All of a sudden, it seemed, things started to pick up a little speed. By the time Steve got to De Haro that evening, he knew he would have several items to relate and mull over at the dinner table but, surprisingly, Mike beat him to the punch, almost pouncing on him the second he opened the door.

"Good, you're here. I think I tracked down the painting supplies," the older man blurted out as he quickly took a step back, allowing a somewhat startled young inspector to enter the living room.

"What?"

Mike closed the door with a slam and covered the short distance to the coffee table enthusiastically, grinning. "Well, I spent the morning calling the rest of the dealerships and nobody else sold any 'Fathom Blue' paint recently, so I started calling all the shops that sell painting supplies in the East Bay area that the Colma dealership gave me. But that didn't pan out either, so I expanded my search and I found this large hardware store over in Union City that sold everything someone would need for painting a car during the time frame that we're interested in."

When Mike paused to take a breath. Steve gestured to the couch but the older man just shook his head, plowing on. "Now the guy I talked to remembered the sale because the guy doing the buying had no idea what he was doing so it all had to be explained to him and that took awhile. And before you ask, yes, the sale was made in cash but no, they don't have the receipt handy. They have to go back through their files to find it and he's going to call me as soon as he does but it probably wont be till some time tomorrow, hopefully in the morning…" Panting slightly, he stared at the younger man with raised eyebrows and a silly grin.

Steve looked at him silently for several long moments then said quietly. "Wow…"

"Wow? That's all you have to say?" Mike's grin had disappeared and he frowned disappointedly.

Steve laughed. "No, I meant, wow!" He put more emphasis on the word. "That's really good… I mean, that's great, really."

Mike nodded his appreciation with a quick smile. "Thank you. Oh, ah, dinner's ready anytime you're…" He gestured towards the kitchen and shrugged.

Steve grinned and nodded. "I'm starving. Didn't have time for lunch today. Things were coming in fast and furious."

The older man's eyes widened in anticipation as he led the way into the kitchen, crossing to the stove and putting on a pair of oven mitts. Steve dropped the file folder he was holding onto the table, tossing an affectionate glance in his partner's direction. Slipping the sleeve carefully over the cast, he took his jacket off and dropped it on the back of the nearest chair, pulled his tie off and stuffed it in a pocket, then dropped heavily into the chair, beginning to roll up his sleeves.

Mike glanced over as he opened the oven door. "Is it my imagination or are there even more signatures on your cast?" he chuckled.

In the midst of rolling his left sleeve up above the cast, Steve looked at it and laughed. "Yeah, all the guys I used to work with in Vice ganged up on me in the lobby this morning and they wouldn't let me into the elevator until they'd all had a crack at it."

Mike was carefully taking the foil-covered plates out of the oven one at a time and setting them on top of the stove. He frowned with a chuckle. "What, one of them was carrying a magic marker?"

Steve shook his head slowly with a heavy sigh. "Paul Slater, you know the guy I was partnered with over there for awhile? He said he's been carrying one around with him since he heard about this," he raised the cast slightly, "just for that purpose."

Continuing to chuckle, Mike was gingerly taking the hot foil off the plates. "Was he a Boy Scout when he was a kid? You know 'Be Prepared'…?"

Steve laughed. "Probably." He took a deep breath. "That smells glorious."

"I know," the proud father beamed as he carried one plate to the table in his left hand and set it down in front of the younger man. "Dig in."

Steve waited till Mike had returned with his own plate and sat before he picked up the knife and fork. He'd become pretty adept at using his somewhat constricted left hand. Mike picked up his own knife and fork, looking across the table before attacking his dinner. "So, ah, you guys made progress today too?"

Raising a piece of gravy-covered beef towards his mouth, Steve paused. "Progress…? Yeah, that seems to be an aptly descriptive word…" He smiled enigmatically as he put the fork in his mouth then closed his eyes in ecstasy at the taste, moaning in pleasure.

Mike lowered his head and fixed him with a glare, which the younger man chose to ignore for the several long seconds it took to chew, swallow and stab another forkful. Finally Steve looked up and met the unblinking blue eyes; he paused momentarily then flashed a smile. "Oh, ah, you're waiting for me to tell you about our progress?" he asked facetiously.

Mike didn't move.

After another couple of silent seconds, Steve's face broke into a wide grin and he laughed, raising the forkful of food. "Okay, where to you want me to start?" He popped the roast potato into his mouth.

Mike shook his head quickly with a wide-eyed shrug. "I don't care. Wherever you want. Just give me some information!" His feigned anger was betrayed by his laugh.

"Well, let's see, where do I start?" Steve finished chewing the potato and swallowed. "Okay, well, got a call from Pete Waters down in Palm Springs this morning. They haven't got too much that's new for us. Turns out Carole Goodman's parents moved out of Palm Springs a few years ago; her father retired and they moved upstate somewhere. Eureka, they think. She's an only child. They got this info from one of their neighbors so who knows how accurate it is, but Lee is going to check it out."

"Anything more about that blood they found on Trammel's floor?"

Steve speared another piece of roast beef as he shook his head. "Not a thing. All they know is the blood type, which is the same as Trammel's but we know it's not his, so…?" He shrugged as he popped the beef into his mouth.

Mike was staring at the table between them, his gaze unfocused. "You know, I've been thinking about that too. I know it probably has something to do with Trammel getting out of town so fast but, you know, it might not have anything to do with Goodman." He looked slowly at his dinner companion and raised his eyebrows.

Steve, who had been watching him, tilted his head and made a face. "Yeah… that's a possibility…" He stabbed the tines of the fork through a very tender piece of carrot. "So I already told you about Lee finding out that Carole Goodman – or, sorry, a Carole Rochford – checked into that motel down in South SF, right? Anyway, Lee headed down there a couple of hours ago to see if any of the motel staff recognizes that DMV photo of her. He said he'd call here if he got anything." He glanced at his watch. "He should be finished by now so if he hasn't called he probably doesn't."

"Well, he may have to go back," Mike said optimistically, putting a piece of roast beef in his mouth.

"Always the glass half full," Steve chuckled quietly and the older man grinned and bobbed his eyebrows. "Lee didn't have any luck last night with the North Beach restaurant but he's going back tonight 'cause the waiter that served that particular table on the night in question wasn't working last night but he is tonight."

"Okay, that's good."

"Oh, ah, I had Lee bring the picture of the Chevelle and Bill bring the one of Mrs. Goodman with them."

Mike stopped moving and tilted his head, a slight smile playing over his lips. "What, do you think that Goodman was having dinner with his wife that night?"

Looking down, Steve smiled slightly too. "You mean, do I think she and her husband were working together, like you do, Lieutenant?" he asked softly.

Mike sat back, leaning his hands against the edge the table. "When did you start to think that?"

The younger man looked at him and the smile got wider. "Probably just after you did."

"So you don't believe what the neighbors said… that she and Trammel had an affair and it devastated her husband to the point where he threatened, and then killed, Trammel?"

"Oh, I think the neighbors actually do think that; I think they were telling their truth. I just don't think they know the truth, actually…"

Chuckling, Mike raised his right hand again and stabbed another piece of potato. "You know, it took me years to get that cynical…"

Steve laughed. "I don't think it's cynical, I think it's logical… don't you?"

With a facial shrug, Mike nodded. "What got you thinking that?" he asked as he put the potato in his mouth.

Steve sighed and shook his head slightly. "After we got that restaurant receipt… I kept trying to figure out who he would feel comfortable enough, in a strange city, to have dinner with in a popular restaurant… although he was savvy enough to pay cash…"

Mike's head was bobbing slightly. "Yeah, that's what I was thinking too… We definitely gotta find out more about her."

"We're trying…"

"I know you are," Mike chuckled affectionately. "But what bothers me is Goodman leaving that car in Oakland. I mean, that's a special kind of car right, a muscle car. Guys don't give those up without a fight… and a cherry red one?" He shook his head. "No, I think there's more behind that car ending up on an industrial street in Oakland than it just being painted and dumped, you know what I mean?"

Steve was staring at the older man, nodding slowly. "You know, I didn't think of that, but you're right. We did get a call today from Sergeant Brown from the OPD. He did a canvas of all the buildings near where the car was dumped and nobody remembers seeing anyone do it."

"That's not surprising, it was probably done in the middle of the night. But that also means that there was at least two people involved. I mean, I don't think there are many people who'd want to walk out of that section of Oakland all by themselves in the middle of the night, do you?"

Steve chuckled dryly. "I know I wouldn't."

"No, neither would I," Mike confirmed grimly, "so I'm pretty sure there had to be someone else there in another car."

Steve told him about the four identified sets of fingerprints, which gave Mike a good laugh. "And," he said, dragging out the word as he wiped his mouth with the napkin and put it down, pushing his chair back slightly and picking up the file folder that had been sitting on the far corner of the table, "I have some preliminary news on your Mr. Martin Bayner."

Putting his knife and fork down on his plate, Mike's head snapped up. "Oh yeah? What's –?"

The phone rang and Mike looked up at it almost angrily. Steve glanced at it then back at his partner. "That could be Lee," he said hopefully.

Mike got up quickly and snagged the receiver of the wall phone near the entrance, wincing with pain and irritation at the sudden movement. "Hello." He listened for a second, his eyebrows on the rise, looking at his partner. "Yeah, Lee, Steve's here. I'll let you tell him." With a smile, he held the phone out and Steve got to his feet, taking it.

"Yeah, Lee, what have you got?" He listened intently, looking down at the floor and nodding. "Okay, great… yeah… yeah, okay, I'll see you tomorrow morning. Thanks… Yeah…? Yeah, I will." He hung up and turned to Mike with a broad smile. "Lee says to take care of yourself and have a good night."

"Well, good night back at him. What else did he say?"

Steve cocked his head and grinned. "He got a positive I.D. It was Carole Rochford in that motel in South San. And she wasn't driving the Chevelle."

Nodding slowly, Mike sat back down. "Well, well, well… so our Mrs. Goodman was seen in town, or close enough, in the two days before her husband beats John Trammel to death in a hotel room." He shook his head. "That's not a coincidence…"

Steve shook his head. "No, I wouldn't think so." They fell silent for a moment, considering the implications then Steve raised his eyebrows and smiled, opening the file. "So, do you want to know what I found out about your Martin Bayner?"