He'd listened to parts of the press conference on his way home, mostly to get an idea of what the overall mentality of the media was when it came to their case. Midway through, Steve had begun to feel bad for Mike having to endure so many disrespectful questions and insinuations from people who should know better.
As if the investigation into 64 murders wasn't bad enough, he knew that some of those remarks would cut deep into his partner's caring soul, leaving wounds that would take a long time to heal. And perhaps, that's where the sad undertone came from, each time the Lieutenant referred to one of his often-used axioms: Rank has its privileges.
Except tonight, it felt like the complete opposite.
As Steve turned the Porsche onto Union Street, creeping the rest of the steep way down to his apartment, he couldn't help but notice a blue '74 Capri sitting askew in his parking spot. Unfamiliar with the car or his owner, the young Inspector slid the silver sportscar into the next spot over, his eyes scanning the area, wondering if one of his neighbors possibly had company.
When nobody could be seen, he got out, grabbed his doggie bag containing leftover cookies the nice lady at the restaurant insisted he take home with him when he stopped for dinner, and climbed up the steep stairwell to his apartment. Almost at the door, with the keys in hand, Steve gasped in surprise when he saw the lone figure sitting huddled up on the threshold.
"Hank, what are you doing here?"
Waking up to the sound of his exasperated voice, the bar owner glanced up wearily, his hair disheveled from the brutal gusts coming off the bay that evening, forcing a smile that never reached his sad eyes.
"Stephen Jacob. I am so glad you made it home. I called you earlier but then I didn't hear back so I thought I'd stop by."
Torn between deep concern and feeling perturbed about the intrusion of his privacy, Steve reached past Hank to open the front door, then ushered the shivering man inside.
"What are you doing here? How did you get my address?"
"Phone book.", Hank replied matter-of-factly and shed out of his black leather jacket as he entered the sanctity of Steve's apartment, before taking off his shoes. After spending a moment looking around and taking in the sparse atmosphere, he walked into the living room and collapsed onto the maroon couch.
"Hank, I was busy with the investigation all day, I am sorry.", the young Inspector grunted, unable to get rid of the edgy undertone in his voice, as he stripped out of his gray sportscoat before turning on the living room lights.
A tense silence filled the small apartment as he headed for the kitchen to grab a couple of beers and deposit his cookies, then returned to the living room to join the unwelcome intruder to his peace and privacy.
"No need to be sorry, Stephen Jacob. It was just that…there's been so much going on in the last couple of days…I don't know what to think anymore, what to do, where to go. So many people ask me questions I have no answers for. There's so much to organize, the funeral, the bar, the news people keep calling me. You're the only one in this whole mess I can trust."
Opening a bottle of beer for Hank, then one for himself, Steve sat down on the old wicker chair and helped himself to several gulps, hoping it would buy him time to come up with a diplomatic way to get his friend, turned suspect, out of his apartment.
"Why didn't you say something when you were in the office earlier? I would have made some time for you. Better than sitting on my stairs all night waiting."
Picking up on his heightened state of agitation, Hank nervously played with the beer bottle in his hands, then took a cautious sip.
"Well, your partner was there. The Lieutenant. And I believe…I don't think he likes me very much. So I didn't want to make things worse for you."
"What are you talking about? Mike? He likes everybody. It just sometimes seems like he's in a bad mood, that's all."
In a desperate effort to relax somewhat, Steve had pulled off his blue tie, carelessly throwing it on his dining room table, then opened the top few buttons on his mandarin dress shirt, hoping that some cool air would ease his temper in the decidedly fragile situation.
Throughout it all, Hank had stared at him intently, almost too intently for his liking.
"You like him a lot, don't you? Seems like you two work well together."
Growing suspicious at the strange tone in the other man's voice, Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, making stern eye contact, so stern that it almost felt unbearable, especially when doing so to a friend.
"You didn't come here to grill me about Mike, so spill it, will ya?"
"You're right…", Hank said apologetically and took several more sips until the bottle was half-empty, "And honestly I can't exactly tell you why I came here. Maybe it's the trauma from seeing my club shot to pieces, all the bodies…the obvious hate for the homosexual community. And I shouldn't be surprised by the hate because that's nothing new. And I know it must sound crazy to you, but it's just…without Barry by my side, at this point, you're the only bright light I have in my life. Your calming voice, your gentleness…it helps me with the unbearable pain I feel in my chest, you know?"
He couldn't lash out at Hank for bearing his heart like that, but it certainly made him feel uncomfortable in his own home. Not sure how to respond, Steve fell silent, causing the air between them to become thick with awkward insecurity and restrained antagonism.
As both Mike's and Arthur's words of wisdom resonated through his brain, reminding him once again that the current situation wasn't just a major inconvenience, but could quite possibly jeopardize their investigation altogether if Hank truly had something to do with the attack, Steve finally cleared his throat and glanced back up, ready to deal with things in the most professional matter he could muster.
"Hank, I guess I still don't understand what exactly it is you came here for? I gotta be honest with you, it's been a long few days and I am dead tired. I really need to wrap things up here. If it's an emergency, I'll be happy to help you out, but otherwise, I think it would be best if you head back home. You've got the number of the grief counselor from our office in downtown, he can help you get organized and answer some of the questions you might have about any processes involving the investigation."
"You're right, Stephen Jacob. I…I shouldn't have come to your place. This isn't really all that important. I will…I will catch up with you in the next day or so. Wednesday probably, after the funeral and all."
As a response to his stern words, Hank cocked his head understandingly and stood back up, before awkwardly moving toward the clothes rack by the door, needing several attempts to put on his high-heeled shoes.
"You sure you're alright?", Steve tried in a quieter tone and joined the other man by his front door, thoroughly worried about the strange scene that had played out between them, "I ehm…I can call you a cab. And you're welcome to stop by tomorrow to talk when I am in the office. But please understand that this is still an ongoing investigation. We may have further questions for you as well."
The fake smile on Hank's lips disappeared the moment their eyes met, a deep, anguished sigh escaping his lips.
"I would expect nothing less from an excellent detective such as yourself, Stephen Jacob.", he said somberly and placed a hand on the young Inspector's chest, keeping it there for several uncomfortable moments, "I will see you soon, my friend."
Turning around and leaving without another word, Steve glanced over at the half-empty beer bottle Hank had left behind, wondering if he'd just made a big mistake.