"I'll never understand why you drink your coffee black.", Mike complained facetiously when the waitress came back for a second time to refill their cups.
With their meals nearly finished and their stomachs a whole lot happier, both detectives were relishing in the relative peace of the small hole-in-the wall breakfast diner in the Potrero, before their somber morning would take them over to Yale's apartment.
Steve noticed that his partner seemed to take his time eating the healthy heaping of hash browns with ham and two eggs, then ordering another coffee, as though deep inside, he loathed booking the personable poet as much as Steve did.
In this seemingly never-ending loss-loss situation that summed up the current week; Joey DiBarolo's death was only another nail in the coffin, turning their investigation into out-and-out dread.
With big-mouth Joey out of the picture, Vincente and his remaining two sons would once again be able to reign over the family's drug territory without fear of the weak link jeopardizing the operation. That in turn meant more drugs out on the street, more aggressive recruitment of new clients and mules alike, and more death and destruction.
Mindlessly stirring his steaming cup of coffee, Steve couldn't help but sigh at the daunting prospects.
"You're going to be alright?"
Out of nowhere, Mike's warm hand appeared on his wrist, grasping it gently and stopping him from stirring.
Glancing up sheepishly, he tried himself in a reassuring smile that never made it to the other side of the table.
"Yeah. This whole thing just…it irks me. It's not fair."
When Mike opened his mouth to rebut, Steve raised his injured hand to pause his partner.
"I know life isn't fair. And I know that nobody is guaranteed anything. I would have been…I guess, I would have been a lot happier seeing Yale on some nightly TV show, living a decent life, providing for himself and Janaea. This…this is a disgrace."
Finally letting go of his wrist, the Lieutenant nodded understandingly.
"I hate it as much as you do, believe me, buddy boy. But facts are facts and it's your duty to enforce the law as long as that badge is in your rear pocket. It's police business now. And facts are that the man stole a car and drove it into the Bay, totaling it. He's going to have to answer for that no matter his mental state. Now, I spoke with Gerry before we left, and he thinks there are a few similar cases that ended in a more lenient charge. He is going to dig them up and see if we can reach some arbitration between the owner of the vehicle and Dancy's public defender, if the judge is ok with it. Who knows, it might get the owner to drop the charges altogether. But in the meantime, it's our job to bring him in. And under the circumstances, I think you should leave that to me."
Pointing at his bandaged hand, Mike pursed his lips, visibly distraught by the direction the case was headed.
Nodding, Steve took a sip of coffee, relishing the warmth in his throat.
"I guess all things considered, being put away for a few months would at least keep him safe from himself."
Mike was about to reply when his eyes drifted to something off to the right. Following his gaze, Steve saw a patrolman approaching their table hastily.
"Sorry to bother you, Lieutenant Stone.", the motorcycle cop huffed anxiously, "But dispatch has been trying to get a hold of you for half an hour. A Janaea Dancy is requesting your assistance. She said it's urgent."