Weaver grumbled under his breath as they joined the mass exodus. Brandon had to dodge and swerve to keep up, but Weaver just plowed on through, his frame tending to cut a wake through any crowd. Catching up to him at the door to Vice, Brandon snagged Weaver’s collar to get his attention. “We got anything going on tonight?”

One eyebrow crawled up as Weaver turned on his partner and crossed his arms; he gave Brandon the quarter back stare Brandon had dubbed the look: part calculation, part intimidation.

Intimidation games had never worked well on Brandon, especially Weaver’s. While Brandon carried less bulk, he had more muscle and at least a few inches on his partner in the height department. That meant Weaver had to look up to stare him down. Brandon snorted. “I need to bail for a bit later and go run an errand.”

Settling his mass against the door-jamb, Weaver thought for a moment. “What errand, Baby D?” Weaver was as much his supervisor as partner.

Brandon waited for a group of uniforms to pass before answering. When he did respond, he kept his voice low. “I got to...” he hesitated a bit, “pick up Nicky at the airport.” He and Weaver were still at the not-comfortable-with-my-partner-being-gay phase. Not that Jeff Weaver said anything, but Brandon could tell. Any time the conversation went anywhere near Nicky, Weaver was quick to change the subject. “Now that the asshole who tried to kill him has pleaded, he can get his car back. We’re going to grab it out of CHP impound while he’s here.”

“Hmm.” Weaver stared across the hall, drumming his fingers on his arm. “What time does his flight get in?”

Not wanting to discuss it where anyone other then Weaver might hear, Brandon pushed past the man into the cramped den inhabited by Vice. Chestnut Station was marginally better than Orange Street HQ, but it had been built when detectives still dressed in suits and used rotary dialed telephones. Unplanned urban sprawl had hit the city so fast that they just kept jamming desks in instead of building something more modern. Threading through the maze of file cabinets, desks, and chairs, Brandon grabbed his messages out of the mail box. Only the big guys got voicemail.

Perching on the edge of someone’s workspace, Brandon flipped through the slips of paper. Nothing terribly urgent, just a few follow up calls on some of his old cases. “Ten-thirtyish. I’ll take it as a dinner break.” He and Weaver were currently on the two to twelve shift.

Still framed in the doorway, Weaver grumbled. “We got to hit the street in a bit.” Weaver’s eyes went narrow. “So after we do our little interview with the guy who claims some other Joe is running a stable out of his joint, you want me to ferry your ass all the way back here so you can get your bike? That’ll be an hour round trip at least. You’ll be late.”

“I’ll be quick.” Nervous habit kicking in, Brandon fiddled with the series of rings running down the outside of his ear. He’d have had to lose the jewelry on any assignment but Vice. “I told Nicky I might be a little late.” If Nicky had been a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend nobody would have given a damn about him taking a little personal time.

Glancing at his watch, Weaver growled. “Fuck, Brandon, its four now. There’s at least two hours worth of reports sitting there. We’re supposed to meet our complainant at eight. Plus actually do some police work.” Like he was trying to drill brains into Brandon’s skull, Weaver reached out and thumped Brandon’s forehead with thick fingers. “Look, we’ll go talk to our guy and then we’ll head over to the airport.”

“You don’t have to, Jeff. It’s out of your way and I can just handle it.”

“Actually, coming back here is really out of my way.” Weaver coughed and pushed away from the wall. “But you know what, I’m kinda curious. I want to see what kinda guy could make you become Mr. Responsibility all of a sudden. Almost every week you’re out to see him. ‘I can’t make dinner at your place ‘cause Nicky needs me to drive him to physical therapy tomorrow.’ In Vegas no less. I know guys who’ve married girls they didn’t do that shit for. So, I want to know.”

Brandon shrugged and he fell into step beside his partner as they headed toward the mass of files awaiting their attention. “You’ve never asked to see a picture or anything.”

Weaver thumped the edge of Brandon’s high-and-tight hair cut with his index finger, “You’ve never offered to show me one.”

“True.” Brandon shrugged. “I never have.”

Continued in First Section