Curt Phillips grabbed up the spread of newspapers and flung them angrily away. They didn't go far; the open pages floated down to land all around him. The one section that had kindled so much emotion still lay open, the two people in the picture smiled mockingly.

He stared down at it for a long moment. Then, almost against his own will, he picked up the front page of the society section and read the stupid, clichéd caption underneath the photo.

Detective of the Year: Remington Steele, considered one of Los Angeles' most eligible bachelors, has been seen recently in the company of one of his associates. Are those wedding bells we hear, Mr. Steele?

Columnists were so sappy. Curt wondered if anybody ever really took this trash seriously. It wasn't Steele's romantic trysts that interested him anyway. His eyes found the accompanying article, the reason for the picture of Steele and the woman. The bold print of the lead line glared darkly.

Remington Steele Chosen Detective of the Year by the California Private Investigators' Association. The coveted Sleuth Award is not given lightly and Ireland-born Steele is the first non-American to receive it.

The article went on to expound on Steele's merits, lauding his laurels high enough to consider him for sainthood. Curt read the tripe in disgust. Where did this Steele get off waltzing in from some foreign country and blissfully stealing the award that should have come to him, Curt Phillips, Private Investigator. Hadn't he worked long and hard, in dingy dives, in harrowing neighborhoods -- sleeping in his car, casing sleazy motels. Sam Spade himself couldn't have tried any harder, and here this Limey or Mick or whatever he was comes along and takes the prize out from under his nose.

Curt grabbed at the paper and crumbled it, hurling the ball of newsprint at the wall. He sighed heavily and ran both hands through his hair. It wasn't fair! It just wasn't fair! He was good. He was more than good -- he was the best. It should have been his picture in the paper. People should have been reading about his exploits.

He stood up and shuffled over to stand before the mirror in the hallway, pulling out all the red-inked overdue notices he'd stuck there, and dropping them onto the carpet without a thought. The specter that stared back at him wasn't exactly the image of success. He tried vainly to straighten his disheveled hair, the brown tufts wildly stubborn. He needed a shave badly and the dark circles under his eyes told of the many sleepless nights over the last few weeks.

It hadn't always been like this. Oh sure, maybe he hadn't been rolling in dough or driving big, fancy, antique cars, but he'd done all right the first few years. After all, it had been the thrill of the chase, not the size of the fee that mattered. But in the end, even those small fees had trickled off. A one man crew failed to inspire confidence for some reason and people had been lured over to the corporate agencies, Remington Steele in particular, just because the leads had been a little slow in developing.

It wasn't fair. He'd never stood a chance against all that hype and glamour. His eyes caught sight of the ball of newspaper and he moved over to pick it up and take it back to the mirror. He opened it, smoothing out the wrinkles the best he could. He studied Steele's face a moment then glanced at his own reflection. It was a sad comparison. In a burst of sudden anger, he slammed his fist at the disappointing image in the glass.

The mirror shattered under the blow, sending jagged pieces falling to the table and onto the floor. Hardly aware of his violence, Curt continued to frown down at the picture, his thoughts dark and brooding, until a red droplet plinked onto the face of the woman beside Steele. It contrasted glaringly with the black and white of the paper and was soon followed by several more drops, each hitting different parts of the two people smiling at him. He watched for a moment in silent fascination until he at last looked up at where he'd cut his hand and the blood dripping from the laceration. Funny, but it didn't even hurt.

He studied it as if it were detached from him, following the trickle once more down to the newspaper. Both Steele and the woman were nearly covered with blood now, and the thoughts that came to his mind caused Curt's haggard face to break into a malevolent grin. Steele would pay for his award. Oh yes, he would pay dearly.

Laura Holt slapped the morning edition of the Times down on her desk, her fingers drumming the picture absently. She wondered, not for the first time, how it was possible to care for someone so intensely one moment, while the very next thing you wanted to do was to wring that same person's miserable neck. It was an old question, one she'd never quite completely resolved.

With a sigh, she rested her chin in her hand and studied the newspaper picture under her fingers. It wasn't a very good one of her, she decided critically. Her freckles showed up plainly and that dress did little for her. She made a mental note to never wear it again.

He, on the other hand, looked perfect as usual. She'd never seen him take a bad photo. Even the poor medium of newsprint couldn't detract from that charming smile. Just looking at him there on the page, she felt the familiar stirring of emotion that always threatened to take over her thinking whenever he was concerned. She jerked her gaze away from the picture, angry at herself for her lack of willpower. She was upset. At the moment she didn't want to risk letting anything distract her from the reason for her anger.

That reason lay in the article spread out in front of her and accompanying the picture. Detective of the Year indeed! Who did he think he was kidding? After all the years she'd spent, all the hard work, the sleepless nights -- worrying about red ink and making ends meet during times when the ends couldn't even be found. Who was he to just step in and waltz off with the most recognized and prestigious award an investigator could hope for? And on the merits of cases she'd worried and lost sleep over. Oh, of course he'd helped during the last couple of years, but even he would have to admit the major portion of the leg work and brain-storming had been hers.

She sighed again and rested her forehead in both her hands. She supposed she was being petty and childish. The recognition was good for the Agency, that was what mattered in the long run. She knew that, but she couldn't quite squelch the longing for the personal accolades that had always eluded her.

She also wasn't sure which she was the most upset about: the fact that he was getting the award in her place, or that he hadn't told her about it. He'd let her read it in the paper -- something he knew would be important to her. He'd let he find out with the rest of his adoring public.

The jangling of the phone startled her out of her muddlesome musings and she jumped violently, knocking over her coffee as she reached for the receiver. Cursing silently, she tried to mop up wet newspaper with one hand and field the call with the other. It wasn't going to be a good day.

Remington Steele pushed himself away from his desk and got up, rolling down his shirt sleeves and refastening the cuffs. He glanced out the office windows; the lights of the city were already gleaming in the early darkness of December. It looked cold, but it was probably a good deal warmer than it had been in the office all day. He didn't know what he might have done recently to warrant Laura's anger. He did know, however, that whatever the reason, each time she'd breezed in today, she'd brought the North Wind with her. It was a chill he hadn't felt willing to brave yet to find out the reason for its existence.

Now the day was over and the inevitable could be put off no longer. Slipping on his suit coat, he stood for a moment at the door that connected his large, plush office to Laura's smaller, more cramped one. He knew she was still in there. He'd heard her talking on the telephone. Gathering up his courage and putting on what he hoped was his most dazzling smile, he pushed open the door and rushed in boldly, before he changed his mind.

"Laura, Laura. It's five-thirty on a Friday night. Time to put away those files for the weekend. The evening is waiting for us, starting with dinner at my place, remember?"

The words had tumbled from his mouth in an effort to say as much as possible before she could interrupt. As he paused for breath and to measure the effect he was having, Laura merely stopped writing in the file spread out on her desk and laid aside her pen. She didn't look up at him, didn't give him a chance to look into those expressive brown eyes that might have clued him in to what was bothering her.

Now he was genuinely concerned. This boded of something more than just the usual flare of temper over some slight faux pas on his part. He'd assumed he'd merely stepped on some client's sensitive toes, but he could see it was something much more serious. For the life of him, though, he couldn't think of anything he'd done that terrible.

"Laura?" He spoke softly, letting her know he was aware of her agitation and he was ready to listen to her.

She met his eyes at last, her face calm and expressionless -- whatever she was feeling hidden deep within her. Her eyes never wavered as she reached for something in her top drawer and laid it on the desk. He supposed she meant for him to see it, so he tore his gaze away from her unfathomable countenance and glanced down at the newspaper.

It was a bit the worse for wear, having fought a losing battle with what must have been a cup of coffee, but he could still recognize the picture of Laura and himself. He knew what the article would be about.

"This wasn't supposed to come out until tomorrow," he stated a bit bewildered that this was what she was upset about. "The banquet isn't for two more weeks."

"Is that when you were going to tell me?" she asked evenly.

"Well, no. Actually I was planning on telling you over dinner tonight. A bit of a surprise celebration." He gave her a bright smile, hoping to coax her into a more congenial mood. Apparently she wasn't ready to be persuaded.

"Thanks for the inside scoop," she shot back sarcastically. She grabbed the file she'd been working on and moved over to stuff it into the file cabinet, not giving much care as to how it fit. Noisily shutting the drawer, she faced him, a tight smile on her face. "Congratulations, Mr. Steele. I'm sure you must be thrilled. I guess I'll be going now. I wouldn't want to keep you from any urgent press conferences. Besides, I have Christmas shopping to do." She grabbed her coat and hat off the brass rack and moved toward the door.

He wasn't about to let he leave, not like this. As she brushed past him he caught her arm, stopping her abruptly, his own temper rising dangerously.

"Damn it, Laura. I thought we'd come farther than this. I've obviously done something to upset you, but I'm not a mind reader. You're going to have to talk to me."

She jerked free of his hold angrily, but made no move to leave. Instead she stood glaring up at him, her eyes bright and challenging. He met her gaze unwaveringly, waiting for some kind of explanation -- convinced he was free from fault in this whole episode.

How long they stood that way he didn't know. He was distantly aware of the rain that had started splattering noisily against the windows, but the only thing that mattered was the face before him. Suddenly Laura broke the spell between them. She lowered her eyes to the floor, her hand fluttering to her forehead in a flustered gesture.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled softly, shaking her head. "I don't know why I've been acting this way. It's really foolish." She glanced at him, half embarrassed, half apologetic, as if unsure where to begin.

Steele allowed himself to breathe easier. This was more like it. They were back on solid ground now and Laura would eventually tell him what was wrong. They could work anything out as long as she let herself open up.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked gently, taking her arm again. This time it was tenderness not anger that prompted him.

She hesitated, her face reluctant. "I'm not sure you'd really understand." She pulled away from him and he let her go, knowing she thought best while moving and this was not an escape from his presence.

"Why don't you try me, eh?" he offered brightly. "Rumor has it I'm a pretty clever fellow." He held up the newspaper for her to see the proof.

She smiled ruefully and came over to take the paper from his hand. "But you've already missed it," she informed him softly.

He stared at her blankly, trying to piece it all together.

"Are you talking about this silly award?" he asked in amazement. When she merely smiled in answer, comprehension dawned on him with a resounding crash. He cursed his own stupidity. "But not such a silly award, eh?"

She shrugged, a small gesture, but one which left him wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms and hold her. Without a word he closed the space between them and gathered her into an embrace. He felt her arms tighten around his waist as she lay her head against his shoulder.

They stood together silently for a time and Steele took in the silken sweetness of her hair against his cheek. The rhythm of her heartbeat and the pattering of the rain kept time with each other. It was a luxurious moment, one he wouldn't have traded for any amount of gems or paintings or daggers.

At last he felt Laura lift her head and he looked down to see her gazing up at him, studying his face.

"Thanks," she said simply.

He smiled casual acknowledgement. "You know of course, any recognition given to Remington Steele is really for you. I know how much of you there is in him."

Her eyes sparkled her appreciation. "I told you it was foolish."

"But it stills bothers you," he concluded.

She nodded a bit sheepishly. "Sometimes."

"Then it's not foolish. If it upsets you at all, it's worth discussing."

She pulled away from him a bit so that she was holding onto his hands at arms length. Her face had grown serious, but there was no more anger there, only a deep thoughtfulness.

"Ever since I was a little girl I felt overshadowed by my sister. I don't think it was ever done on purpose, but it was like everything I did Frances had already done. So I stopped doing things she did. But even then my mother couldn't relate to my new interests so she didn't pay a whole lot of attention."

She paused, let go of his hands and walked over to stare out at the rain.

"When I got my investigator's license I thought I'd finally have a chance for people to see me for once... to recognize the things I did." She turned away from the window and gave him an ironic smile. "Thing didn't turn out the way I planned."

"But Laura," he protested. "You're still the main energy behind this agency. I mean, I do feel I help a little, but there would be no Remington Steele without you."

"But don't you see? It's still Remington Steele and that's you. Even though most of the time it's us, the world thinks it's you.

"Laura, I..."

She moved forward and silenced him with a touch of her fingers to his lips. "It's all right," she assured him. "I told you it didn't make any sense. But thank you anyway."

She slipped into her coat and settled her hat on her head, obviously ready to leave.

"I suppose this means dinner is off, eh?" He didn't hold much hope for a favorable answer. He'd felt the evening slipping through his fingers, but was willing to make a last ditch attempt.

Laura gave him an apologetic look. "I hope you don't mind. I don't think I'd be very good company tonight. I'm sorry." She kissed him lightly on the lips. "Another time?"

"You can count on it," he assured her, giving her hand a tight squeeze then releasing it.

She quickly kissed him one more time then she was gone. He stood at the door watching after her until she was through the double glass doors and out of his sight. With a sigh, he walked out of Laura's office and into the lobby, where Mildred was busy locking up for the night. He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets and regarded her activities distractedly until she became aware of his stare.

"Is anything wrong, Chief?"

"What?" He blinked, realizing she was talking to him. "Oh, Mildred. No, no. Everything's fine."

"Good. Because I saw Miss Holt leave and I thought maybe you two had a fight or something."

"No, no, Mildred," he hastened to assure her. "Miss Holt's merely a bit under the weather."

He paused to gaze out at the corridor where he'd last seen her. An inexplicable chill coursed down his spine and he frowned in puzzlement. Laura was fine. There was no reason to be worried about her. It must just be the weather.

He made a determined effort to shake off this mood and addressed his receptionist.

"Ah, Mildred. Enough of this now. It's Friday night. Time to be out of this office and on the town."

"Right, Boss." Mildred laughed as she picked up her coat and purse. She walked around her desk to stand beside him. "When you reach my age, Friday is no different than Tuesday or Wednesday. Except I can watch J.R. Ewing ruin people's lives."

"What, Mildred? No plans for this evening, no candlelight dinner, no romantic walks in the rain?"

"Hardly, Boss," Mildred laughed again.

"Well then, we'll have to remedy that situation." He took her coat and held it out for her to slip into. "Dinner's on me tonight, Mildred."

The woman's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "I'm sure you've got better things to do than keep me company, Mr. Steele."

"I can't think of one, Miss Krebbs." He held out his arm for her to take. "If you'll do me the honors."

Mildred hesitated only briefly enough to fix him with a suspicious glare. Apparently deciding he was sincere, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

Steele smiled broadly and walked her out of the office, stopping to lock the glass doors. His eyes caught and held momentarily on the block lettering that spelled out Remington Steele Investigations. Once more that cold feeling of unexplained dread washed over him.

"Boss? What's wrong?" Mildred's voice sounded concerned.

"Nothing, Mildred. Nothing at all."

He took her arm again and led her toward the elevator, but he couldn't resist one more glance backward toward the office.

Curt slouched down behind the wheel of his dirty yellow Opel and watched intently as the woman from the picture emerged from the elevator and headed toward her car. He'd done his homework well. He knew this was Laura Holt, an associate of Remington Steele -- a very highly thought of associate. She wasn't a bad looking woman. It was a shame circumstances would soon make her an expendable pawn.

It was cold and damp in the underground parking facility at Century City and he saw her pull her coat around her thin body more tightly. He knew exactly where she was headed. He was a detective, after all. It hadn't been hard to match her to the white convertible Rabbit.

He waited patiently as she unlocked the VW and got in, starting it with a loud rev of the engine. After a few minutes to warm it up, she pulled the car out of the stall and headed for the exit.

He gave her a bit of a head start, then followed after her. He was confident that with the rain and the darkness on his side, he would be able to tail her unobserved. Surveillance had always been his strong suit anyway.

He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he emerged from the parking complex and spotted her a little ways down the street. Now, if everything else went according to plan, the great detective Remington Steele was going to rue the day he'd ever set foot on American soil.

Laura sat curled up on her sofa, absent-mindedly stroking Nero as he lay purring in her lap. Her thoughts were full of self-recrimination over the way she'd acted at the office.

She didn't know how she could've let things get her so worked up. She felt terribly foolish and more than a bit embarrassed. It certainly wasn't his fault the world didn't extol her fame. He'd put forth a lot of effort to be the Remington Steele she wanted him to be. Part of that included wooing the cream of high society and the press that followed after them. She had to admit he did a better job of that sort of thing than she ever had. She was never quite comfortable at those social galas where he blended in so well. She wondered idly if maybe a part of what had upset her was a touch of envy at the ease with which he played his part. It was possible, and she conceded the fact that if he'd been anything less than what he was, she would've booted him out of the agency and her life long ago.

The unexpected ringing of the doorbell brought her out of her musings with a start. She wasn't expecting anyone and she wondered who might be calling on her. She smiled, thinking it was probably the persistent Mr. Steele come to make sure she was all right and possibly in need of his company. She rose quickly, dumping Nero unceremoniously onto the hardwood floor. The cat meowed once in protest, then wandered away to preserve his dignity.

Laura ignored him as she walked deliberately to the door. No sense in appearing out of breath when she greeted him. Though she couldn't quite still the habitual racing of her heart at the thought of spending an evening with him, a cool exterior was always a requirement in dealing with the sometimes over-eager Mr. Steele.

She unlocked the bolt and slid back the heavy, wooden door. As she faced her caller, the smiled froze on her face even as her heart sank a little with disappointment. She recovered enough to greet the delivery boy with a pleasant, "hello."

"I'm lookin' for Laura Holt," the tall, gangly youth announced through a wad of chewing gum. "Is that you?"

Laura nodded. "Yes, that's right."

"Sign here, please." He extended a clipboard toward her.

As she moved to sign her name, she noticed for the first time the flowers he held in his other hand. Puzzled at who they might be from, she signed for them and sent the boy on his way with a small tip.

The door was awkward to maneuver with only one free hand, but she slid it shut the best she could manage and moved over to set the flowers down on top of the piano. They were gorgeous: a mix of carnations, daisies and other she didn't know the names of, all in a brilliant variety of colors. Spying the small, florist shop card, she plucked it out and hastily read over its brief message.

Laura,

You were always number one in my book. Congratulations!

Love,

Murphy

Just a few words, but they suddenly chased away Laura's self-pitying mood and all the glum thoughts that had gone with it. She smiled, re-reading the card several times. Leave it to Murphy to make her see some sense in a situation. She'd been feeling sorry for herself and there wasn't any need. The people she cared about appreciated her and that was all that mattered anyway. That was, of course, what Mr. Steele had been trying to tell her in the office, but she hadn't been willing to listen to him.

She also remembered guiltily that he'd been planning a dinner to celebrate with her. She'd certainly put a damper on that. She glanced up at the clock. Seven -- still early. She could make it over to his apartment in plenty of time to try and make amends for her behavior and salvage what was left of the evening.

Resolved to do just that, she scooped up her coat and umbrella from where she'd dumped them when she came in, glad she hadn't yet changed from the dress she'd worn to work today. It wasn't the fanciest outfit, but she didn't want to waste any more time. She slipped into her coat and headed for the door.

She'd only gone a few feet when she stopped abruptly, suddenly filled with a vague feeling of disquiet. Every trained detective sense she possessed told her something wasn't right. She stood quietly a moment, listening to her own breathing and the pounding of her heart.

All at once she realized what was wrong. The door to her apartment was open -- only about a foot or so, but it was definitely wider than she'd left it. The thumping of her heart grew a fraction louder to her ears. Outside the rain still beat a relentless rhythm. There was no other sound in the loft.

Wondering if perhaps she was being a bit of a paranoid, she took a tentative step towards the door.

She never heard the intruder. She sensed his presence only an instant before she felt herself being grabbed from behind, a rag pressed roughly over her mouth and nose. Recognizing at once the sickly sweet smell of chloroform, she tried not to breathe as she struggled to free herself from the strong arms that gripped her. She couldn't hold out forever and at last had to inhale, filling her lungs with that awful odor, her head spinning even as she did so.

Her arms were leaden now and she felt an overwhelming panic as the world turned black around her and she sank into oblivion.

The black limousine cut a smooth path down the dark, wet streets. It slowed at times for the large, flooded puddles that stretched across intersections never designed to handle massive amounts of rain.

Leaning against the plush back seat, Steele stared out at the passing lights, not really seeing them. His thoughts were far away. His dinner with Mildred had been pleasant enough, though he knew she had sensed his preoccupation. Tactfully, she hadn't pressed him and had filled the evening with trivial small talk. He appreciated her efforts, but even so had been relieved when he'd finally seen her home and could have some time to himself to try and mull through his jumbled thoughts.

He berated himself for not foreseeing Laura's reaction to that damn award. He knew her feelings about the agency and her own anonymity. He should have anticipated her response.

Even though she seemed to have calmed down and was no longer angry with him, he couldn't shake that disturbing sense of impending disaster. He couldn't explain it rationally, and he wasn't quite sure he wanted to try. All he was certain of was his worry for Laura.

Impulsively he came to a decision. Whether or not Laura wanted to see him tonight, he was going to stop by -- if only to satisfy himself that she was all right. He leaned forward to tap Fred lightly on the shoulder. The chauffeur turned slightly, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Yes, Mr. Steele?"

"I think we'll take a slight detour, Fred. Swing by Miss Holt's, would you?"

"Yes, sir."

Steele leaned against the seat once more, still anxious but much more pleased with himself for making his choice. It would be a simple enough matter to go up and check on her -- to see for himself that his fears were groundless. That way, at least he'd be able to sleep tonight.

The drive to the loft seemed interminably long, but at last they reached the old building and were parked out front. Steele spotted Laura's Rabbit on the street. At least she was home, though he doubted she would have gone anywhere tonight.

"I won't be very long, Fred," he told the driver as he got out of the limo. "Half an hour tops."

The rain had stopped, but the cold wind was still biting and he turned up the collar of his overcoat against the chill as he made his way across the street and into the building. He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the fact that he'd arrive at Laura's out of breath and anxious. It wouldn't matter as long as he found her safe and sound and puzzled at his behavior.

At last he was standing in front of her door. He took one brief moment to collect himself, brushed his hair back out of his eyes, then knocked loudly on the heavy door.

There was no answer. He pounded again, louder this time. A long minute crawled by and still no one appeared. He frowned. She had to be home. She wouldn't have walked anywhere in this weather.

"Laura?" he called through the door. Silence was his only answer.

Maybe she was only in the shower, he told himself and he tried the door just for the hell of it. To his alarm it slid back noisily on its runners. It wasn't like Laura to leave it unlocked.

"Laura!"

The panic he was feeling sounded clear in his voice now. He did a quick, frantic once-over of the apartment to confirm what he already knew. Laura wasn't here.

Calm, he told himself. Icy calm. You don't know anything has happened to her.

He stood in the middle of the room, his hand to his forehead, trying to think what to do. Suddenly struck with an idea, he moved to the telephone and quickly punched in Mildred's number.

"Come on, come on," he urged impatiently at the distant ringing, suddenly interrupted by Mildred's voice.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mildred. By any chance has Miss Holt called on you this evening?"

"Boss?" The older woman sounded confused. "What's going on?"

"Just tell me, Mildred," Steele begged. "Have you heard from Laura tonight?"

"No, Chief." Now Mildred's voice echoed his own concern. "Is something wrong?"

He took a deep breath, consciously trying to gain control of his voice. No sense alarming Mildred unnecessarily.

"No, no, Mildred. Nothing to worry about," he assured her, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt. "I just can't locate her is all."

"Have you tried the loft?" Mildred asked helpfully.

"I'm at the loft," he informed her evenly. "The car is here, the door is open, only no Miss Holt."

"Maybe she's in the laundry room," Mildred suggested, obviously trying to inspire confidence.

He brightened at that thought, willing to believe he was being overly concerned.

"You're probably right, Mildred. I'm sure she'll walk through the door any moment now."

"Well, call me and let me know," his receptionist ordered. "Otherwise, I won't sleep a wink all night."

"All right, Mildred. I promise I'll call. Goodnight now."

He hung up the phone an stood a moment, hands in his pockets, staring at the door -- waiting, he supposed, for Laura to walk through. When she didn't appear, he wandered over to the small Christmas tree standing in the corner next to the piano. Impulsively, he reached down and plugged in the lights, their blinking rainbow of color catching and dancing off the long strands of tinsel.

There were already a goodly amount of packages spread underneath the tree, though Christmas was still several weeks away. He stooped down and curiously inspected the tags on some of them. He found one for Frances, several for the kids. Off to one side were gifts for Murphy and Bernice. Steele smiled softly. Of course, the ever-organized Laura would have the presents she needed to mail all stacked neatly together.

He found one addressed to himself, a little apart from the rest. He reached out and brushed at the curled ribbon that spoke of the care she'd taken to wrap it. He could almost see her here, making sure every corner was neatly folded, every piece of tape smoothly fitted.

Abruptly he stood up, chasing away the much too vivid image. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. He knew that for a certainty. No matter what he would like to think, he knew Laura too well. She wouldn't go the to laundry room or to the neighbors or even out into the hallway without locking the door behind her. The only way she would have left the loft open was if she'd been forced out against her will.

He began prowling the loft again -- not in utter panic this time, but with a purpose. He was looking for something out of place, a sign of some kind to tell him what had happened. It was an unrewarding search.

There wasn't a drawer left open, a garment discarded casually, no food out on the sink -- nothing to show that Laura had ever come home tonight. But her car was parked in its place outside, belying what the apartment showed. Frustrated, he slammed a fist against the wall. There had to be something.

He must have stared at the rag on the floor for a full five minutes before his mind finally registered the fact that it was there. He blinked out of his stupor and rushed over to pick it up from beside the piano bench. He recoiled at the odor of chloroform that still emanated from it.

He felt a knot of anger tightening in his stomach, and in a burst of helpless outrage, he hurled the rag across the room. This wasn't going to help Laura, he knew. He took a deep breath, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He would have to remain in control. There would be plenty of time for exacting revenge after he found Laura. But how to go about that? He wasn't even sure where to start.

Without realizing it, he began to pace as he pondered his next move. He made a quick mental inventory of their current cases. There was nothing noteworthy, nothing to warrant anything like this, he was positive. As for past cases, he couldn't be as certain. Laura had been a detective on her own and with Murphy for several years before a flesh and blood Remington Steele had arrived on the scene. Lord knew they'd had experience with ghosts from Laura's past assignments popping up. A sudden fearful thought flashed into his mind, but a quick telephone call put to rest any worry about Descoine. He was still safely tucked away behind bars.

His fingers drummed absently on the phone. The only thing out of the ordinary recently was that damnable award, which was fast turning out to be more trouble than it was worth. He recalled the picture of Laura and himself from the newspaper and it occurred to him that perhaps this might be a simple case of kidnapping, not connected to any case at all, but rather brought about by the notoriety of the newspaper article.

He straightened up, ready to grasp at that notion rather than stumbling blindly, going nowhere. If that were truly the case, then the kidnappers would no doubt want to get in touch with him, presumably for some kind of ransom demand. The best place for him then was back at his own flat, where they could contact him.

Hoping he hadn't wasted precious time, he raced out of the loft, taking time only to put the padlock in place. He wanted to be sure Laura returned to her apartment as she'd left it. He then flew down the stairs faster than he'd ever done so, his feet hardly touching the steps.

The cold wind blasted at him as he slammed out of the building, feeling a sudden pang of guilt at the sight of Fred coming around to open the door for him. He'd left the man out here in the cold for an awfully long time. He beat Fred to the door and waved him back inside the car.

"Sorry for taking so long," he apologized hastily as he climbed in and shut the door. "Back to my place, Fred, as fast as you can. Miss Holt's life may depend on it."

The limo sped across town at a fast clip as Fred skillfully steered around or determinedly plowed through the flooded streets. Inside, Steele sat forward, shoulders tensed, wishing they were going ten times as fast, impatient at the slightest delay. He bit back any criticism, however. He knew Fred was an excellent driver and was doing the best he could. It was only Steele's own frustration making the trip drag on so.

At last they pulled up into the circular driveway of the exclusive apartment building. Steele was out the door before Fred was completely stopped. All semblance of dignity forgotten, he raced into the building. He fretted at the wait for the elevator, then dashed down the hall to his door.

He tried the knob once, just to be certain, and found it locked. He fumbled with his keys a moment, then finally got the door open and ducked inside. It was only then that he stopped to catch his breath, leaning against the door, willing his heart to slow down. He had to stay calm. He wasn't going to help Laura by running about madly.

As he stood there, breathing heavily, his gaze fell upon the fireplace mantle and he frowned. Something was out of place. He pushed himself away from the door and strode over to the far side of the room. The small, manila envelope lay propped up on the mantle, Remington Steele scrawled across it. He felt that same familiar chill run down his spine at the thought of someone being in here while he was out -- that someone who in all probability had Laura.

He stared at the package. Suddenly apprehensive, he moved through his apartment, satisfying himself that whomever had visited earlier was no longer around. It was only then that he returned to the fireplace and gingerly opened the envelope. He spilled out the single cassette tape into his hand.

Without stopping to think, he slipped it into the machine, pressed play and waited. He listened intently for the ransom terms. Suddenly the air was filled with music. Taken aback at the unexpectedness of it, it took him a moment to place the song.

You walked in to the party,

Like you were walking onto a yacht.

Your hat strategically dipped below one eye,

Your scarf it was apricot.

He scowled as it played on. He recognized it now and he knew what was coming.

You're so vain,

You prob'ly think this song is about you.

You're so vain...

His scowl deepened. What in God's name was he supposed to make of this? He'd been prepared for any kind of outrageous demands for money or at the very least an explanation. Instead, all he got was Carly Simon lambasting some poor, conceited schlep who thought he was the ultimate... He paused in his musings. Could that be it? Was this a jab at him for having won the award?

The song was ending and Steele waited as it faded, wondering what else was in store. As the last strains were muted out, he bent closer, not wanting to miss anything. Abruptly a crazed laugh erupted from the speaker, followed by a voice proclaimed wildly, "Wipe Out!"

Steele jerked back, his ears ringing, convinced that Laura was in the hands of an absolute lunatic. Then the music stopped and there was finally a voice -- cool and calm and addressing him.

What did you think of that, Mr. Detective of the Year? In case you haven't figured it out yet, I've got your little lady friend. She's even prettier up close than in the newspaper. Does she think you're the greatest detective around? I'd hate to burst any or her romantic bubbles. So maybe you better prove to her how good you are. Maybe you should prove to the world that you deserve the award they gave you. You're certainly going to have to prove it to me.

We're going to play a little game, you and me. The lady here is the prize. And to give you a little extra incentive, we'll put a time limit on it. I'll be generous and give you all weekend. But the game's over at twelve-o-one Monday morning. It's all very simple. You find her before time runs out and you win... you keep the lady. If you don't find her... then you lose and she dies. So, if you're ready for you first clue, listen to this.

Steele's heart filled with dismay as once more music filled the air. He tried to place the vaguely familiar tune -- men's voices, three or four of them, but he couldn't recall the group's name. This particular song he knew he'd never heard before and he listened to it play. As it drifted off, replaced by only silence, he knew there would be nothing else on this tape.

He sank onto the sofa, struck by the ultimate irony of the whole situation. Detective of the Year indeed. What a farce. Certainly he'd played the game and enjoyed it. But that's all it had ever been. Laura had been right to be angry with him. He didn't deserve the award. She did -- with all her diligence and hard work. Now he was being asked to prove that he was worthy of the fame that should have been Laura's all along and her life was hanging in the balance. The wrong person had been kidnapped. He had no doubt whatsoever that, had the tables been turned, Laura would have found him in no time. Instead, he had to find her and he had no idea in hell where to even start looking.

He sat dumbly for a moment then his eyes fell on his watch. He noted the time with great alarm. Nine o'clock! Time was ticking away while he sat here doing nothing.

With sudden determination, he hunted down a note pad and pen, then rewound the tape. He began writing down the lyrics as they poured out of the speaker, going back many times to pick up phrases he hadn't quite caught. When he was done, he read the words over and over, trying to make some sense of them.

There's a place where I can go and

Tell my secrets to,

In my room, in my room.

Rather an inane song, he thought to himself. What can it possibly have to do with Laura?

Do my dreaming and my scheming,

Lie awake and pray.

Do my crying and my sighing,

Laugh at yesterday.

He read on and sighed heavily, running his hand through his hair. What "clue" was he supposed to glean from this? The first, rather obvious answer would be that Laura was being held in a room somewhere. That was too easy. Of course she would be in a room. He frowned at the hastily scribbled words. The song wasn't talking about any room, it was talking about a specific room -- the singer's room. Perhaps he was supposed to find the kidnapper's own special room.

He sighed again in exasperation. Where in the hell was that room and how was he going to find it? Who was this mystery man who held such a grudge over something so trifling?

He shook his head. He was going to have to stop denigrating that award. He remembered too well how strongly Laura had felt about it. He supposed there might be others who felt they deserved it more than he did. God knew, every detective out there deserved it more than he did. If this was truly the case, that the man was insanely jealous about Remington Steele taking an undeserved prize, then the perpetrator of this scheme was in all probability a fellow investigator -- a colleague, as it were. He got up and rummaged around for the telephone directory. It would take a long time, but at least it was a place to start.

Consciousness returned to Laura slowly. It brought with it first, nausea from the chloroform, then, more urgently, a sense of panic as she realized her hands were tied behind her. She was gagged as well, her mouth dry and sore from working against the cloth.

As she became more aware of her surroundings, she lifted her head, trying to ignore the painful throbbing. She needed to assess her situation. Wherever her abductor had brought her, it was dark. A small, bare bulb was the only source of light. She could see no windows or doors, only dull gray, metal walls -- and pipes. There were pipes everywhere. She realized she must be secured to one where she sat on the cold floor.

She tugged against her bonds. She hadn't really expected to free herself; she merely had to satisfy her own curiosity and be done with it. They held her tightly, the twine cutting roughly into her wrists. She registered the discomfort, but put it aside to deal with later. What she really wished was that the awful pounding in her head would stop.

She blinked, fully alert, as she realized it wasn't only her head. A high-pitched, rushing noise from all around filled her ears and added to the ache she was feeling. She glanced around, bewildered at where she might have ended up.

She strained against the ropes again, fear adding strength to her effort, but still they held. Stay calm, she ordered herself. Think this thing through. You're still alive, so obviously he's not out to kill you... at least not right away. That's something in your favor. Come on, Laura... think what to do.

The number one thing she needed was to have this gag out of her mouth. Her tongue already felt twice its normal size and her throat was parched. She worked at the fabric for several minutes, trying to get it between her teeth. She finally gave up. It was useless and all she'd gotten for her effort was a sore jaw.

Tired and discouraged, she leaned her head back against the hard metal of the pipe. Her eyelids closed wearily, then opened again as she stared up at the high, stark ceiling. Her mind was far away, wondering how different the night might have turned out if she hadn't acted like such a child. She would have been with him, enjoying the night and his company. A vivid picture floated into her mind -- the table set for two, romantic candlelight reflected in his blue eyes shining across from her, that crooked smile as he leaned forward to salute her in a toast.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, hoping to chase away such taunting visions. It wasn't going to do any good to sit around dreaming about what might have happened. She would have to keep her senses fully in control if she was to think of a way out of her predicament.

Come on, Laura, think, she chided herself. There's got to be something you can do.

She worked at her bonds once more, determined to free herself, but a distant clanking froze her hands. Her heart thumped loudly enough that she wondered what kept the sound from echoing.

She listened, her whole body tense, as the sound grew near enough to be discernible as footsteps. Closer and closer they came, until at last Laura could see the man they belonged to, obviously the person who'd abducted her. He was carrying something that looked electronic and he wasn't really paying much attention to her one way or another. It was almost as if she wasn't even there.

He stopped opposite her and began working over the gear he'd set down on the floor. She studied him as he did so, trying to size up her opposition the best she could in this dim lighting.

He looked fortyish, though it was difficult to be certain. His hair was a generic shade of brown. His height and build were medium -- nothing great, but not bad either. There was nothing to distinguish him as crazed or maniacal -- or criminal even. She could have passed him on the street every day and never noticed him. He didn't appear flustered; his manner was calm and methodical as he tinkered with whatever project he was fussing over.

Laura frowned a bit as her attention moved from the man to his handiwork. What exactly was he putting together? Then her eyes widened with horrified recognition of the copper wiring, electric coils and timing device. Involuntarily she drew in a gasping breath.

He turned at that, acknowledging her presence for the first time.

"I see you've noticed my little firecracker here," he observed conversationally, as if he were discussing the price of gas or the evening forecast. "Well, you don't have to worry about this. Not if the great Remington Steele is as good as everybody thinks he is."

He turned back to fidget with the device as he continued his one-sided conversation. Laura could only watch in mute terror as gradually the bomb took shape.

"Of course now," the man went on, "my theory is that he's just a smooth-talking bull artist. What do you think, Miss Holt? Does he have you conned? Do you think he's Sherlock Holmes incarnate? For your sake I hope he doesn't disappoint you. All he has to do is follow my clues and he'll find you in plenty of time. So let's hope he proves me wrong, huh? I'd sure hate to think of your pretty little face blown all to bits."

He interrupted his soliloquy with a small chuckle. Then he caught Laura's horrified stare. His face grew dark and foreboding. He leaned over her menacingly.

"That award should have gone to me. What is he besides a ritzy office, expensive clothes and fancy cars? He's not a detective. I'm the one who did all the work, took all the flak. I'm the one who paid all the dues. But he's the one with the face and the money so he gets all the fame as well. So maybe he is a detective under all that hype. He's gonna have to prove it to me... and to you, sister."

He whirled back to the explosive, set the timer and then stood up, ready to take his leave.

"You've got 'til midnight on Sunday, lady. If he doesn't find you, I win... everything." With that, he turned and disappeared down the corridor.

It was all Laura could do to keep from screaming after him not to leave her like this. She knew it wouldn't have done any good, even if he could have heard her through the gag. He cared for nothing except his chance to prove he was better than Remington Steele.

She tried to look everywhere but at the bomb -- so carefully left in her line of sight. She didn't know what scared her the most, the fact that she might die or that she'd heard her own last words to Mr. Steele echoed by this lunatic. Had she sounded like that? So wrapped up in self-pity and wounded pride? Were her own words tonight the last he would ever hear from her? The realization that they very well might be came rushing full force and welled up in bitter tears that couldn't be suppressed. Drawing her knees up, she leaned her forehead against them and let the tears come, giving in for the moment to all the anger, regret and fear of the day.

Mildred Krebbs was very worried. On her scale of bizarre days since coming to work for Remington Steele Investigations, today would have to rank right up there in the top ten. First, Mr. Steele and Miss Holt hardly say "boo" to each other all day. Then she gets wined and dined on a Friday night when he'd obviously had other things planned. Then that first, frantic call from the boss looking for Miss Holt. Now, at nearly midnight, he calls again, asking her to come into the office. No explanations, no nothing. Just a "please come, Mildred," and an abrupt hang up.

She shook her head and wondered at her own compliance to the strange request. Mildred left the elevator and took the familiar walk down the hall towards their suite of offices. Funny how ordinary things looked different when viewed in extraordinary circumstances. It didn't seem like the same, everyday work place at 11:30 p.m.

She reached the suite, saw the light was on in the lobby and pushed her way inside, only to stand staring at the shambles that used to be her desk. Telephone books were strewn everywhere, some even spilled onto the floor. Her computer reference manual was lying open in front of Miss Holt's office door, as if flung there from the desk. Confused, she turned toward the half-open door to the main office. By the sound of the music that poured out of it, that's where she assumed she would find Mr. Steele.

The room was dark, so she stood in the doorway, letting what light spilled in from the lobby help her to search for her boss' whereabouts.

"You in here, Chief?" she called a little loudly, to be heard over the music. It was the Beach Boys by the sound of it. She'd recognize them anywhere. How many times had Bernard inflicted them on her? It was a little odd though for the sophisticated Mr. Steele to be listening to California surfing songs.

"Ah, Mildred," came a voice from the darkness, and she heard a stirring from the sofa.

He must have been stretched out there as he listened. She could see him now as he got up and headed in her direction.

"So good of you to come like this," he went on as he gestured her ahead of him into the lobby.

"What happened here, Boss?" she asked, pointing to her usually well-organized work station.

"What? Oh, the desk. Yes, well, you see... I'm working on a little project here... special case... top priority." He moved over as he talked and began haphazardly collecting the books and papers, trying to straighten up a bit. "I hated to bother you, Mildred. But I couldn't get the damn thing to cooperate." He gestured at the computer with an armful of manuals.

"You mean you actually tried to use all this?" Mildred was incredulous.

Steele smiled sheepishly, then moved over to scoop up the book from the floor where he'd obviously hurled it in his frustration.

"I think the operative word here is try, Mildred. I mean, I've used the bloody thing before. But for some reason, tonight it just isn't making any sense. I'm sorry for dragging you down here like this, but it is rather important."

Mildred studied him suspiciously. He looked terrible. His clothes were wrinkled, his tie hung loosely around his neck. His hair was disheveled and falling over his eyes -- eyes that for all his blarney held a touch of fear in them.

"Does this have anything to do with Miss Holt?" she asked.

Steele assumed an innocent air. "Miss Holt? What makes you think that?"

"Only a panicked phone call I got a few hours ago because you couldn't find her."

"That?" He gave her a nervous laugh. "False alarm. Sorry if I worried you. Laura's gone off for the weekend. Visiting her mother, I believe she said."

"Her mother?" Now Mildred knew he was lying to her. Besides the fact that it wasn't like Miss Holt to run off for the weekend without telling anyone, the last person Laura would ever be tempted to pick up and drop in on would be her mother. On top of that, Mildred recognized the quality of the boss' voice as the one he saved to use when trying to pull a fast one. No, he wasn't fooling her at all. Something was going on here.

The best course of action for the moment, Mildred decided, would be to go along and see if she could wheedle some information out of him as they went. She shuffled to the desk and sat down at the computer as Steele hastily cleared a place for her to work.

"Okay, Boss. What is it you need that couldn't wait 'til Monday or at least until the morning?"

"I need a directory of all the licensed private investigators in California," he informed her matter-of-factly.

"What?" Mildred glared at him, then glanced around at all the telephone books. "Who are you looking for?" she finally asked.

"I don't know yet," Steele replied very seriously. "But believe me, Mildred, I wouldn't have bothered you unless it was terribly important."

Mildred met his gaze, saw the desperation in his eyes, and for the first time felt her bemusement turn to something closer to fear. Silently she accessed the terminal, its soft hum and the clatter of the keyboard the only sounds in the room.

Curt stood alone in the empty patio of the ABC Entertainment Center, arms wrapped around himself against the cold wind. The renewed rainfall whipped against his face, but he hardly registered the discomfort. His gaze was riveted upwards at the twin towers that dominated Century City. The exclusive office buildings were sparsely lit, only a few safety lights burned here and there on each floor.

He wondered idly what it would have been like to work out of a place like that. He'd never been able to rise above his shabby little dive in Van Nuys. Not that he'd disliked his digs. They's always seemed so appropriate for a detective -- so Sam Spadish. Still, it would have been nice to have the kind of money it took to rent one of these babies.

It didn't matter now, he reminded himself. Only one thing was of any importance at the moment. He smiled when he counted floors and found the light from suite 1157 burning brightly. So Steele was hard at work, trying to divine the message in that stupid song.

He laughed softly to himself. It was all so simple. That poor Limey was probably beating his brains out trying to find something complex and important. Well, he'd let him stew for a while longer, then give him the second tape. It wasn't any fun unless fuel was added to the fire. He laughed again. He only wished he could be a fly on the wall so he could witness the mental havoc he was responsible for.

Steele paced restlessly in front of the reception desk, not sure what to do next. He had the information he'd requested from Mildred and her trusty computer. But what to do with it was another matter entirely. The list of investigators was despairingly long and covered the entire state. It just wasn't feasible to think he could track down all of them. He wouldn't be able to do it in two months, let alone two days.

He sighed. He was alone again. After much protesting on Mildred's part, he'd persuaded her to go home. Now he was back to square one. The only clue was still that damn song and he'd listened to it so many times he could sing it by heart. He sincerely doubted he would ever be able to rid his mind of the tune.

He glanced down at his watch. Two a.m. Time was fast ticking away and there didn't seem to be a thing he could do to stop it. He'd never felt so useless -- so utterly helpless. He tried not to think of Laura and the fact that he was letting her down, but her face kept flashing through his mind -- that wonderful, beautiful face. What he wouldn't give to have that face here before him now.

He moved into his office, not bothering with the lights. He made his way over to the windows and stood gazing out at the city. The rain had started up again and it looked dismal and cold, calling forth distant memories of many nights he'd spent out in weather like this and much worse. He'd certainly come a long way since those early years, but he would gladly fade back into the bitter, cold streets if it meant Laura could be here, safe and warm and unconcerned with the whims of a troublesome conman who'd brought nothing but turmoil into her life.

He could well remember how many times she had reminded him in their early days that he wasn't really a detective. A lot of time and cases had passed since then -- cases he honestly felt he'd contributed to. Laura assured him he had, but it appeared that perhaps she was going to be proven right after all.

He lowered his head and turned from the glass and such disturbing thoughts. Nothing could change what had happened. True detective or not, Laura's life was in his hands now. He was going to have to think this one through on his own. There would be no helping hand to jump in with the solution.

Finding the portable tape player on his desk, he angrily jabbed at the play button. He stood listening one more time to the infuriating song that was his life line to Laura. The words filled his ears, their tone almost mocking now.

Now it's dark and I'm alone,

But I won't be afraid

Was Laura alone in the dark someplace, waiting for him to save her? Was the song a clue to Laura's whereabouts or merely a lead to the next clue? He pressed his hands to his forehead in frustration. He couldn't think. But he had to do something. Even if it was in the wrong direction, he had to feel he was trying -- not letting time slip away while he sat here feeling sorry for himself.

He glanced at the printout in his hand. It was a formidable task, but no better time to check out offices than in the middle of the night. He would no doubt be setting the world's record for the most breaking and entering accomplished in one evening.

Mildred stood inside Laura's loft apartment, taking in the emptiness. Nothing was missing. Everything seemed in place, but there was a definite sense of loneliness -- a presence was gone. That presence was Miss Holt and Mildred knew it wasn't because she was off visiting her mother, or anyone else for that matter.

No. Something had happened to her, something that was eating at the boss in a way she'd never seen. She hadn't missed his nervous pacing while he waited for her to call up the information he needed. Neither could he hide the despair on his face as the list printed out -- an endless stream of names and addresses.

It had wrenched her heart to see him like that, but try as she would, she couldn't get him to fill her in and let her help. He'd kept up that blustering facade, that false cheeriness, and had insisted she go on home and get some sleep.

Well, she'd left, since he wasn't going to give in, but she certainly wasn't about to go home and sit around. The Boss needed help. She wasn't sure how she was going to accomplish it, but she was certainly going to try and give him some. Since the main problem seemed to be the whereabouts of Miss Holt, Mildred had driven to the loft to scope the place out a bit. Just maybe, in his worry, the Chief had overlooked something.

She'd gone through the apartment with a fine-toothed comb, every nook and cranny. She'd only found one thing unusual -- a smelly rag by the piano that she couldn't figure out. It was discouraging, but she wasn't about to quit.

She sat down wearily on the piano bench and plinked experimentally at the keys. She winced at the sudden break in the stillness of the loft. With a sigh, she leaned her folded arms on top of the piano and rested her chin on them. Her eyes focused on the large flower arrangement near enough to her nose that she could pick out the scent of the carnations.

It was certainly a pretty mix of color. She leaned closer and breathed in deeply. Fresh too, by the fragrance. She wondered if they were from Mr. Steele, though roses were more his style, rather than this casual bunch of bright garden flowers.

Curious, she reached for the card. She hesitated briefly at the breech of privacy, then shrugged protocol aside. It could be important to the case. Taking the small card out of its envelope, she read the brief message.

There could only be one Murphy in Miss Holt's life. The flowers had to be from Murphy Michaels, private investigator and ex-employee of the agency. Mildred heard his name often enough in conversation, especially when she'd first come to work. She'd never met the man, but she'd seen his name plenty in the files and knew he'd done good work. She also knew Miss Holt kept in touch with him and he obviously kept up with Laura, if these flowers were any indication. Mildred wondered if he and the Boss were on as good of terms. If they were, it just might be a way to get Mr. Steele the help he needed.

Impulsively, before she could talk herself out of it, she slid off the bench and moved over to the telephone. She rummaged around for an address book, found it and flipped through the pages until she found an entry for Murphy Michaels in Denver, Colorado.

She reached for the phone, then paused. Denver was awfully far away. Maybe she was overreacting. Or maybe she should just call the local police.

She vetoed that idea right away. Probably the last people the Boss would want to have to deal with would be the police. No, this Michaels person was her best bet. A friend, or at least an acquaintance, and an investigator as well. He was bound to be able to offer some assistance. Besides, if he didn't want to come down and help, she wasn't any worse off than she was now. She picked up the phone again, determined to find out just how good a friend this guy was.

She punched in the numbers then waited. Her foot tapped impatiently as the phone rang distantly -- four, five, six times.

"Come on. Be home," she urged into the receiver.

Then she heard a click as someone picked up the receiver, followed by a crash as it was obviously dropped. After a moment a very groggy masculine voice came on the line.

"H'llo?"

Guiltily Mildred realized how late it really was and that it would be even later in Colorado.

"Is this Murphy Michaels?" she asked a bit timidly, hoping she'd dialed the right number.

"Yeah, this is Michaels." The voice cleared his throat and then sounded a bit more awake. "Who's this?"

Mildred gulped and took the plunge. "Mildred Krebbs. You don't know me. I work for Remington Steele."

There was silence on the other end and Mildred could well imagine the man trying to pull himself together and make some sense of her call.

"Right," he finally answered. "Laura's mentioned you." There was another pause and when he spoke again, his voice sounded alarmed. "Is something wrong? Is Laura all..."

"Just listen, okay?" Mildred interrupted, not wanting to cause the man any undue panic. "I didn't know who else to call. I think we've got trouble down here. I don't know where Miss Holt is and the Boss is acting kinda flippo, if you know what I mean. I think he's really worried about her and needs some help. But you know how he is about asking."

There was a short laugh on the other end. "Yeah, I know how he is."

Mildred bristled. "This isn't funny, bub. I only thought..."

"Okay, okay. Sorry." The voice sounded sincerely apologetic. "Some habits die hard."

That was certainly cryptic, but Mildred chose not to delve into past history.

"Tell you what," the voice went on. "I'll see about getting a flight down. Where are you now?"

"At the loft."

"The loft?"

"Miss Holt's apartment," Mildred explained.

"Right. Hang tight for a few minutes. I'll get back to you with my flight information."

"I won't budge," Mildred promised. "And Mr. Michaels?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you hurry it up?"

There was only one more brief pause before the voice came on again, this time deadly serious. "As fast as I can," he assured her.

The line went dead in Mildred's hand. She stared at it for a moment, then replaced it carefully. She'd certainly set things in motion now. The Chief would probably get sore at her for interfering, but she didn't regret calling for help. She only hoped this Murphy would be able to tilt the odds back in their favor.

Laura jerked awake with a start and instantly regretted the small amount of sleep she'd gotten. Her neck ached with every movement; her hands had gone numb some time while she slept and her arms and shoulders felt ready to break off.

She leaned her head back, trying to stretch out the kinks, and her eyes immediately caught sight of the metal case that housed the bomb. She was suddenly filled with anger. All night long she's nursed sorrow, fear and self-pity. Now the only thing she felt was a burning rage, kindled against that one individual responsible for all of this.

How dare he inflict this torment to satisfy his own needs for fame. What right did he have to put her through the kind of night she'd just spent -- not to mention what Mr. Steele was probably going through. God, she didn't want to even think about what kind of frantic search was being conducted this very minute, or what guilt he might take upon himself if he couldn't find her. She was too practical minded not to consider that possibility and the ramifications filled her soul with dread.

What would he do if he did lose her? Laura wondered if she was being morbid by even thinking about it, but she couldn't help herself. She didn't think it was conceited of her to feel it had been her influence that had lured him away from the shady side of his existence. Bereft of her companionship, would he slip back into those old ways? They weren't gone from his life, she knew -- only suppressed, tucked away as no longer necessary or desirable. Would they resurface to entice him away from the life she'd given him -- a life that would only remind him of her?

She didn't plan on dying to find out. She wasn't going to let anything happen to test her theories. She was going to get out of here. She overlooked the "if it's the last thing I do," that followed automatically after.

She wiggled her fingers experimentally and found them tingling, but still there. She tested the extent of movement they were capable of and found triumphantly that, with a little effort, she could worry the twine against a rough weld in the pipe. Without another thought, she set to work, ignoring the pain in her shoulder blades the motion caused and the blood from where the twine bit into her wrists. None of that mattered now. It was going to be all right. They were going to be all right. She was going to get out of here.

Murphy stifled a yawn as he hurried down the ramp that led from the plane to the Western terminal at LAX. He hadn't gotten any more sleep since the phone had awakened him and he'd been too wound up to catch any shut-eye on the early bird flight in from Denver. He hadn't been able to drag any real details out of Mildred -- only an insistent, "Get your rear down here as fast as you can."

He smiled. Laura had once described her new receptionist as a mixture of Ann Landers and Calamity Jane. From the little Murphy had talked to her, she seemed to fit the bill.

There were few people here this early in the morning, and when he caught sight of the short, stocky older woman hovering nervously near the check-in counter, he knew it had to be Mildred Krebbs. He made his way towards her, determined to get some answers to all the million questions that had plagued him the last several hours.

She must have picked him out, for Murphy saw her straighten up as he drew near. Her face looked tired and drawn and Murphy realized she'd probably gotten less sleep than he had.

"Mr. Michaels?"

"Murphy," he corrected with a smile.

"Okay, Murphy it is. You got any luggage?"

Murphy held up his single carry-all. "I know this airport too well. I figured we didn't have two hours to kill."

She smiled at that, and Murphy decided he was probably going to like this lady.

"Let's move it then. Fred's down in the limo."

She took off at a fast clip and Murphy quickly followed after her. She was hard to keep up with, even with his long strides. After a few minutes of this hurried pace, Murphy at last broke the silence.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" he demanded, a bit breathless. This pace was hard on his bad leg, even after nearly two years of rehab.

"In the car," the woman promised tersely.

Murphy sighed and bit back a retort. His worry for Laura was making him edgy and he didn't want to put any enmity between Mildred and himself, in spite of the fact that he was dying for some kind of explanation.

At last they stepped through the double glass doors. Murphy stood a minute, letting his nose take in the smell of wet pavement, diesel fumes and carbon monoxide -- all the nostalgic odors that meant LAX, and home.

"There's Fred," Mildred pointed out and moved to the curb.

Murphy caught sight of the sleek, black limousine with the familiar license plates, and felt a tug of homesickness. Then he saw Fred step around the car to open the door for Mildred. He was grinning from ear to ear at his old employer. Murphy broke into a wide smile of his own as he walked up to clasp the chauffeur's hand affectionately.

"How ya doin', Fred?"

"Fine, sir. It's good to see you again, Mr. Michaels."

"Come on, you two," Mildred urged from inside the limo.

Murphy gave Fred a friendly slap on the shoulder, then climbed into the car. Soon they were speeding down Century Boulevard, on their way to the freeway. Murphy gazed out the tinted windows for a moment, taking in all the old sights, then he turned and faced Mildred resolutely.

"Okay, we're in the car. What the hell's going on around here?"

Smiling with self-satisfaction, Curt stood alone in the plush apartment and resisted the urge to laugh out loud at the smooth way his plan was unfolding. He'd followed Steele when he'd finally left the office at Century City. The man had come home merely to change clothes, then left again. He'd been hard to spot -- a dark, lean figure in black, obviously dressed for some professional calls. Curt watched him as he left in the big, white Auburn. He knew Steele must be out pursuing some track he thought would lead him to his precious lady.

` Curt's smile widened as he pulled another manila envelope out of his jacket pocket. If Steele thought he'd figured out the first tape, just wait 'til he heard this one. Curt wished again there was a way he could witness the reactions to his clues.

He placed the package on the mantle, then moved around the apartment, amazed at how much money this place had to cost. It was probably more a month than he made in a year. He shook his head, his resolve renewed by the injustice of it all.

He wandered over to the front window and felt a momentary flash of panic. The sun was coming up. Glancing down at his watch, he cursed silently. Lost in his daydreaming, he'd spent a great deal of time here -- too much time. He hadn't meant to, but he'd been caught up in the atmosphere, wondering what it must be like to be Remington Steele. Hours had slipped away unnoticed while he sat in Steele's furniture, tried on Steele's clothes, drank Steele's bourbon. It had been an exhilarating fantasy, but now he had to get out of here fast before Steele came back or anyone else showed up. With one last glance at the envelope on the mantle, he slipped out the door and down the hall to the elevator. He'd have to be more careful, he chided himself. He couldn't afford any slip-ups.

Steele opened the door to his apartment more out of habit than because he'd actually seen the lock and purposefully inserted the key. A heavy fog enshrouded him and he couldn't dredge up the energy to pull himself out of it. He'd returned home without giving much thought to the matter -- trance-like, his feet taking him on their own initiative.

His night's work had proven fruitless, except for qualifying him as an expert in different styles of office decor. He'd lost count of how many establishments he'd actually checked out, but none of them had revealed any great mysteries -- no clues to Laura's whereabouts. Of course, something deep inside had told him it would be useless, but damn it, he'd had to try.

Failure was something that came very hard to him. In his entire life all his endeavors, occupations, undertakings and the like had always succeeded to some extent. Even if a job hadn't panned out right, getting out clean was success in itself. It was with great bitterness that he faced the bleak morning, tired and discouraged, at a loss as to where to turn.

He dropped his jacket and bag of equipment onto the coffee table, sinking wearily onto the sofa. He rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes. Immediately Laura's face appeared -- quiet and stern -- demanding an accounting.

"I tried, Laura," he told the vision. "God, I tried. I just don't know what else to do."

The face smiled then -- a small, forgiving look that lifted his heart. Laura had forgiven him so many things over the years. Of course she wouldn't hold this against him. She understood. He found he was smiling himself as he studied her image -- those lovely brown eyes that knew his so well, the soft hair that framed her delicate face, even the freckles she hated but he found so perfect and appealing.

He wasn't aware of the exact moment the vision blended and merged with his subconscious, becoming a dream as his weary body succumbed to its own demands. He only knew that she stepped up beside him and he rose to meet her, to take her into his arms and to hold onto her for dear life.

Murphy walked down the familiar hallway to Steele's apartment, feeling like he'd done this only yesterday. The one thing that changed was the woman walking beside him. It should have been Laura. It had always been Laura there next to him. Even after he'd realized she would never feel for him the way he did for her, it had still been Laura working at his side until he'd decided he would have to break away -- for his own good, as well as theirs. Three was never a good number, especially for the odd man out.

So he'd left, with no regrets, except perhaps, for that part of himself he'd left behind -- the piece of his heart that would always belong to Laura. He hoped to God that whatever had happened to her, he and Steele would be able to handle things. That was assuming, of course, that Steele would confide in him and let him help. But he knew a few good means of persuasion and he was too concerned for Laura to be very patient.

They reached the door and Murphy regarded Mildred quizzically as she took a key and carefully opened the door without knocking.

"I don't want to wake him up if he's asleep," she whispered in explanation. "He's had a hard time."

They entered quietly, Mildred going first. Murphy paused to silently shut the door. When he turned he found the apartment looking much the same as the last time he'd seen it and he reconciled himself to a few days of deja vu.

He glanced around for Mildred and spotted her coming out of the bedroom carrying a large quilt. It was only when she stopped at the couch and unfolded the comforter that Murphy noticed Steele sprawled face down, obviously asleep where he'd hit the sofa. He was dressed for night work and Murphy wondered what he'd been up to left to his own devices.

While Mildred went about covering her boss against the early morning chill, Murphy began quietly poking into the leather bag on the coffee table. He found all the required equipment for an easy job of breaking and entering, a portable cassette player and a sheaf of papers all dog-eared and marked up with a felt pen. It was a computer printout of names and addresses. He frowned in puzzlement, straining his eyes to read the list in the dim light.

He glanced at Steele, tucked in by Mildred and sleeping soundly. Funny, Murphy thought, but three years ago he would have given even money that this classy con man who'd shoved his presence upon them all would never have stuck around once the novelty had worn off. He thought of Laura and how hard she'd fallen for this man and Murphy was glad Steele had beaten the odds and proven him wrong.

He felt Mildred's hand on his shoulder and turned to find her beckoning him away. He picked up the bag of curious items and followed after her into the bedroom. She shut the door quietly behind them.

"Okay, we can talk a little easier in here," she whispered.

Murphy dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed and sat down next to them. "This is what he had with him," he observed, whispering as well. "These are pretty obvious." He pointed to the window jimmy. "And this..." he held up the printout. "I guess these are the places he hit."

Mildred settled on the bed beside Murphy and took the list from him. "This is what he had me run off tonight... uh, last night... whenever. Look at this. At least twenty marked off. No wonder he's tired. I told you he was looking for another P.I."

"Sure seems that way," Murphy agreed. "But if he keeps going this way, it'll take months to hit everybody on the list."

"Maybe that's why he was so upset about it," Mildred suggested.

Murphy picked up the tape recorder and studied it. "Hmmm... I don't think he needed music to break in to. Let's see what we've got." He hit the rewind button, adjusted the volume so it wouldn't blare into the living room, then pressed play. When the music of Carly Simon came on, Murphy blinked in surprise.

"Maybe he does need music," Mildred offered.

Murphy merely frowned at the recorder as the song played out. He would listen to the whole tape, even if it was just music. He was positive it was important to whatever was going on around here. Steele wouldn't have had it without a good reason.

Now it's dark and I'm alone, but

I won't be afraid

In my room...

Steele stirred in his sleep. That bloody song was pervading his dreams now. There didn't seem to be any place he could escape its mystery.

Abruptly he sat up on the couch, realizing now that he'd allowed himself to nod off. Alarmed, he glanced at his watch. How much of Laura's time had he wasted? 7:30. He couldn't remember what time he'd staggered in. He made a silent vow not to let it happen again.

He threw off the comforter and swung his legs to the floor. He rubbed the heels of his hands at his tired eyes, then froze. His fingers ran over the blanket curiously. He didn't remember getting it out, especially since he hadn't planned on sleeping. Strange -- maybe he'd taken up sleepwalking.

He reached out toward the coffee table. It was empty -- but it shouldn't have been. It should have been cluttered with his paraphernalia from last night. He knew he'd dumped it there when he came in. It didn't make any sense unless...

His ears had picked up the strains of music coming from behind his closed bedroom door. Someone was in there, and judging from the tucking in he'd received, he didn't have to try too hard to guess who it probably was. He smiled at her determination to try and help.

He got up slowly and shuffled over, meaning to reprove Mildred for butting in, no matter how well-intentioned she'd been. Without giving her any advance warning, he pushed open the door and walked in.

"I was under the assumption this was my apart..." He stopped in mid-sentence, caught completely off guard by the person who glanced up to greet him.

He must have stared at Murphy in open-mouthed silence for a full minute before he composed himself enough to step forward, his smile once more in place for the charade, even though he knew how badly he'd stumbled. He extended his hand in greeting, trying to keep playing the game.

"Murphy, so good to see you, old chap," he prattled. The odds that his former associate was here by coincidence were extremely low, but Steele was determined to keep up the front, just in case. "What on earth brings you down from the rocky climes of Colorado?"

Murphy had risen to take his hand, his face serious. He wasn't buying any of it, Steele knew too well. How often had he confronted that same expression on Murphy's face when trying to bluff his way out of one corner or another?

But that had been years ago -- when they each had felt threatened by the other, each trying to prove himself the better man. They'd come past that and so, when Murphy returned the handshake, Steele read more there than just the challenge of his story. Murphy still saw through him, but there was an understanding of his reasons now. Steele felt the warmth of friendship seep through his weary soul. His expression changed from that wide, false grin to a quieter, sincere smile at meeting his old friend, especially now when everything else was wrong and out of kilter.

Murphy's sober face broke into an affectionate smile of his own, but the moment of re-acquaintance was brief. There was no time for long reunions. Always one for coming straight to the point, Murphy let go of Steele's hand and turned to gesture at the contents of the bag.

"It looks like you could use a little help," he observed.

Steele straightened indignantly. This was his fight, his game. It was up to him to work this one out and save Laura. The gauntlet had been thrown at his feet. He wasn't about to let Murphy pick it up for him. He'd never been one to let others fight his battles for him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied evenly, waiting to see how Murphy was going to play it.

"I've heard the tape," Murphy stated matter-of-factly. He seemed unruffled by Steele's evasions. "It sounds like you've got your work cut out for you."

"Thank you for your opinion, mate," Steele answered icily. He moved past Murphy and began stuffing his tools back into the leather bag. "I've got everything under control."

As if feeling the tension building, Mildred chose that moment to stand and try to smooth things over. "You know, we're all pretty tired, guys. Anybody want some coffee?"

"If you've got everything under control," Murphy went on, as if Mildred hadn't said a word, "then where's Laura?"

Steele whirled angrily, coming closer to hitting Murphy than he ever had before. He controlled his impulse somehow. His fists clenched tightly as he fought the surge of frustration and helplessness building inside of him, aching to be released.

"I'll go get some coffee," Mildred repeated and hastily left the two men alone to have this out between them.

There was a stony silence in the room as they faced each other. Steele regarded Murphy standing there unflinchingly, waiting for explanations, evidence -- whatever it took to prove he wasn't needed here. Suddenly, for the first time, Steele knew he'd failed. That defeat drained him of everything, even his anger. He felt his shoulders sag and he sank to the bed, his eyes focused on the floor.

"I don't know where she is," he admitted quietly. "I wish to God I did."

There was no response. Steele looked up and saw Murphy leaning against the closet. For a moment Steele saw a bit of his own pain reflected in his friend's face. Murphy's feelings for Laura ran deep, Steele knew. He wondered briefly what he would have done if Laura had chosen Murphy over himself. Would he have been able to face up to it as Murphy had done? Probably not. He would have moved on, telling himself she hadn't been worth the trouble and he was well rid of her. But he didn't think he would have believed his own lies.

"You know," Murphy spoke up at last, his voice controlled, his feelings once more buried deep inside. "You don't have to prove anything to this lunatic. You're doing just what he wants you to do."

"I'm not trying to prove anything to anyone," Steele snapped, his anger returning at the accusation. "I'm trying to find Laura... to save her life."

"You'll never find her this way."

"Damn it, Murphy!" Steele exploded. "I'm doing this the only way I know how. I don't care what this bastard thinks or doesn't think of me. I only want to find Laura."

Murphy was silent a moment, then he came back to sit next to Steele. "Then let's find her together," he suggested quietly.

Steele regarded the man beside him for a long time. The fact that his friend was actually right about what he'd been doing at last sunk in with forceful impact. He had been indulging his own pride, but it was Laura who was ultimately important.

"I'll welcome your help, Murphy," he conceded, breaking the silence between them. "Anything to get Laura back to us alive and well." He shrugged self-consciously. "I suppose I was bent on doing this myself. A bit short-sighted of me though, wasn't it? To think I could save her myself... without any help."

Murphy laughed kindly. "Hell, man. Even Sherlock Holmes had a partner." He paused, then went on with a meaningful smile. "Even Laura Holt has a partner."

Steele nodded gratefully at the gesture. "Or two," he added.

"Occasionally," Murphy agreed.

"You guys ready for coffee?" Mildred asked from the doorway, apparently testing the waters before coming in.

Steele stood and stretched. "Sounds wonderful, Mildred. Come on, Murphy. We've got some brainstorming to do."

When the last strand of twine finally snapped, releasing Laura from her painful bondage, it took a moment for her to register the fact. She'd been pushing herself for what seemed like eternity, enduring the agony in her back and shoulders as she worked at the rope that held her. Now, her newly-freed hands lay unmoving on either side of her, the relief in her arms making her hands feel detached from her body.

She stared at them a moment, then broke into exuberant laughter as she reached up to tear at the gag. As she pulled it off and hurled it far away, she worked her jaw and tongue, trying to moisten her dry mouth and throat -- her cracked, chapped lips. The she reached down and untied her ankles. She was completely free now and she laughed again in triumph.

Slowly, she got to her feet -- every muscle stiff and clumsy -- protesting the position she'd been in for countless hours. She wasn't sure exactly how long it had been; she'd lost track of time since she'd been taken from the loft, but her first order of business was to get out of this place. She glanced warily at the bomb. There was no way to tell when it would go off and she wasn't about to start playing around trying to disarm it. Besides, she had no idea whether or not her abductor was still in the vicinity.

Quietly, she moved down the corridor, finding to her surprise that it curved around an inner chamber. Eventually she ended up in the same spot she'd started out from. She frowned as she studied the pipes that ran along the entire wall.

Strange, she thought. Must be some kind of processing center or holding tank. She sighed. He brought me in here, there has to be a way to get out. Maybe I overlooked it in this lighting. Once more she started down the walkway, inspecting the outer wall carefully for any sign of a door. She knew there had to be something there. She'd heard the man disappear this way.

It was a battle to keep going. She was tired and her body ached every place imaginable. All she really wanted was to curl up somewhere and go to sleep. Of course, that would be after she'd quenched her nagging thirst with a huge pitcher of water. But she continued on, her biggest fear being the kidnapper would return and tie her up once more.

She kept on doggedly until at last she was rewarded. She came upon a break in the pipes and there she found a small, half-sized door. She gave a cry of victory as she reached for the old, rusted push-bar, but her cry stuck in her throat. She halted her move towards the hatch as she caught sight of the wires on the handle.

"No!" she cried aloud, while her mind was screaming its denial. It can't be! God, please, no! But she knew it was true as her eyes followed the wires all around the doorframe and found the explosives they were connected to.

In bitter despair she realized this man was cheating at his own game. Even if Mr. Steele did find her within the given time, before the big bomb went off, he would be killed opening the door. There was no way she would be able to warn him. They would both perish in the resulting blast -- dying at the same time without the consolation of being together, of touching one another and looking into each other's eyes.

She sank to the cold, metal floor, her eyes still fixed on the door that offered the allure of freedom, but spelled doom for the man she loved if he ever stepped through it. There were no tears, only a small throbbing in the back of her throat.

If she never heard the Beach Boys again in her life, it would suite Mildred just fine. The two men in the room with her had listened to that tape over and over again, trying to dissect it bit by bit in the hopes of finding something hidden -- something they'd missed. Mildred was certain that if they played it one more time she'd be forced to smash the tape player.

She studied both men now and wondered how they were keeping from tearing their hair out in frustration. Murphy sat on the couch, his long legs propped up on the coffee table, his blond head resting in one hand as he studied the printout of names, trying to find someone they might have crossed in the past. The Boss, obviously too wound up to sit still, was pacing in front of the fireplace, one hand on the back of his neck, his fine features wearing a dark, brooding look.

They were so different, these two, but they seemed to have one thing in common -- their affection for Miss Holt. As she looked at them both, Mildred wondered what had actually motivated Murphy to leave his place with such a prestigious agency as Remington Steele Investigations. He obviously still cared very much about the people he'd left behind.

It was a puzzle, but whatever the reason, Mildred was glad he was here now. He seemed to have provided a steadying hand for Mr. Steele. It was as if the Boss had come back from some precipice. While the search was still discouraging, at least there were three of them working together, instead of one poor guy beating his head against the wall.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mildred caught Murphy glance at his watch and automatically she did the same. It was almost one. The time was slipping away and they hadn't accomplished anything. They'd gone over to the loft, searched the apartment once more, questioned the neighbors, checked out the Rabbit -- all to no avail. No one had heard a thing they hadn't merely attributed to the stormy weather. Anything they might have found outside had been washed away with the rain.

So they'd come back to the Boss' place in silence -- each person's thoughts kept to himself. Back to the tape in this vain attempt to find the one thing they might have missed. That tape! If she ever got her hands on the little slime ball who'd left it on the mantle, she'd...

She blinked in surprise. How long had Mr. Steele been pacing in front of that manila envelope? She couldn't remember if it had been there when they'd gone out.

"Hey, Chief, look at that." She got up from the armchair and hurried over to the hearth.

His eyes were questioning until he perceived where she was headed and turned that way himself. In the same instant that he snatched up the envelope, Murphy bolted from the couch to stand beside him. He peered over Steele's shoulder as the Boss opened the package and shook the tape out into his hand.

"How the hell did this get here?" Steele asked to no one in particular.

"Is that it?" Mildred was disappointed that some greater clue wasn't enclosed.

"So it appears, Mildred," Steele answered. "We'll just have to see what our friend has given us this time." He moved over and replaced the first tape with the second. He stood with folded arms, awaiting the next installment.

Mildred stood beside Murphy at the fireplace, almost afraid to hear what might be on the tape. Her apprehension must have shown on her face, for she felt a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Murphy's encouraging smile. She took a deep breath and steeled herself for what was to come.

Round two, Mr. Steele.

Mildred was beginning to hate that voice.

I hope you've had fun with my first little clue. It should have been fairly simple for a great detective such as yourself. I suppose it's time you had the next one. Here it is. Listen well.

Mildred was unfamiliar with the song that began playing. It was rather mellow -- something about a traveller leaving home. She glanced over at Murphy, who had gone back to the couch to grab his notebook and was busily scribbling down the lyrics. The chorus stuck in Mildred's mind the most as it was repeated several times.

Days are numbers,

Watch the stars,

We can only see so far.

Someday you'll know where you are.

Remember,

Days are numbers,

Count the stars,

We can only go so far.

One day you'll know where you are.

"What the bloody hell is that?" Steele exploded once the song had ended and the apartment was silent again.

"Alan Parsons," Murphy answered evenly, still trying to write down the last words.

"What?" Steele turned to demand.

Murphy glanced up from his book. "That's who it sounds like. The Alan Parsons Project. I don't really know this song."

"Well, now that we've played Name That Tune, can we get down to what it means?" Steele sounded close to the breaking point.

"Relax," Murphy soothed. "You've got to start at the beginning."

Mildred felt it might be a wise time to step in and divert these men's energies from each other to the business at hand. She knew how quickly frayed nerves could flare.

"What does it mean by Days are numbers?" she asked. "Maybe some kinda code for an address or something?"

"It's possible." Murphy glanced back at his notes. "I think this guy's only using parts of these songs. Like, here it says, There's always one more mountain to climb. He could be telling us Laura's up in the mountains."

"Or not," Mildred felt compelled to point out.

"Or not," Murphy conceded reluctantly.

"Damn it all!" Steele burst out, obviously fed up with the entire process. "The point is, we're only guessing. We don't have any idea which parts he's using. This bugger's a bloody madman. It could all be a sham. How do we know any of it will lead us to Laura?"

There was an awkward silence. Mildred knew the Chief had just given voice to what they'd all been afraid of for quite some time.

"So, what else are we supposed to do?" Murphy's voice was quiet. "We can't stop trying. We'll lose her for sure that way."

Steele paced over to the window, thinking, then he turned to faced them both. His eyes were bright and Mildred was suddenly filled with renewed hope. She'd seen that look in the Chief's face before. He was hatching a scheme of some kind.

"I for one am tired of playing this little game... going along with his rules," Steele declared decisively.

"What do you have in mind?" Murphy asked warily. From the look on his face, Mildred could tell he'd been here before as well.

"I say let's make him play our game," Steele suggested. "He's obviously been following me around, waiting for me to leave so he can drop off his little notes. I say let's give him another opportunity, eh? Only this time we'll have a surprise waiting for him."

"What kind o