ACT III

The coffee wasn't going to do the job this morning, that much Mike knew. At this point, with one murder case ending and a potential other one crumbling into dust, he should feel a sense of closure.

Instead, he only felt irritation mixed with a tiny iota of bitterness.

Sighing heavily, he looked over at Steve who had assumed the position in his guest chair, all of yesterday's pallor gone thankfully. With his bandaged hand resting in his lap, the young inspector looked as defeated as Mike felt.

Noticing his partner's gaze, Steve frowned, his forehead wrinkled.

"You're not going to try to take charge of Joey's murder?"

"The murder occurred in Pasadena, buddy boy. That makes it their case.", Mike corrected, trying to get rid of the sour undertone but failing.

Technically, he could still call dibs on it, citing that it was part of an ongoing murder investigation in San Francisco. However, the funding and manpower required to follow up on a mob hit in the outskirts of Los Angeles would irritate Rudy a lot more than the assortment of surprising twists and turns that had already befallen their cases in the last few hours.

Ironically, he was pretty sure that Vincente had ordered the hit.

And even if he didn't, mob killings had a way of circling back to the place where the feud originated and with a family like the DiBarolo's in town, what more could he ask for when it came to job security?

Steve seemed to share his sentiment and chose not to reply. Instead, he ran a hand across his mouth, sighing quietly, as he shook his head.

"Do you have any idea how to help Janaea? Where can we start? I was thinking of calling Murchison?"

"Yeah…that's a good idea.", Mike countered and leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head, hoping to ease the stiff muscles in his neck, "Let's call Social Services too. Tammy there is pretty good about cases like Yale's."

"What about him though?"

Steve's question brought back a new unwelcome wave of irritation that made his battered stomach feel like a wasteland of acid.

What about Yale Courtland Dancy?

What could they really do? And what should they do?

Under the circumstances, it was a high stakes tightrope walk between humanitarian benevolence and withholding evidence if word got out that they hadn't arrested the perpetrator of the carjacking yet, even though they knew his identity.

Mike figured that the man at least deserved one more hearty breakfast before being brought in for questioning. It would also allow him some extra time to discuss the matter with Gerry.

"You got me there.", the lieutenant admitted after some time, taking another long sip of coffee to ponder the heartbreaking situation.

"You know, he could have gotten himself killed. And Janaea too."

"Yeah, I know."

Running a hand though his silver hair, Mike sighed, hating that whole situation.

"Dementia…that's a terrible disease, my friend.", he then said, his voice breaking from the memories of too many friends ending up in the same predicament, "It's a prison. A prison your mind puts your body into. And it must be awful, just awful."

"Well, I don't disagree. But we gotta at least charge him with carjacking, don't you think…?"

"After the night I just had, I am not doing a whole lot of thinking right now."

With a faint smile, Mike got up from his desk and walked over to his clothes rack, one hand reaching for the black overcoat and fedora, the other one slapping his partner's thigh.

"How about we grab some breakfast to think on things? My treat. Once we get done, we'll pick up Yale and see what we can do to fix this whole mess."