The Realization

San Francisco Homicide Inspector Steven Keller stepped out of the small tent, closed his eyes against the bright morning sun and inhaled a lungful of freshwater-laced air. After only a day and a half, he was finally starting to lose the tightness in his back and shoulder muscles that had plagued him for the past few weeks, the nagging stiffness a physical manifestation of the turmoil in his mind.

It has been a little under six months since he had been promoted to assistant inspector, transferred to Homicide and partnered up with the much revered, respected and damn near legendary Lieutenant Mike Stone. The working alliance had begun very well with a healthy respect for each other's backgrounds, methods and innate aptitudes, but lately the young inspector had begun to chaff under what he was beginning to think was a subtle yet viable condescension from the older man.

And though he couldn't put his finger on what exactly it was that was beginning to annoy him so much, he knew that he had to put some space between himself and the lieutenant and sort some things out. So he had put in for a week's vacation, called up some old college friends and now they were camping under the stars at Crystal Bay on the north shore of Lake Tahoe, far away from cars, offices, telephones and routine of any kind.

Down near the water, Paul Davison was tending to a beaten-up metal coffeepot sitting on a rusty grill over a campfire. With an old oven mitt pock-marked with burn holes, he was trying to get the pot settled above the meager flame. Finally successful, he glanced over his shoulder. "I was wondering when you were gonna get up." He nodded down the beach. "Brian and Scott are trying to catch us some fish for breakfast," he chuckled. "Good thing we brought some eggs and bread."

Chuckling, Steve nodded. "I guess I should make myself useful and get down there and help them, hunh?" He tilted his head quickly from side to side, getting the kinks out of his neck, then started off down the beach.

"Don't be too long, the coffee's almost ready," Paul's voice followed him as he disappeared over a dune.

He spotted his friends a little further down the beach, fishing poles in hand, lines in the water over a deep pool below a wall of black rock forming a small inlet. As he made his way down the beach, he couldn't help but think about his partner; he knew Mike was off on his own vacation, joining three old colleagues, long since retired, on a marlin-fishing expedition to the Baja Peninsula. One of them, a retired captain, flew his own small plane and they had made this jaunt many times before.

# # # # #

A fish-less breakfast long behind them, Steve and friends headed out onto the lake in the two small canoes they had rented for the week. Their intention was to ply the waters along the shore, hopefully to meet up with other like-minded contemporaries, and maybe even someone with an outboard motorboat so they could do a little water-skiing.

It didn't take long. And way before any of them had anticipated, they stumbled upon another group of young people with not one but two motorboats, not to mention more female members of their group than male, which fit right in with what the San Francisco coterie was counting on.

A day on the water turned into a night on the beach, replete with bonfire and excessive drinking, and the police inspector was obligated to turn a blind eye, and a pinched nose, when it came to the tokes being enjoyed all around him. With a nod to his current profession, he declined to indulge himself; this realization brought a small smile to his lips. Before becoming an inspector, he never had a qualm about lighting up but now he was thinking twice. Maybe the 'good lieutenant' was having more of an influence on him than he realized.

Although, he thought back, he had seen Mike overlook a joint on more than one occasion; if truth be told, the older man was a mass of contradictions. He leaned back on the sand, burying his beer bottle slightly so it wouldn't fall over, and stared out at the still water, trying to shut out the revelry on the beach, using these few moments alone to maybe try to begin to figure out why he was there and what was really bothering him.

After several unproductive minutes, he heard the soft footfalls of someone approaching and Paul dropped down onto the sand beside him, two beer bottles n hand. He held one out. "I thought you could use a refill."

Steve looked over, a smile creasing his features. "Thanks, man." He took the bottle and they clinked bottlenecks. Both of them took long drafts, settling back in the sand.

Eventually, Paul cast his friend a sideways glance. "So, are you gonna tell me what burr is up your butt this week, or are you just gonna keep doing the brooding, silent James Dean thing?" he asked drolly.

Steve snorted, shaking his head. Paul had been one of his roommates at Berkeley; they had studied law together before Steve had drifted towards criminology. Davison had become a lawyer and was already a junior partner in a prestigious San Francisco law firm.

"I could never keep anything from you, could I?" the cop said with a resigned sigh.

"Ah, no," Paul said pointedly, "so spill it. There are a number of very pretty ladies back at that bonfire that I want to get to know a lot better tonight, but that's not gonna happen if they know you're down here being all, I don't know, dark and mysterious. So…spill it."

Steve had taken another mouthful of beer and he swallowed slowly, putting the bottle in the sand before settling back on his elbows and sighing loudly. "I'm beginning to have second thoughts about my move into homicide."

Paul, who had been looking at the water, turned sharply. "What? Why? I mean, you were all excited about it, what the hell happened?"

Steve bobbled his head slightly, inhaling loudly, and when he didn't say anything, Paul continued. "So, are you not getting along with your partner? You don't like the job? What?"

"No, no, I love the job, it's challenging and it's rewarding, really, it's everything I thought it would be. It's just…" His voice trailed off.

"Well, if it's not the job, then it's gotta be your partner…?" Paul ventured cautiously.

Steve inhaled loudly again. "Yeah."

"So, what's going on between you two? I mean, the last time I talked to you, you couldn't say enough good things about him. What changed?"

Again Steve took several seconds before he spoke. He stared at the water. "The more I think about it, the stupider it's beginning to sound but…"

Paul waited. "But…what…?" he asked eventually.

Steve snorted mirthlessly, knowing he was not going to be let off the hook anytime soon. The old friends knew each other too well. "It's gonna sound stupid and juvenile, but it's really getting to me…"

Another long silence. "You know, if you don't tell me, I can't help you," Paul said facetiously, knowing from long experience it sometimes took a while for his friend to open up.

Another snort, this one filled with amusement and irony. "Paul, don't get me wrong, I think the world of Mike Stone, I really do, and I know I am lucky to be his partner, but it just seems to me that lately….well, that lately he's begun to see me not as his partner anymore but as some young pup that he has to paper train."

Paul inclined his head, frowning. "What do you mean?"

Steve took another self-conscious sigh and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "This is gonna sound stupid…and maybe a little petty… but …" he stopped, dropped his eyes, regrouped and tried again, "well, lately he's started calling me 'Buddy Boy' and I think, well… I think that it's a bit demeaning and –"

"That's it?" Paul said straight-faced, interrupting him.

Steve closed his mouth and stared at his old friend, stung. "What do you mean, 'That's it?'" he shot back. "Do you have any idea, in an office of macho cops who've got way more years on the job than I have, hearing my boss and partner calling me 'Buddy Boy'? It's a little demeaning, don't you think?"

Paul stared at him, unblinking. "Are you an idiot?"

Ruffled, Steve glared back at him. "What -?"

Paul put a hand up and stopped the riposte in its infancy. "That wasn't a rhetorical question, by the way – I meant it. Are you an idiot? You're working with a man who, in your words I believe, is the embodiment of everything you believe a police officer should be and now, suddenly it seems, because he's calling you by a pet name, you think he doesn't see you as an equal anymore, that you're somehow now diminished in his eyes and he's, what, making fun of you?"

As Paul spoke, Steve's eyes had drifted down to the sand between his feet and he hung his head. "Okay, so it sounds stupid when you say it like that –"

"You think?!"

"- but it doesn't take away from the fact that I don't think he sees me in the same light anymore."

Paul inhaled deeply as he continued to stare at his college roomy. "Other than this little nickname, has he done anything else to make you think that?"

The cop thought about it for several seconds before answering. "Well, no, not really. We consult on everything, he always drags me along to meetings with the brass, unless he's specifically told not to… we talk about everything."

"You spend time together away from the office?"

"Yeah, a few times. We've been bowling once, and we went to a gym and sparred once. We eat together a lot. He's even dragged me to a Giants game and he knows I'm not a huge baseball fan."

"So what makes you think that his calling you 'Buddy Boy' diminishes you in his eyes, or anyone else's?" Paul let this sink in for a few long moments. "Steve, Mike's a product of the Depression and World War Two, right?" The young cop nodded. "I remember my Dad always called me 'Kiddo' – he still does. The last time he did it we were in the corridor outside of one of the courtrooms, in front of Judge Spencer and a senior partner in my firm. I could've gotten mad at him, but I saw a smile in my boss's eyes and I knew he was thinking of his own father."

Paul smiled softly. "Don't think of it as a putdown, Steve; think of it as what it is – a term of endearment. And you know, maybe it's his way of trying to tell you he loves you."

Steve eyes drifted from Paul back to the sand. He felt his friend's hand on his back and a couple of quick pats, then he heard Paul stand up.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I need another beer and I want to get back to those lovely ladies before they think we're a little light in our loafers, if you know what I mean," he said with a chuckle as he turned and started back up the beach towards the bonfire.

With a chuckle and a headshake, Steve looked back at the water. Paul had given him a lot to think about, and it was several long minutes before he stood, shook the sand from his pants and, two empty beer bottles in hand, joined the others near the fire.

# # # # #

Steve dropped the bag of marshmallows, package of bacon and pack of Marlboros on the counter. They were making their way back to the campsite after a night of revelry and had stopped in at the small general store at Carnelian Bay. All four were wearing their dark glasses inside the dimly lit shop; every bit helped in controlling the pounding heads and fuzzy eyesight from the previous night's debauchery.

As the elderly clerk totaled his order while placing the items in a white plastic bag, Scott came up from behind and dropped an armload of groceries on the counter with a shudder then standing stock still in an attempt to not upset his heaving stomach even more. "Where's your Pepto Bismol?" he asked the clerk quietly, trying not to move his head more than necessary.

"Steve?"

The young cop turned towards Brian, who was covering the distance between them with surprising alacrity, a newspaper in his hand. Beyond him, Steve could see Paul standing in front of the dairy fridge, frowning.

"Steve, did you say your partner and his friends were flying to Baja to go fishing?" Brian asked as he got to the counter, pushing some of Scott's items aside with an elbow as he dropped the open paper onto the counter.

"Yeah, why?"

Brian glanced at him, eyes wide, then pointed at the newspaper.

Steve looked down, recognizing the paper as the Las Vegas Review-Journal. Brian's finger was beside a small article at the bottom of the second page. "Small plane missing" the headline read. Steve's heart skipped a beat and he swallowed heavily.

"Four men from the San Francisco area are missing and presumed dead after a Cessna 172 crashed in the desert just north of San Diego. An unconfirmed source has disclosed that the four men were current and retired members of the San Francisco Police Department, on their way to the Baja Peninsula for a fishing expedition.

Rescue crews have been hampered by bad weather and the remote location of the crash site."