Archive of Our Own ^beta

Coming back from Burnett was a mess. Sonny Crockett – Senior Detective James ‘Sonny’ Crockett – returned to an estate in probate, his house stripped and staged for sale, everything he owned tied up in a huge legal knot, his undercover residence and vehicle transferred back to Metro-Dade property, and his thin-margin life a sliver of its former self. He had nothing and when he looked into the eyes of his friends and colleagues he saw the reflection of doubt and fear that writhed through his very soul.

Despite his partner and his lieutenant speaking up for him at a brutal Internal Affairs investigation, Crockett had been put on a mandatory furlough. He could have pushed to gain access to the house that he and his deceased wife had owned, but the huge empty house was a torture chamber of memories. After the inquiry adjourned, his partner, Ricardo Tubbs tried to reassure him.

“Go… talk to the Department Shrink… everything will be fine.” His words were straight out of the best friend manual of encouragement. He meant well. He was trying to be there – to be supportive, keep the faith, offer the love. But the love didn’t reach his eyes anymore.

The hesitation was understandable. After all, as Burnett, Sonny had attempted to kill Tubbs. Twice. Twice he had Ricardo in his crosshairs, and twice Burnett had pulled the trigger. How could they possibly come back from that? How could he assure the partner he loved that his intentions were pure when he, himself, had doubts?

All Lieutenant Martin Castillo said before disappearing into the bureaucratic weeds was, “Stop by the office.”

He’d ridden shotgun with Rico to the Organized Crime Bureau. Hanging back, Crockett walked in Rico’s shadow. This had always been Sonny’s place, had always been Crockett territory – with no one and nothing to challenge that certainty. The walls, the stairwell, the lockers in the hall, the swinging door — he never blinked, never hesitated, he had moved through this space like a Scarab on the Intracoastal. But not today.

As they entered the office, Sonny noted the averted eyes and heard the voices drop to whispers. In the dampening hush that seemed to follow him everywhere, Castillo’s voice cut through the quiet.

“It’s my decision.” The rumbling growl was loud enough to be heard through the office glass. “That’s fine. Where would you like my badge?” There was a pause. “Because either it’s my unit and I run it or you call Pursley’s office.”

Crockett had stopped outside Castillo’s door at the secretary’s desk. Cathy was tapping a pencil on her calendar pad, watching the telephone extension display on her desk. Looking up, she gave Sonny a genuine smile, mouthed ‘hold on’ and returned to her vigil. He knew why she fidgeted – would this conversation end with a hang up or would their boss pull the phone cord out of the wall socket? They waited together.

“Good,” said Castillo. Ending the conversation he tipped the receiver lightly onto the base. Looking up, he sighed and nodded Sonny into the room.

“They still at you about me?” Crockett asked.

“Don’t worry about that.” Castillo picked up a small set of keys from his desk and tossed them to Crockett. “The car’s at my house. Have Rico drop you off when you get done with your appointments.” Turning his back, he added, “Rico. You’re up.”

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. Rico stayed in the perfect congenial partner mode while he taxied Sonny from place to place, ticking off official return to work boxes. In a casual chatter Tubbs brought Crockett up to speed on the various operations and office gossip, never allowing the air between them to stray into silence.

When Sonny asked about Castillo having the Ferrari at his house, Rico shrugged. “First I heard about it. I thought Property took it when it disappeared from the Marina.”

“Are the boats still there?” It would make sense for the department to reassign the venue or, at the very least, move the sloop and jet boat.

“Yeah.” Rico said, turning off Bayshore Drive. “The Lieutenant had us use the boats just enough to keep them currently required.” He emphasized the last two words. “If you ask me, it was his way of keeping the lid on shit, chilling IABs jets.”

When they pulled up to the small two story building, Martin Castillo was just getting out of his car. The sleek, white sports car was nowhere in sight.

“Hey, you got the Testarossa in your back pocket?” Crockett asked over the Cadillac’s purring engine.

Unlike all the various stops that day, Rico did not shut the car off. This was their final destination.

“Thank you, Rico,” Castillo said in that tone the whole squad understood to mean ‘dismissed’.

“Be safe,” Rico called over his shoulder and he disappeared down Poinciana Avenue.

“It’s in the garage,” said Castillo, not waiting for the Caddy to disappear.

Pulling the keys out of his pocket, Sonny followed his boss to the side of the house, realizing he had never been on this side of the property. With a cursory look, it was impossible to tell there was a garage because the lush greenery along that side of the building effectively hid the structure.

“Put those away.” Martin opened the old fashioned carriage style door on one side.

The white Testarossa was on the far side of the space next to an irregularly shaped something that was all but covered. Two spoked wheels rimmed in heavy touring tires peeked out from under tarp. Crockett stopped halfway through the door. His brain skimmed over the possibilities — Martin Castillo… had a bike? Watching the charcoal canvas being pulled from the motorcycle, Sonny shook his head.

“What – is - this?” He drew the words out.

“This… is my 1988 Harley-Davidson FXLR 1340. You ride… right?”

“Yeah… um… yeah. This is a Low Rider.” The bike was big, with room on either side of the curved seat for saddlebags. A brass bar and shield backrest was emblazoned in a chrome and brass insignia. The handle bars were elevated and angled for the rider’s comfort; the gas tank narrowed at the rear to fit neatly between the rider’s knees.

“Yes. Custom actually – but we’re about the same height, and our reach is the same, so it should be comfortable for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah.” Martin began to fold the cover in his hands. “I’ve been out on it four, five times… then this Manolo-Carrera nightmare took over and… well. Here she sits.”

Dropping the cover on a bench beside the door, Castillo pulled a key fob from his pocket. Without warning he tossed the key to the confused blond.

“I need you back, Sonny,” Castillo said. “I need you to go. I need you to find yourself again. Take the bike. Go where ever you need to go. Go as long as you need to go there.”

“Marty… what?” Sonny shook his head, looking from the Harley to his enigmatic boss. “You’re just giving me the key to your bike?”

“I trust you.” His voice, in a soft tenor of reassurance, emphasized the ‘I’.

They stood over the Harley in silence until Crockett reached out to trace the name splashed across the tank. “They want my neck, Marty. They want me gone, maybe even upstate.”

“You don’t worry about that,” Castillo cut in – the voice now a protective growl. “That’s crap to wade through, and you’re not ready. But you will be.” Pulling a set of leather packs from the shelf behind him, Martin offered, “I know they’ve unlocked your accounts, so you’ve got means. You just need the right wheels.”

“Testarossa has wheels,” Sonny smiled for the first time that day.

Martin returned the smile and pointing to the flange under the bitch seat, said, “The saddles snap on here. And – they know your car - the car. This isn’t on their radar.”

Continuing to appraise the cycle, Sonny confessed, “I feel like shit.”

He had spent the afternoon with his best friend and it hadn’t helped. Ricardo’s polite chatter and perfect support only served to remind him of Burnett and how close he had come to killing his partner.

“I know,” Martin said. “I’ve been where you are. The only way out is through and that takes time and distance. Every time you think about Burnett you bleed a little more. You need to think about something else. You need to think about Sonny Crockett.” Castillo gave a nod to the door, “And he’s out there somewhere.”

In silence they pulled the bike off the stands and wheeled the Harley out, the pressed rock drive crackling under the weight.

Crockett was right, there were people in the department that wanted him gone. There were even a few that wanted him charged with the murder of a dirty cop. And, there were forces beyond the department that would benefit from the humiliation of one, Detective Crockett.

However, Martin Castillo knew that none of those people were in the Organized Crime Bureau; none of them were the people who depended on the Senior Detective. The team sensed Sonny’s lack of confidence in himself and did not know how to help. The only person who could help Sonny was Sonny — and he couldn’t do that in Miami.

Throwing a leg over the bike and relaxing into the curve of the seat, Crockett settled his grip on the handlebars; the fit was glove-good. There was nothing between Sonny and tomorrow except the road.

“Don’t stop at the boat, don’t stop at the house,” Castillo advised. “Buy what you need on the road. Call when you’re ready. When you get back, things at the station will be settled.” With a half-smile and nod, Martin stepped away as Sonny kicked the machine to life.

Crockett looked up into Castillo’s uncharacteristic soft expression. “Thanks, Marty.” His voice could not be heard over the two-stroke rumble.

The bike and rider rumbled down Poinciana to Bayshore. Beyond Bayshore the blond Vice Detective would find Highway 1 and a straight shot down to the Keys. Somewhere along the journey he would find James ‘Sonny’ Crockett and bring him home.