I want to thank everyone who continues to read, and review, and support this site -

especially today, which would have been KM's 107th birthday.

Steve threw his pen onto the desk with a frustrated sigh. Tanner looked up at him and smiled. "Nothing?" he asked with a soft chuckle.

Steve rubbed his hands vigorously over his face, as if trying to wake himself up. He growled comically. "Jeez, I've seen molasses that moved faster than this case."

They were working on the Goodman murder. Healey and Haseejian, who had suddenly become available after putting their own cases to bed, had taken over the Macklinberg stabbing but it seemed they weren't getting anywhere with that investigation either.

He and Tanner were tackling the long list of Carlton Hotel employees, both current and recently released, trying to find anyone with a checkered past who might have had anything to do with the beating death. But they were still hampered by the fact that they had yet to positively identify the murder victim, whose fingerprints were in no-one's database anywhere it seemed.

"I need a break," Steve groaned, getting to his feet and grabbing the jacket from the back of his chair. "I'm going for a walk. I'll be back in a little while."

He shrugged into the jacket as he stepped out into the crowded corridor, heading for the elevators. He had every intention of getting out into the bright summer sunshine and clearing his head but as he was about to press the Down button, he changed his mind and headed for the stairs.

# # # # #

Captain Rudy Olsen glanced up at the door when he heard the sharp knock. "Come in," he growled.

Steve Keller opened the door and almost charged into the room. "Rudy, I need to talk to you," he began quickly without preamble.

The senior officer let the report his was reading drop softly to the desk, his expression remaining neutral. "Hello, Inspector, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked calmly and pointedly with slightly raised eyebrows.

Realizing he was being subtly chastised, Steve froze, snapping his mouth shut and staring contritely at his boss's boss. "Sorry, I, ah…" Clearing his throat, he dropped into the guest chair and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. Nodding once in acquiescence, he said softly, "Look, Rudy, I know what I'm about to ask is not… well, is not kosher… but I really want to see Chad Adams."

The captain frowned. "Chad Adams?"

"The rookie who shot Mike."

"Oh, yeah, him," Olsen said almost under his breath, clearing his throat and glancing down before looking back up sharply. "How's Mike doing anyway?"

Steve's head went back slightly and he frowned. "They're keeping him in over the weekend but he hopes to get out on Monday."

"That's good, that's good," Olsen said almost absent-mindedly, shuffling some papers on the desk.

After several silent seconds, Steve leaned forward again. "Rudy…" The captain looked up. "Adams…?"

"Oh, ah, jeez, Steve, the kid's been fired… he's not a part of the… the 'family' anymore, if you know what I mean. I can't tell you not to go see him… it's really none of my business…"

"I'm not looking for your permission, Rudy. I just want to know if I can use your clout to get his address from Records."

Olsen frowned. "My clout?" he growled.

Steve tilted his head and shrugged. "I, ah… I have the feeling they might be reluctant to give it to me, all things considered. I thought maybe… well, I thought maybe you could give them a call… for me…"

The captain stared at him without moving.

Steve smiled. "I'm not going to kill him, Rudy," he said with a wry chuckle, "I just want to talk to him. He almost shot me and he almost killed Mike… and I just can't let that go without looking him in the eye, just once, and finding out what was going through his mind when he did both those things…" He glanced down and took a deep breath. "I owe that to Mike at least…"

Olsen cleared his throat. "Well, ah… well, when you put it that way," he began, sounding a little flustered, "ah, give me a little time. I'll, ah, I'll make a call this afternoon and see what I can do… how does that sound?"

Smiling appreciatively, Steve nodded, getting to his feet. "Thanks, Rudy," he said as he opened the door.

"I'll, ah, I'll call you when I… ah…" He gestured vaguely.

"Great. I'll probably still be in the office." With a nod, Steve stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. He stood perfectly still for a couple of long seconds, then headed towards the stairs and back up to Homicide.

# # # # #

"Oh my god, is that from Mandarin?" Mike asked, sitting up a little higher in the bed as Steve came through the door with two large white paper bags.

The younger man froze almost imperceptibly as he crossed to the foot of the bed and put the bags on the overbed table. "You can tell where it's from by the smell?"

"No, smart guy," Mike smirked, "the name's on the bag." He chuckled, shaking his head and pointing.

Steve looked at the side of one of the bags. "Oh… right…" He snorted a short laugh.

"Did you get a raise or something? I mean, between having to take Bill out to lunch and now this…" He was watching the younger man unpacking the first bag with a broad grin.

Steve glanced at him and smiled briefly. "It's a treat, for both of us." He laid two thick paper plates, some plastic cutlery and napkins on the table then reached into the second bag for the cartons.

Mike's smile slipped slightly as he studied his partner. He could sense that something was bothering the young man, and was now debating whether to come right out and ask or wait to see if he brought it up himself.

Steve could feel the blue eyes on him and smiled slightly. "So, ah, how are you feeling today?"

The older man's eyebrows rose. "Oh, ah, I went for a short walk this afternoon and I feel a lot better."

"No pain?"

"No pain. So they did mention something about me getting out on Monday if nothing changes… so, fingers crossed, eh?"

Steve had put four cardboard cartons on the small narrow table and was opening them. He smiled. "Great." He glanced at the bed.

"Oh my god," Mike repeated, "that smells incredible."

Chuckling, Steve picked up one of the paper plates and handed it to the older man. "I got all your favourites," he said, pointing to the cartons. "Beef and broccoli, Yang Chow fried rice, General Tsao's chicken and Lo Mein."

Mike snorted with pleasure, turning his surprised and appreciative stare on his partner. "You didn't have to do this, you know?"

"I know," Steve said simply, "but I wanted to." He picked up one of the cartons and started to fork some of the fried rice onto Mike's plate.

"What's this all about?" Mike asked quietly, staring at the young man's expressionless face.

"What's what all about?" Steve continued to fill his partner's plate.

Mike exhaled loudly. "What's going on? I know you've got something on your mind… so do you want to talk about it before or after we eat?"

With a dry chuckle, Steve started to fill his own plate, still not meeting the concerned blue-eyed stare coming from the bed. "What makes you think I've got something on my mind?" he asked casually.

Allowing a dry smile to curl his lips, Mike raised his eyebrows slightly. "Because I can read you like a book and you know it."

Snorting, Steve picked up his plate and sat, putting a forkful of fried rice into his mouth without once glancing at the bed. Swallowing, he finally looked at his partner. "You think you can, hunh?" He paused, continuing to stare with a slight smirk. "So what do you think it is?"

Mike dropped his eyes, chuckling softly as if caught. He picked up the fork and stabbed a piece of the chicken. "Well…" he started slowly, "I think you're feeling guilty about what happened last Monday, when I got shot and you weren't there."

Steve's forkful of Lo Mein stopped halfway to his mouth and his smirk disappeared.

Suddenly feeling guilty, Mike shook his head, looking down at the plate in his lap. "Look, ah, we don't have to talk about that… let's just eat this wonderful food –"

"You're right," Steve interrupted him quietly, dropping his eyes. He nodded as if to himself. "You're right… I should've been with you, and I wasn't… and I am feeling guilty about that…"

Mike watched him silently for a couple of seconds then he said softly, "You don't have to be… it wasn't your fault…"

Steve continued to stare at the floor.

"You said you had car trouble, right? Nobody can predict that kinda thing. It just happens… And I wasn't mad at you that morning, I was worried. Usually when you're gonna be late, you call…" Still getting no response, he continued quietly, "And I wasn't going out, without back-up, to do anything dangerous… I was just going to try to locate Dorothy Garland, just to talk to her… and I didn't need back-up for that," he chuckled softly and was rewarded when the hooded green eyes finally rose to meet his own.

He shrugged. "Maybe Adams wouldn't've shot me if you'd been there… and maybe he would've… We'll never know, right? But I'm still here. It could've been a whole lot worse… so, in the grand scheme of things, Steve, I'm good with everything." He smiled warmly. "But you know what I do need? I need you to stop beating yourself up about it… okay?"

Steve was staring at his partner without expression, listening intently to every word, spoken and unspoken. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and held it. Mike waited, watching. Finally the young man opened his eyes; they were warm and grateful. He sat back in the chair and, very deliberately, crossed his legs. With the fork in his right hand, he gestured at Mike's seemingly forgotten plate. "What – you gonna talk or you gonna eat?"

Mike started slightly, then his face creased into a broad grin. Chuckling and shaking his head, he lifted his fork and stabbed another piece of the General Tsao's chicken. "I'm gonna eat," he laughed as he popped the chicken into his mouth, grinning.

# # # # #

"My god, that was good," Mike patted his stomach as he laid back against the pillows. "I'm stuffed." He was watching the younger man putting the empty cartons and used paper plates and cutlery back into the paper bags. "Thanks again for bringing this."

Steve glanced at the bed. "And, again, you're welcome. I take it you're too full for dessert?"

"You brought dessert?"

Steve chuckled. "Actually, no, but I just wanted to know."

Mike picked up his watch from the bedside table. "Hey, ah, I was just about to give Jeannie a call. Can you stick around for a bit and help me with my… conversation -?"

"Obfuscation?" Steve said at the same time.

Mike pinned him with a look. "Ha ha, very funny…" he said dryly. "What? Do you actually want me telling her what really happened, and then put you on the phone to explain why you didn't call and tell her?"

Steve stared at him without moving for several long seconds. "Okay, you're right," he agreed with low growl and a waggle of his head. "You didn't try calling her earlier today?"

"I did," Mike explained, picking up the phone and putting it on his lap and then putting his glasses on so he could read the number on the piece of paper. "She's sharing a place with two others, or so I gather from the voices and names on the answering machine, so I just left her a message. I told her we'd been very busy… which isn't a total lie, if you think about it… and she knew we had those open cases when she left, so…?" He shrugged. "And I told her I'd call her later tonight."

As Mike started to dial, Steve put the paper bags, now full of garbage, on the floor near the door and returned to the bed, dropping once more into the chair.

Mike had finished dialing and was listening. Suddenly his face lit up. "Jeannie!... Yeah, sweetheart, it's me, finally. Did you get my message?... Good. So, what, are you sharing a place?..." Beaming, he glanced at his partner.

Smiling, Steve leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, watching his best friend talk to his beloved daughter. And for the first time in days, he could feel the weight of the guilt he had been carrying being lifted from his shoulders.