gone for good.
 
Her anger buzzed, stinging at her self-control. No doubt this whole fucking mess had its roots in his mysterious past.
 
He hesitated and then nodded, ceding to her wishes. He followed her out the entrance to the alley, then turned away and walked in the opposite direction.
 
She wet her lips and marched onward, not glancing back until he was almost out of sight, just a blip on the horizon. Was it the last time that she would see him? Was this the final farewell?
 
And how many times in the last year had she wondered the exact same thing? Too many…
 
Laura glanced down at the gun in her hands and then thoroughly and methodically wiped it clean, erasing all prints. Then she returned to the scene of the crime, now crawling with cops.
 
She stood on the sideline for a while and watched until she spotted a familiar face. "Lieutenant Harris!" Laura called, waving at the homicide detective.
 
Larry Harris--a cop in his late forties, hefty and bulging at the gut--had crossed paths with Laura Holt a half-dozen times in the past. The detective wore brown loafers with sagging tweed pants and a sweat-stained polyester shirt.
 
The burly middle-aged detective spared her but a glance before his squirrely mind had made her identification. Then he came to her, smile slippery, his gaze centered on her rack.
 
"Laura Holt," he sneered. Larry is a Grade A typical--a chauvinist pig who thinks that a little woman cannot hold her own in the world of men.
 
Laura smiled for his benefit, wide-eyed and pretty, and held the Magnum up for his vacant perusal. "I have something for you, Lieutenant. I believe this may be the murder weapon that you're missing."
 
His eyes narrowed, and he stared at the proffered gun. She had one hundred percent of his attention. "Where did you find that, Mizz Holt? And how are you involved?"
 
"Well, I was in the area on a case--a missing poodle, actually--"
 
"Steele still doesn't let you handle the big stuff unsupervised?" Larry guffawed, reaching out across the yellow tape of the perimeter line to take the scarf-wrapped Magnum from her.
 
Laura was only too happy to be rid of the dreadful thing. She offered Harris a tightlipped smile and continued as if uninterrupted.
 
"--and I heard the shot. I saw a man run out of the alley but didn't get a good look at him; he was wearing a mask. I tailed him and saw him drop this into a dumpster a couple of blocks from here. Unfortunately, I lost the suspect."
 
Larry's face scrunched up hard in thought, and he peered at her through piggish eyes, hard and suspicious. "You had the sense not to touch it with your bare hands?" he demanded. "Touching it could ruin the prints."
 
"Of course," Laura replied blandly. She smiled and endured another fifteen seconds of scrutiny before Harris dismissed her.
 
"Randall, get over here and take her statement!" Lieutenant Harris barked, signaling for one of the uniforms to attend to her.
 
As he walked away, Laura exhaled hard, and a great tension lifted off her. Her emotions were roiling over what she had just done: destroying evidence in a felony murder, aiding and abetting, lying to the police.
 
She had done it to protect him. Just as she had endured arrest and jail time--not to mention her mother's wrath--for the theft of "The Five Nudes of Cairo." Again, for him.
 
She has begun to wonder what she will not endure, suffer, destroy, or excuse for the sake of protecting her intrepid Mr. Steele. Would she kill for him?
 
Later, she would need to brush her teeth, down a fistful of antacids and cry into her pillow for hours on end. For now, she smiled pleasantly and proceeded to tell Officer Randall the exact same story, elaborating on specifics only when asked.
 
To Part 3
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