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Detective Chris Morocco hadn’t wanted a partner. Especially some hot shot pretty boy like Andy Baraghani. Chris wanted things to be the same as they always were- working solo, cruising around in his classic black Dodge Challenger listening to Timecop 1983 and solving crimes.
The Rutabaga trafficking case had been his downfall. He missed all the clues. The man was right in front of him but somehow Jasper Rutabaga escaped his scrutiny and went on to kidnap another woman, who thankfully survived. But the perp was never captured- killed in the ensuing shootout with police. It rankled Chris. Of course it did. He wanted to get the psycho. He wanted Jasper to pay for his crimes, for the family of his victims to look him in the eye and get the justice they deserved.
Chris had been focused on another suspect, a friend of Rutabaga who lured the women out of clubs, sometimes with roofies, sometimes with sheer charm- Anton Sumac. A figure of chaotic evil if Chris had ever seen one. Chris had been convinced he was the main player and if not, the key to breaking the whole operation wide open. Unfortunately Chris just wasn’t fast enough. He’d never forget the look on Officer Delany’s face after firing the fatal bullet into the perp.
It had been a tough case. It was messy- a lot of leads to run down, too many for one person, really. Everyone agreed about that, especially the Captain Lalli Music who reamed him out for not asking for help and taking on too much alone.
That case saw him pulled up in front of the Captain and Superintendent Rappaport. A little time off to clear his head, and the words he very much did not want to hear: “You’re getting a partner.”
“You’ve lost perspective, Morocco,” the Captain said, her voice tinged with disappointment. “You can’t go off doing this lone wolf shit anymore.”
A partner. Great. Like he had the time and temperament to babysit some rookie fresh out of the academy.
Maybe he’d get Rick Martinez, Chris reasoned, trying to make himself feel better about the situation. They were friends and colleagues from way back. Rick’s laid-back vibes worked with his own intensity well. Chris had enjoyed the stakeout outside of that Chinese restaurant on Thanksgiving a few years ago as much as he could enjoy a stakeout. Boredom, muscle cramps, and being shut up in a car with a another guy’s farts was made better by Rick’s pleasant banter and the fried rice concoction they’d mixed up adding corn nuts and a little Thanksgiving turkey (given as a “Sorry you’re working on the holiday gift” from Officer Saffitz). Weirdly that was one of Chris’ top 10 Thanksgivings. Top 5 even.
The dreaded day of partner placement arrived and Chris entered the precinct on high alert. He was reading too much into everything that morning. Why did the desk sergeant, Gaby Melian, look at him so sympathetically? What did she know? His mind raced.
Please let It be Martinez. Or Chaey! he begged the universe. Christina was kind and even-tempered and all around good at her job. He could handle a partner if it were her. A new fear sliced through his thought like lightening splintering the night’s sky- Oh God. What if they pair me with Leone? They wouldn’t… would they? Chris liked Brad Leone well enough. The man was rarely ever in the actual building, frequently doing long stints undercover like on that crab boat where he busted a huge drug smuggling ring almost single handedly. Brad was all right in small doses but being tied to him day in and day out, Chris wasn’t sure he could survive the other cop’s exuberance and chaos. That guy’s seen way too many Tom Berenger movies, Chris thought.
Waiting in Carla’s office, Chris’ soon-to-be-partner was having similar thoughts. Andy Baraghani had been told the basics- that Chris was coming off some leave and wasn’t too happy about getting a partner. Great. Andy wouldn’t have minded being paired with Detective Baz. They were friends from the academy, always one upping each other, trying to see who could run the most miles, do the most sit ups, beat the academy shooting range record. He was not ready for Chris.
Andy didn’t know him all that well, but Detective Morocco had a reputation for closing cases and paying attention to details that everyone else missed. He also seemed square as hell. The kind of guy who always had a pen- shit, he always 17 pens with him and too many pen opinions. Andy had noticed that the others trusted him a lot. Officer Saffitz took her hardest problems to Chris and he always had a new idea for her, a new perspective that seemed to help her- even if he was always dogging her about doing the paperwork properly. Paperwork! Of course this dude loved paperwork. All the steps, the waiting, making sure the ducks were in a row before he got the warrant. Andy sighed. He knew that Chris’ methodical way was the correct one but sometimes you had to bend the rules a bit, right?
Andy only ever saw Chris in two modes: hunched over his laptop with a general aura of “Disturb me and you will be murdered,” and doing some kind of arcane coffee ritual that involved a long necked kettle and a lecture about small batch roasting to anyone who dared to ask. What kind of cop didn’t just drink the motor oil-is sludge in the break room? Andy wondered. It was terrible but it did the job.
Chris waked towards Carla’s office where she and Andy were discussing doughnuts.
“I don’t know,” Captain Lalli Music was saying, “I like the ones with the little crispity crunchities on top.” She caught sight of Chris. “Ah, Morocco. Good. You know Baraghani. He’s your new partner. Mazel.” She pressed a folder into Andy’s hand. “Here’s your case, now leave me alone unless you are bringing me pastry.”
Of all the people he’d considered, Andy hadn’t been one of them. Chris wasn’t opposed to the partnership but he wasn’t quite sure what Carla’s motivation for pairing the two was.
Both men hesitated, unmoving. The captain made shooing motions with her hands. “Go!”
Chris sighed and gestured with a jerk of his head that Andy should follow him. He took in his new partner and raised an eyebrow at Andy’s interpretation of plainclothes which involved a tight grey t-shirt with a few artful rips near the collar. He narrowed his eyes. He didn’t know a lot about fashion but Chris was pretty sure this was one of those designer tops that came pre-ripped. A thing he could barely understand. A dark colored plain hoodie and a nice clean plaid shirt were all a man needed in his opinion. Had this guy even seen Hunt for Red October?
They read through the case file together, making awkwardly polite gestures towards one another before collectively deciding that it was time to visit the ostrich farm- the scene of the latest crime.
Chris proudly showed off the Challenger and was pleased that Andy seemed impressed. In the car he, feeling magnanimous, gestured to the radio/ aux cord. “What’s your musical poison?”
“Metal mostly. Black Sabbath as of late,” Andy said. “A little old school California punk. But I’m open,” he said quickly, seeing the look on Chris’ face. “You into Nicki Minaj? Mariah?”
“Um, more of a lo-fi retrowave guy but it’s ok.” New partnership, Chris repeated to himself, let it go. Make a good impression.
Evidently Andy had the same mantra because he caved just as quickly. “No it’s cool. Whatever you’ve got going is fine. Or you know what- Delany has a new playlist out. Really chill.” He pushed play on Spotify and let the smooth jams of their colleague's favorite disco tunes wash over them.
They rode unspeaking until Andy ventured a comment about something that happened earlier in the week, "I thought Saffitz was going to cry when you suggested she redo that form."
Chris sighed. ”It's the government, Baraghani. If we had any chance of getting that request fulfilled, we had to make sure everything is perfect. Even if that meant doing it over again."
"The form was twenty pages long."
"And when she redid it, it was better. Stronger. More persuasive. Left them no reason to deny her. I'm not nitpicky, I mean I am, but it's for a reason. I want to close cases. I want to make my colleagues better. Sometimes that means helping out, doing research, running leads, and sometimes that means being the guy no one likes because he's pointing out what needs to be fixed."
Andy made a non-committal noise. Chris was helpful, Chris was good at his job. That much was accurate. But Andy still wasn’t sure if they would be a good fit. Carla must have had her reasons, but the partnership was an uneasy one.
The next few weeks consisted of a lot of separate running of leads and silent research. Just two craftsmen plugging away next to each other. And somewhere in that hard work, in that atmosphere of separate but together, the two found that perhaps, their disparate personalities and styles did work well together. Trust was established, yogurt doughnuts were shared.
Chris was good at seeing things everyone else missed; ferreting out details and connections, following his gut and a thin trail of evidence until everything unraveled. Andy didn't work that way. His desk was messier, his persona louder. Andy was good at personal connections, blending in, charming informants and witnesses and criminals alike. Despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, they both realized that the partnership was working out. They worked well together. Andy was competitive and focused and he liked to win, liked to close cases. Chris was intense and detail oriented, poking at a problem until he figured it out. And he didn’t mind doing the paperwork while Andy ran all over the city charming or threatening leads. Chris, to borrow a line from one of his favorite buddy cop movies, was getting too old for that shit. It also didn’t hurt that they’d bonded over a love of anchovies and a little Italian deli where Chris introduced Andy to best Speck and Mortadella he’d ever had.
They’d been on the case a solid month and a half, and were tantalizingly close to something significant but it just wasn’t materializing. Their little case turned into a string of related cases starting with an office B&E, truffle smuggling, and a Ponzi scheme involving an illegal ostrich ranch. The crew they were after weren’t particularly subtle or masterful, just lucky and enough steps ahead of the cops that it was frustrating. The two men stood in front of their case board. Suspects, leads, clues all laid out in colored sticky notes adhered to a cork-board.
“Goddamn it,” Andy cursed. “I’m sick of this. We’re so close I can taste it and yet we always catch up them with just a shade too late.”
Chris was serene. “It’ll happen. I can feel it. We’re closing in. They’re getting sloppier. You’ll know when it’s time. You listen for the sizzle.”
“The sizzle?” Andy raised a perfect eyebrow.
“Like when a good steak hits the pan. Everything prepared and on point, coming together.”
Andy shook his head. “Whatever you say, man.”
Pounding the pavement, working the leads finally paid off and they did hear the sizzle finally. The had mostly unraveled the overly complex schemes and Chris and Andy knew they just needed to put a little pressure on the second to flush out the big boss.
The second in command, the brawn if not the brains of the operation was Sam “The Kiwi” Whitaker, so called not because he hailed from New Zealand, but because his approximate shape (short and roundish) and spiky hair looked like the fruit. They tracked hey the Kiwi to a bustling night club. Chris scowled as they approached.
Andy smirked. “Not your scene.”
“Not exactly, no.”
Andy patted him on the shoulder. “You watch the entrance. I’ll track down our man.” He danced away. Literally- he vogued himself into the crowd, blending in effortlessly.
Chris watched his partner admiringly. For the thousandth time on this case he was glad for his partner. Chris himself stuck out a bit on the edge of the dark room, the pounding bass and strobe lights giving him an instant headache. Still, he scanned the room, watching for the mark, watching for Andy. Soon enough a man who did surprisingly enough look like a human kiwi fruit, barreled towards him, Andy in hot pursuit. Chris angled himself to block the shorter man’s path, arms out to grab him.
“Sam Whitaker? You’re not under arrest. Yet. We just need to have a word. If you play ball things might go better for you.”
“You jumped up big city cop gets down here and you think you own the world,” the Kiwi sneered.
“Don’t hassle me! I’m local,” Chris protested. “Come on, buddy. Outside.”
Andy half-hauled the guy out of the club where they could actually hear what he had to say. Unfortunately what he had to say wasn’t much, mostly clearly disprovable lies. Andy kept putting the pressure on him but Chris could tell his partner was getting increasingly frustrated.
“Maybe we should bring him,” Chris said. “Do this down at the station.”
The Kiwi snorted and Chris’ eye caught a glimmer of something- a switchblade the man was slipping down from his sleeve into the palm of his hand as he eyed Andy. The audacity of this idiot! Chris thought. First he doubted Chris’ authenticity, now he was trying to pull a knife on cops? What kind of death wish did this SOB have to pull a knife on a guy like Andy?
Without really thinking, Chris clocked him. Just flattened the man with a punch. Andy was shocked. “Damn, Morocco! What’s gotten into you?”
Chris flexed his hand. It hurt. A good hurt; diffused some of the frustration of this case so far. He didn’t even care if Whitaker tried to press charges or if Andy went to Carla. Fuck it. Still, he felt a pang of not regret but light shame at his outburst, “Sorry-“ he started to say but Andy cut him off.
“He had it coming. Bad boys for life,” Andy said fist bumping him.
“You guys… you guys can’t do that,” Whitaker complained, wiping the blood from his split lip.
“Knife,” Chris said, pointing at the unsheathed switchblade the Kiwi still had in his hand, reminding him that the attack was not unprovoked.
“Attempted assault of a cop and you fed us lies about this criminal operation? You’re coming downtown for sure,” Andy crowed.
Back at the station, Whitaker was processed and held, and eventually sang like a canary. The truth out, the boys were set to plan the takedown of the big boss: Timothy “Red” Leicester. They knew right where he’d be- eating at his favorite bistro, same place he was every Sunday afternoon.
“We gotta jam,” Chris said, putting on his sunglasses. “Let’s get this bastard.”
They jumped in the Challenger, Andy cranked up the radio.
Red Leicester was distressingly easy to find which was a little disheartening after they looked for him for months. But here he was, keeping his regular schedule, sticking out like a sore thumb with his bright red hair and 6’4” frame.
They wasted no time with pleasantries and just went over to his table. Chris flashed his badge.
“We’ve got you dead to rights, Red,” Chris said evenly. “Come quietly and we won’t have any problems.”
The guy’s eyes darted around, clearly looking for an exit, a distraction, anything that could help him.
“He’s not going to make the smart choice, is he?” Andy asked dryly.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Chris agreed.
Leicester faked left and then made a mad dash towards the back of the restaurant, knocking chairs over in his wake, trying to get as much debris between himself and the cops as he could. He went for his jacket pocket and Chris’ stomach dropped. A gun.
“Don’t nobody move!” Red said, waving the gun.
Chris and Andy heard the muffled shrieked of diners and waitstaff who dove for cover under the tables at the sight of the gun.
“I don’t want to hurt anybody so y’all just stay real quiet and real still, alright?” He backed through the swinging door to the kitchen, the gun still held out in front, pointed right at Chris.
“I’ll go around. Come in through the back, catch him by surprise,” Andy whispered, creeping towards the front of the building.
Chris moved towards the kitchen swiftly, hand on his holster, ready to pull his gun if needed. He didn’t want to have it out, spook the man, get civilians in the crossfire, but he didn’t trust the guy either. Leicester made a mess of things, clanging loudly through the space, overturning carts and a stack of metal bowls in his wake. Chris was too far to get at him but he trusted that Andy would burst in through that outer door any second. He just had to stop the guy from trying anything with the panicked cook who was pressed against the garde manger station looking terrified. This situation did not need a hostage.
Working entirely on instinct, Chris grabbed a raw skirt steak off the closet counter and tossed it. It flew in a perfect arc before hitting Red in the face. The steak flopped across his eyes and he skidded in surprise and confusion, knocking steak-face-first into the door of the walk in. The outside door banged open and Andy was on him like a shot, pinning the man’s arms back, the steak still adhered to Red’s head.
“You are under arrest,” Andy said triumphantly.
Handcuffed, Mirandized, and ensconced in the back of Saffitz’s squad car (part of the police detail that had shown up due to the calls of terrified restaurant patrons), Chris and Andy shared another fist bump.
“Bad boys,” Andy crowed.
“Bad boys for life,” Chris agreed. “We ride together. We die together.”