The loud knock on his front door brought Steve Keller's head up quickly. He dropped the newspaper to the table, glanced at his watch and scowled. 8:30. 'How the hell did he know I'm home?' he thought as he put the coffee cup down and stood.
The San Francisco Police Inspector was on the last day of a nine-day vacation. The first eight had been spent skiing in Tahoe. He wasn't supposed to be home till tonight but had decided to return a day early so he could use the time to clean his apartment, get groceries and slide back into a routine. So much for a leisurely day alone.
With a wry smile he pulled the door open, only to be taken aback by the smiling presence of Roy Devitt.
"Ah," the captain said pleasantly, "I thought that was your car. Home a day early?"
"Uh, yeah," Steve answered slowly, his smile having turned quickly to a frown.
"Good. I thought you might like to come with me. I'm picking Mike up in a half hour," Devitt continued as he brushed past Steve into the apartment.
"Picking Mike up…?" Steve echoed as he turned his head to follow Devitt's entrance, absent-mindedly shutting the door behind him.
Devitt pivoted to face the younger man. "Yeah, at Franklin. They're letting him…out…" Devitt's voice trailed off and his smile disappeared at Steve's narrow-eyed stare. "Oh," he said quietly, almost to himself, "he didn't tell you, did he?"
"Tell me what?" Steve asked, equally quietly.
Devitt's guilty look brightened slightly. "He's fine. That's why they're letting him out…today." His voice trailed off again as he deflated and rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm gonna kill him," he muttered under his breath.
"Tell me what, Roy?" Steve repeated, this time with the hint of a threat.
Devitt exhaled noisily, glancing around quickly like a trapped animal. "Mike's been recovering from a…a stab wound," he said slowly, then added quickly, "but he's fine. He's a hundred percent. That's why they're sending him home."
The blood had drained from Steve's face but his expression remained neutral.
"Where was he stabbed?"
"In the stomach," Devitt answered a little reluctantly.
Steve swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. "When did this happen?" His voice retained its neutrality.
Devitt looked at the floor and shuffled uncomfortably. "Ah…Wednesday," he said softly, then tensed in anticipation of the response.
"Wednesday?" Steve repeated, a sharpness in his tone. "This is Sunday. And no one thought to call me?"
"Listen, Steve, he was fine. His life was never in danger and I saw him a couple of hours after it happened. He said he would get in touch with you and Jeannie, so I just left it at that." He paused, then added softly, "I guess he didn't…"
"No, he didn't," Steve said slowly, and there was no mistaking the anger in his voice.
Devitt shifted uncomfortably again. "Uhm, look, if we're gonna get to Franklin by 9…?"
Steve was already in motion. He grabbed his coat and car keys and disappeared quickly into the kitchen to shut off the coffee pot.
"We can all fit into the LTD - " Devitt began but was cut off.
"No, he's coming home here with me," Steve said with a finality that brooked no argument as he crossed to the door and put his shoes on. "You can go home from the hospital." Steve straightened up and faced his superior. "You told him you'd pick him up at 9 and you will. But he's coming home with me." He opened the door.
Devitt, realizing now was not the time or place to argue, gave an affirming nod as he crossed in front of Steve to exit the house. 'Oh crap,' he thought as he crossed to the green LTD, 'I wouldn't want to be in Mike's shoes right now.'
# # # # #
Mike Stone sat on the side of the hospital bed, dressed and ready to go, his overnight bag beside him. He ran his fingers over the bandage on the left side of his stomach and winced slightly, then shifted into a more comfortable position.
He glanced at his watch again and then at the door. Where was Devitt? There was still paperwork to sign and a wheelchair to procure. He wanted to get out of here.
There was a soft knock on the door. 'Finally,' he thought and yelled, "Come in" as he carefully slid off the bed.
The door was pushed open and Roy Devitt entered, wide-eyed and in a rush. "He's right behind me," he whispered quickly and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
"What?" Mike asked, not sure he had heard correctly. Devitt nodded over his shoulder. Mike followed the movement and froze.
Steve Keller stood in the doorway. But there was no welcoming, relieved smile. If he was pleased to see his partner standing before him, fully dressed and seemingly perfectly fine, he didn't show it. 'Oh oh,' thought Mike, 'he's mad.'
"You can leave now, Roy," Steve said briskly, his eyes not leaving Mike's. "I'll handle everything from here." And with that, he turned and started back down the corridor.
Devitt exhaled loudly and headed back towards the door. "He doesn't need to tell me twice," he said sotto voce.
"Wait," ordered Mike sharply. The captain stopped and reluctantly turned to face the lieutenant. Mike spoke quickly in a loud whisper. "What the hell happened? He's not supposed to be home until tonight. And why the hell is he with you?"
Devitt bristled and shot back. "How was I supposed to know you chickened out and didn't tell him? I drive past his street on my way from home to here and I happened to see his car. I thought he might like to come with me, you know, to pick up his partner," he finished sarcastically.
"Great," whispered Mike, "today of all days, you become the good Samaritan."
"Look –" Devitt started, then shot a look at the door. Lowering his voice, he continued, "We can argue about this later. Right now I want to get out of here before he comes back." At the door he turned back briefly. "Good luck." And with that he was gone.
As the door slowly closed, Mike exhaled loudly and gingerly hoisted himself back up onto the bed, trying not to grimace. This was not the way he had hoped this day would go. Suddenly there was a huge fence he would have to mend.
Twenty minutes later, the door was opened by an orderly with a wheelchair, followed by Steve holding a fistful of papers and a paper bag.
"Lieutenant Stone," said the orderly with a grin, "you've been sprung!"
"Great," Mike said with a matching grin, successfully suppressing a wince as he slid off the bed once more. He was looking at his partner but Steve refused to meet his eyes, busy folding the papers and sliding then into his inside jacket pocket, then reaching for Mike's overnight bag.
Steve stayed behind the wheelchair as the trio left the room and made their way down to the front entrance via corridors and an elevator. Mike and the orderly talked basketball to fill the awkward silence.
As the orderly helped Mike out of the chair at the entrance, Steve ordered, "Wait here, I'll get the car," and dropped the bag at Mike's feet. Mike rolled his eyes and sighed. He had never seen his young partner this angry before – at least not at him. This was going to be a long day.
Eventually the Porsche turned into the entrance driveway and stopped in front of him. Mike began to stoop to pick up the bag but Steve was already out of the driver's side. "Leave it, I'll get it," he called, crossing to the passenger side, picking up the bag and opening the door in one quick motion.
Mike bent over to leverage himself into the low-slung car. Even moving slowly, he couldn't suppress a sudden pain-filled inhale and wince. As he sat, he closed his eyes, not in discomfort but self-annoyance, waiting for the rebuke.
When Steve didn't say anything, Mike opened his eyes. Seeing that, Steve straightened up and dropped the bag in Mike's lap, making sure it was far enough away from his stomach. He slammed the door.
Steve got in the driver's seat, closing the door and putting the key in the ignition simultaneously. Before he turned the key, he put both hands on the steering wheel and stared through the windshield. Quietly and deliberately he asked, "When were you going to tell me?"
Mike knew this was coming. He tried to make light of it with a wry half-smile. "Uh…today…?" he answered brightly, almost as a question.
Steve's expression betrayed nothing as he started the car and pulled away from the curb. Mike looked balefully out the side window. He knew he wasn't going to win this battle – it was best to follow his partner's lead right now until he figured out just how thin the ground was on which he was standing.
The drive was made in silence. After a few blocks, Mike figured out where they were heading so he wasn't surprised when the Porsche pulled to a stop in front of the Union Street apartment.
Steve was out and halfway around the car by the time Mike got the door open. The younger man took the overnight back from his grasp and put a hand under his right elbow to help him slowly out of the car.
Mike wasn't entirely successful in hiding his physical discomfort but once out, it didn't stop his companion from turning on a heel and sprinting up the steps, leaving him standing on the sidewalk.
Stairs were still a problem and it was a full minute before Mike was at the front door. Steve was on his way down from the second floor, a couple of pillows in hand. He tossed them onto the couch. "Sit down," he said.
Mike did as he was told, slowly taking off his jacket and putting it on the arm of the couch.
Steve crossed to the TV and turned it on. When it warmed up, he turned the knob until he found a basketball game. "The east coast game just started," he said, then disappeared into the kitchen. Mike kicked off his shoes, propped the pillows against one end of the couch and, with one hand over his wound, stretched out facing the TV.
A few minutes later, Steve re-emerged with a cup of coffee. He put it on the coffee table within Mike's easy reach. "I have to do a few things around here then go out for awhile. Do you need anything?" He was looking at the older man but his eyes still registered his anger.
"No no, I'm fine." Mike tried a small smile.
"You know where everything is if you need anything," Steve said, then once more disappeared into the kitchen.
Mike's long exhale could easily have been mistaken for a relieved 'whew'. He sipped the coffee, grateful for a decent cup after almost a week.
That was when he realized Steve must have talked to his doctor, who had told Mike that he was allowed a cup or two of coffee after he was released, but not to 'live on it' for a few days yet. There were a lot of things off his diet for the time being. And for the moment, getting back to full strength and back to work seemed to be an easier task than the fences he had to mend with his partner.
He knew the subject would be broached eventually. Best right now to let the young man work out his anger. That was the wisdom of years – knowing when to confront, when to walk away, and when just to let sleeping dogs lie for the time being.
He found it hard to concentrate on the game. He understood Steve's infuriation at not being informed, but then again Steve hadn't heard Mike's side of the decision. Hopefully soon he would get to explain himself but until the right opportunity presented itself, he would like the younger man take the lead.
Steve passed from the kitchen upstairs to the bedroom with nary a glance. About fifteen minutes later, he descended into the living room, grabbing his jacket and car keys.
"I'll be gone for awhile. There's more coffee in the kitchen if you want another cup." And without waiting for a response, he was out the door and gone.
# # # # #
Steve slammed the door of the Porsche, put his key into the ignition, and then just sat there, hands tight on the steering wheel, breathing hard. He exhaled loudly and let his head fall back against the headrest.
He knew why he was angry – that Mike had kept him in the dark – and he would make the older man pay for that. But it had been extremely hard not to give in to the other emotions he'd been feeling these past few hours: at first the fear and then the overwhelming relief.
He needed to get some distance between them right now to sort out how he really felt and how best to relay to his friend and mentor just how hurt he was feeling.
He almost felt guilty with the way he had been treating Mike since the hospital. 'Almost...", he smiled as he started the car and pulled away from the curb.
# # # # #
Three hours later the Porsche slid to a stop alongside the curb. Steve was annoyed that his regular spot was occupied, so he parked a further down the block at the cul-de-sac. 'Great,' he thought, 'the one time I have more groceries than usual…'
He took two of the paper bags from the passenger seat and made his way to his front door, balancing the bags as he opened the unlocked door.
Mike was still on the couch but, to Steve's relief, was sound asleep. He crossed quietly to the kitchen, put the bags on the counter and left to get the rest. It took three trips to get everything out of the car, but he managed to do it quietly enough to not wake his houseguest.
Before disappearing into the kitchen, he retrieved a light blanket from the upstairs linen closet and gently placed it over the sleeping man.
# # # # #
Mike was slightly disoriented when he woke a couple of hours later, but as soon as he moved to sit up, a stab of pain in his belly brought him quickly back to reality.
One hand over the bandage, he shifted into a sitting position, remembering that he was in Steve's apartment. He could hear bustling in the kitchen, and the smell of baking chicken wafted over him. He got up carefully and walked to the kitchen doorway.
Steve, a dishtowel tucked into the top of his pants, glanced up from the stove. "Good, you're awake. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. You better wash up," he said, his attention returning to the stove.
Mike took in the kitchen table, laid out with two settings. With a small smile but without a word, he turned and made his way slowly upstairs to the bathroom.
By the time he made it back down, Steve was finishing serving up baked chicken, mashed potatoes and steamed carrots. There was a beer in front of one place setting, a glass of milk at the other. He sat in front of the milk.
He looked from the plate to the chef. "This looks delicious," he said with a smile. He was going to add, 'especially after hospital food', but decided against it for two reasons – it could be misinterpreted as a comment on Steve's culinary skills; and bringing up the subject of the hospital right now might be a bad move.
Steve said nothing as he tossed the dishtowel onto the counter and took his seat.
Mike reached for the salt, then remembered it wasn't on his diet right now, so picked up the glass of milk instead.
They ate in silence. Steve's eyes never left his plate, while Mike kept staring at the top of the younger man's head. They had to start talking again soon.
Finally Steve put down his knife and fork and looked up, meeting the older man's eyes. There was a long silence before Steve finally said, "So, what happened?"
Mike visibly relaxed and sat back. This was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. "Bill and I caught a case last Sunday night. Someone stabbed a hooker to death in the Tenderloin. It was pretty vicious. That first night there wasn't much we could do; none of the girls would talk to us.
"On Monday, we got a few of the girls talking. Believe me, we could've used your charms," he said with a grin but when Steve didn't respond, he cleared his throat and continued, "Most of them didn't know anything, but two of the girls remembered this nebbishy guy, mid-thirties, with the dead girl just before she disappeared.
"They 'knew him', if you know what I mean – they'd seen him before. They said he was a real milquetoast. They didn't think he could have done it – but how many times have we heard that before, right?"
Steve actually nodded in agreement, Mike was relieved to see.
"Anyway, one of them remembered that he got pulled in one night last year in a john sweep. So we brought the girls to Vice and had them go through the john books. And, lo and behold, they picked him out. We ran his name and it turns out he lives with his mother over on Russian Hill but, mind you, not in the ritzy part.
"Bill and I went over there on Wednesday morning to talk to him. We had nothing on him and from what the girls said, it was unlikely he was our suspect, but he could have seen someone.
"We didn't want to talk about all this in front of his mother, so we asked her to get us some coffee so we could speak to him alone. And I tell you, after the first thirty seconds, I knew he wasn't our guy. You know, the old instinct?"
Steve nodded again.
"But we asked him to come down to Headquarters with us to go through the john books to see if anyone looked familiar and he agreed right away."
Mike paused and took a deep breath. He realized that this was the first time he was telling anyone about what happened. It had been Bill who'd filed the report and talked to the investigators and IAB. He could feel his heart begin to pound and sweat break out on his palms. His stare turned inward.
"He got up and went to the hallway and called down to the kitchen to his mother. He told her he was going to Police Headquarters with us and he would be gone a couple of hours. Then he crossed to the closet and got his coat out.
"As Bill and I got up to leave, his mother came down the hallway into the living room…she walked straight up to me…I remember she was smiling…she raised her right hand and all I saw was a glint of metal… and she stuck a butcher knife right into my stomach…"
His voice had trailed off, the thousand-yard stare continuing, as he relived the moment over in his mind. Steve caught his breath and froze.
After several seconds, Mike continued, his voice quiet and the delivery measured. "I didn't feel anything at first, just a light punch…and the next thing I remember I'm lying flat on my back on the living room carpet with the handle of a butcher knife sticking out of my belly…and then the pain started… It was unbelievable…
"I vaguely remember Bill and her son wrestling her to the floor and Bill cuffing her. The son found a towel somewhere and knelt over me – Bill raced out the front door. I remember afterwards he told me he went to the car to call it in as he knew it would be faster.
"The doctor said what saved me was the knife being left in – if she or any of the others had pulled it out, I could have bled to death. Leaving it in, he said, I was never in any real danger." He smiled slightly and shook his head, as if awed by his own good fortune. He looked at his young partner.
"I really wasn't in any danger. Everything her son did, everything Bill did – I was never in jeopardy… I never lost consciousness… I remember both Bill and her son kneeling over me, the ambulance guys getting there, even the ride to the hospital.
"After that, I remember waking up with Bill, Roy and Rudy standing over me – now that's a sight," he said with a slight chuckle. "Three hours after I was stabbed, I was talking to them, and the doctor told me I could go home in a couple of days. They just wanted to keep me in for a bit in case I developed an infection – the wound being where it was, of course."
Mike finished with a shrug. When Steve didn't say anything, he ventured, "Look, I knew you needed the vacation. We'd had such a crazy stretch before that and I knew you needed a break. Hell, everybody did.
"I was okay. I was going to get a few days rest in a hospital – I figured I didn't need to disrupt your recreation for something that really wasn't all that bad. And hell, it was only Wednesday – you'd only had three days…" he trailed off, his tone almost a plea for understanding.
Into the lengthening silence, Mike took a deep loud breath and then continued. "Look, I know you're mad at me for not telling you –"
"You know it's more than just that, don't you?" Steve interrupted calmly, breaking his silence. Mike said nothing – if Steve was finally going to talk, the last thing he wanted to do was stop him. "It's a matter of trust, Michael." Steve felt passionately about this, obviously; he never used Mike's full name unless he was adamant about getting his point across and wanted his partner's full attention. "We have to trust each other. I have to know that you keep nothing from me in the same way that I keep nothing from you."
"I didn't lie to you," Mike said softly.
"I know you didn't. But you omitted – and how many times have you told me that an omission is as bad as a lie." He paused and took a deep breath. "I have to know, even when we aren't together, that you will be perfectly honest with me about anything and everything that concerns the two of us – just like I expect to tell you the same."
Steve stopped and took a deep breath. "We got lucky this time, that goes without saying. I am so grateful for that. And believe me, I appreciate you thinking of me and not wanting to interrupt my vacation.
"But you should have called me. Talking to you, with you yourself telling me that everything was okay, I may well have decided to stay in Tahoe. But that was my
decision, Mike – not yours.
"You fuss over me all the time, over the littlest thing, and I let you do it," Steve continued with a wry but warm smile. "It's one of the things I love about you."
Mike chuckled and dropped his embarrassed gaze.
"But it's a two-way street, my friend. I get to worry about you as much as you worry about me.
"I know you think this wasn't a big deal, that you were never in any real danger – but the fact that you didn't think it necessary to even tell me makes me wonder what else you've kept from me all these years."
Intentional or not, the words cut deep. Mike froze for a split second, looked down and nodded slowly. "You're right…I should have called you, I realize that now. I'm sorry." He looked up. "I don't know what else to say. I made a mistake and I didn't realize how much…" He couldn't finish the thought, so he just repeated, "I'm sorry…"
Steve, aware they were wading into deeper waters than either of them wanted to go at the moment, pushed his chair back from the table and reached for their plates. "I stopped by your house this afternoon and got some more of your things, seeing as you're going to be here for a few days. There's a suitcase upstairs in my bedroom." Once his more his tone brooked no rebuttal.
Mike tried to hide his heavy sigh, knowing that any further discussion of their present situation was over for the time being. "Look," he said in a placatory tone, "I can sleep on the couch. I had a great nap there this afternoon –"
"Not for several days you can't," Steve cut him off. "I've already changed the sheets and it's ready for you. The doctor said you still need to take it easy so why don't you go up and settle in." With that, he turned to the counter and put the plates down.
Summarily dismissed, or so it felt, Mike turned slowly and made his way upstairs. They hadn't made as much progress as he had hoped; he would wait for Steve to once more take the lead, no matter how long it took.
# # # # #
A little over an hour later, Steve came up the stairs. He glanced into the bedroom as he crossed to the bathroom. Mike, in pajamas and glasses on, was reading a hardback book in the light from the bedside table.
Seconds later, Steve entered the bedroom, drying his hands on a towel, a large heavy plastic bag filled with medical supplies under one arm. "I have to change the bandage."
Mike looked at him over the glasses. "Oh, right." He put the book down and took off the glasses, laying them both on the bed beside him. "Thanks for bringing my book."
"I saw it on your nightstand," Steve nodded, "but really, a murder mystery?" His tone was welcomingly light.
Mike chuckled. "Yeah, I know. It's a quick read and I like to think I'm faster at figuring out the murderer than the fictional detective." He flipped the covers off and started to undo his pajama top as Steve sat on the edge of the bed, put the towel over his shoulder and opened the plastic bag.
"Scootch down," Steve said, "you need to be flat."
Mike did as he was told. "Scootch? That's a medical term, is it?" He pulled open the pajama top and for the first time Steve saw the bandage. There was only a slight hiccup in his movement.
The dressing itself was quite small, about 2"x5", horizontal, and about an inch to the left of Mike's navel. The surgical tape made it appear larger. Steve carefully lifted one corner of the tape and, as he had been instructed at the hospital, gently lifted the tape and dressing off the wound, careful to make sure the dressing wasn't stuck to the incision. Luckily it wasn't, and the dressing lifted easily. He dropped it into the garbage can.
Mike noticed a slight tremor in Steve's hand as he reached for the gauze envelope and his eyes settled back on the wound. The incision was nearly four inches long, its clean edges held together by ten small, neat, evenly-spaced black silk sutures.
"How does it look?" Mike asked quietly, and Steve seemed to shake himself out of a slight trance.
"It looks good. I don't see any redness or swelling," Steve said as he opened the envelope and took out a clean square of gauze. He folded it in half, applied a thin layer of antibiotic from a tube and gently laid it overtop of the incision. "Put your hand on that," he instructed.
Mike put two fingers on the gauze to hold it in place while Steve cut the surgical tape. He placed the tape gently onto the gauze and pressed down lightly, then hesitated. "Could you do that?" Steve asked. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Sure." Mike smoothed the tape down, and continued doing so as two more pieces were applied. Finished, Steve began to pack up.
"Thanks," Mike offered as he started to lift himself back into a sitting position, trying not to grimace.
"You're welcome." Steve closed the plastic bag and stood. "You need anything?"
"Nope," Mike shook his head as he did up his pajama top. "I'm fine, thanks. Oh, and thanks for dinner."
"My pleasure. Look, I'm going into work tomorrow, so I'll see you sometime during the day. Stay in bed as much as possible."
Mike nodded. "I will."
"Good. Have a good night." Steve turned and went back into the bathroom. He emerged several minutes later and headed downstairs, without even a glance at the bedroom.
Mike had picked up his book and glasses and was trying to get back into the novel, but after reading the same paragraph about ten times, decided to give up. In the dark, he stared at the ceiling, trying to find a way out of this problem he had inadvertently created. Eventually he fell asleep.
# # # # #
Mike became slowly aware of his surroundings, realizing he had slept more soundly that he had anticipated. Being out of the hospital certainly helped.
He could hear Steve's electric razor, realized his partner was in the adjoining bathroom, and decided to let the young man go about his business undisturbed.
About five minutes later, Steve emerged from the bathroom and as he crossed to the stairs, glanced into the bedroom. He could see that Mike was still sound asleep. With a relieved smile, he went down the stairs, grabbed his coat and keys and left the house.
Mike heard the front door close and opened his eyes. He waited until he heard the Porsche start up and drive away before he threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He carefully got to his feet; everything felt pretty good, he was relieved to find.
He found his clothes and got dressed. In the living room, he rifled through the Yellow Pages until he found the number he needed and made a quick phone call. Five minutes later, he was out the door.
# # # # #
A little after six that evening, the gold Porsche turned onto Union and slid to a smooth stop at the curb. Steve smiled as he turned the car off and took his key from the ignition – he had his parking space back.
He took the steps to his front door two at a time; he was in a much better mood than he had been the past twenty-four hours. He had made up his mind to let Mike out of the doghouse – he'd made the older man suffer enough for his lapse of judgment and Steve knew his point had been made.
As he turned his key in the lock and opened the door, he knew something wasn't normal. As he pushed the door open, he froze. 'What the hell…?'
