Coign of Vantage

He was nervous–stomach aquiver, hands shaking; and determined–smile in place… He stopped outside the squadroom, staring through the glass doors…

“You takin’ tickets or somethin’?”

He whirled, coming face-to-face with a pair of impatient blue eyes. “Oh, no…I…I’m sorry.” He stepped away from the doors, and the dark-haired man brushed past him, an exasperated look on his face.

“You’ll have to excuse him. Had a bad night. Can I help you? I’m Sgt. Hutchinson.”

He looked into another pair of blue eyes, lighter than the first and much friendlier. Hutchinson? He glanced through the glass again, finding the other man seated on the far end of one table… Starsky? Starsky and Hutch– He beamed at the blond cop and extended his hand. “Richard Ashley, new man.”

Hutchinson’s handshake was firm and welcoming. “Glad to meet you. First day?”

We wish to thank the author for granting us permission to archive her stories.

Coign of Vantage was originally published in 1982 in the highly regarded gen zine L.A.Vespers 2. Ultrapsychobrat was the editor and publisher of both this zine, L.A.Vespers 1, published in 1979, and others. You can find more of the author’s SH fiction at Archive of Our Own by searching under the author’s name and Starsky and Hutch.

He was nervous–stomach aquiver, hands shaking; and determined–smile in place, homework done. He was, by God, going to do everything right. He’d worked six years to get here. Been the best, done the most. Metro was the plum in the L.A.P.D. pudding, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers.

The desk attendant smiled at him as he walked past the counter toward the stairs, and he felt his confidence take an upward swing. No one had challenged his right to be here, so maybe he looked as though he belonged. He stopped outside the squadroom, staring through the glass doors. Somehow he felt a little disappointed. It looked like all the others he’d ever seen–same scarred furniture, desks piled high with paperwork, overflowing ashtrays, half-full cups of coffee. Not an awe-inspiring sight. And the men sitting at the desks looked no different from the hundreds of other cops who occupied carbon-copy squadrooms across the city. No bigger, no stronger, nothing special to set them apart as the elite.

“You takin’ tickets or somethin’?”

“You’ll have to excuse him. Had a bad night. Can I help you? I’m Sgt. Hutchinson.”

He looked into another pair of blue eyes, lighter than the first and much friendlier. Hutchinson? He glanced through the glass again, finding the other man seated on the far end of one table, rapidly sorting through a stack of files. Starsky? Starsky and Hutch–Metro’s wonder boys. He beamed at the blond cop and extended his hand. “Richard Ashley, new man.”

Hutchinson’s handshake was firm and welcoming. “Glad to meet you. First day?”

“Yes.”

“Well, come on in and I’ll introduce you around.”

He followed Hutchinson through the doors, the squadroom beyond suddenly taking on the specialness he’d failed to find earlier.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Rampart.”

“Good division. Bernie,” Hutchinson tapped an older man on the shoulder, “this is Richard Ashley, new man out of Rampart. Bernie Heinreich.”

Ashley shook the proffered hand, then trailed Hutchinson around the other tables where he met seven fellow officers. He hoped he’d remember their names later. They ended up at the last table where Starsky was engrossed in typing a report, punching the machine’s keys with grim determination.

“Starsk?”

“Get screwed.” The voice snapped impatiently; the head remained bent over the typewriter.

“Clean up your act, partner. You’re gonna make Richard feel unwanted.”

“Who gives a shit?”

The dark blue eyes rose then, and Ashley offered a tentative smile. Was this the famed partnership he’d heard about for all these years?

“Oh, the ticket man. What’s he want?”

“He’s a new Metro officer–Richard Ashley. Richard, this warm human being is my partner, David Starsky.”

“Hello.”

Starsky went back to his typing, ignoring the outstretched hand and greeting. The heat of a blush swept up Ashley’s face. He glanced at the blond cop and saw his angry frown.

“You’re a real son-of-a-bitch sometimes.” Hutchinson’s voice was low and vicious.

“You oughta know.”

Ashley felt acutely embarrassed. He looked around for somewhere to retreat and spied a door labeled CAPTAIN HAROLD DOBEY. The captain. He should report in. “I…uh…have to see Captain Dobey.”

“What?” Hutchinson looked at him, still frowning.

“The captain…I need to report in.” He gestured toward the door.

“Oh, sure. Look, I’m sorry about…” Hutchinson shrugged. “See you later. Hope you like it here.”

“Thanks.” He walked around the end of the table and knocked on the door of Dobey’s office.

“Come in,” sounded from the other side, and he turned the knob to enter, but couldn’t resist one more glance at the two cops who had been his heroes for six years. Hutchinson was stooped over Starsky, his face intent. His voice was still pitched low, but the words carried to where Ashley stood. “What the hell do you mean acting like that? Why don’t you grow up?”

Guilt swept over him. This wasn’t any of his business. He stepped into the office and closed the door.

* * *

The morning passed quickly–the briefing with Dobey; meeting his partner, Alan Grieves; touring the building; reading through an assortment of active files; studying past cases. He felt inundated by new information, unable to absorb much of anything. And always on the periphery of his awareness were Starsky and Hutch, silently working in their own corner of the squadroom. Everyone seemed to avoid them, and they paid no attention whatsoever to the comings and goings of the others. It was strange and unsettling somehow.

Finally, he leaned across the table and tapped Grieves on the arm. “What gives?” he asked quietly, nodding his head in the direction of the two men. His partner glanced down the room and then shrugged. “Probably had another fight.”

“But I thought–”

“Don’t. Just stay away from them.” The voice was low, the brown eyes hard.

He stared at his partner in puzzlement. Had there really been dislike in his tone?

“Look, Richard, you’re new here,” Grieves went on not unkindly. “Take my word for it. You don’t want to know those two.”

He held the other man’s eyes for a few seconds and then returned his gaze to the report folder, not seeing anything written there. Another fight? That must mean…but how was that possible? Every officer in L.A. knew about Starsky and Hutch. They were a twelve-year legend, going back to Academy days together. The best cops in the city, some said, certainly the most famous. They worked and solved cases no one else would touch–undercover, on the street, loaned out to other departments, even other cities. And somehow he’d always imagined them as the best of friends, too. That’s the way it was supposed to be, wasn’t it?

“I have to pick up a couple of things. You wanna come with me, and we’ll get lunch somewhere? Then we’ll drive around the area so you can see the beat”

“Huh? Oh…no. I mean, I think I’ll finish this and eat in the cafeteria. If that’s okay.”

“Suit yourself.” Grieves stood up and pushed in his chair. “I’ll be back about 1:00.”

Ashley watched him through the door, wondering how this partnership was going to turn out. So far he felt nothing, one way or the other. Grieves was the reserved type, probably operated fairly close to the book. Which was okay, as far as it went. They were investigators, after all, not undercover men. Not yet. But one of these days….

“I said, no!”

The angry words drew his attention to the far end of the room.

“Will you just the hell leave me alone?” Starsky continued.

“Gladly!”

He watched Hutchinson snatch up his jacket and start toward the exit. Anger crackled around him, paling his face, fading the blue eyes to colorless glass. Ashley felt himself flush once more as the blond cop met his stare, and quickly looked away. Again he’d been eavesdropping on a private quarrel, and that embarrassed him, even if the quarrel had been carried on in full view and hearing of the entire squadroom.

He jumped as a hand tapped his shoulder, and looked up to see Hutchinson smiling down at him. All traces of the anger were gone, erased as if by magic.

“How’s it going?” The voice was friendly and interested.

“Fine, I think.” He threw a quick glance toward Starsky, who was pounding the typewriter again, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world.

“Have you had lunch yet?”

“No. I was going down to the cafeteria after I finished this.” He indicated the folder and smiled ruefully. “Captain Dobey wants me to see how things are done at Metro.”

“So you’re stuck reading a dozen case files that look just like the ones you’ve been doing at Rampart, right?”

“Well, mostly. A couple of them are…different.”

“Don’t tell me he gave you some of Starsky’s reports.”

Soft laughter filled this corner of the room at his nod.

“Believe me, they were meant to point out how not to do things. Paperwork isn’t my partner’s strong suit.” The indulgent tone robbed the words of criticism, adding to Ashley’s confusion about these two.

“They weren’t that bad, just a little….” He hesitated, searching for a word to describe the unusual quality of Starsky’s reports.

“Colorful?” Hutchinson supplied, grinning.

“Very.”

“Well, don’t get any ideas about copying his style. Dobey has screaming fits every time he reads one. Why don’t you come on down to lunch with me? You can finish those later.”

Surprise was quickly replaced by pleasure. “Sure.” He closed the top folder and got to his feet. “Alan said there were only two things on the menu fit to eat, but he didn’t say which two.”

“It’s not that bad, but look out for anything labeled ‘special’. Hang on a second.”

The blond man retraced his steps to the far table. Whatever he said to his partner was too low to be heard, and Starsky’s only reaction was a shrug. But as Hutchinson turned back toward the door, brooding eyes followed him and then met Ashley’s own gaze. A ripple of fear skittered along his spine, and suddenly he was remembering Grieves’ warning. Which was of course ridiculous. He looked away from Starsky. It wasn’t Hutchinson’s fault that his partner was a foul-tempered bastard. He was clearly cut from different cloth and seemed in need of a friend.

* * *

“So, you think you’re going to like it here?” Hutch snapped the lid back on the empty yoghurt carton, pushed it to one side.

“After six years of waiting, I’d better.”

“Six years? You can’t have been a cop much longer than that.”

Ashley nodded, swallowing the last of his coffee. “Just barely. But I knew Metro was where I wanted to be the first month of Academy.”

“Why’s that?”

There was genuine interest in the voice, and the warm glow that had been with him since they’d left the squadroom deepened. Hutch–that’s what he’d asked to be called–had proven to be just as friendly and open as he’d originally seemed, willing to answer all Ashley’s many questions about Metro. They sat at a corner table, isolated from the rest of the cafeteria, but Ashley had noticed the surprised looks from others. Those looks made him slightly self-conscious but also proud. Hutch was evidently very selective about the company he kept. “Well, I heard how good you…Metro was, and it sounded like the kind of place I’d like. A real challenge. How did you and…uh…Starsky wind up here?”

Hutch smiled and leaned back in his chair. “We started out here in uniform.”

“Really? I didn’t think they assigned rookies together.”

“They don’t. We–”

“Are you ready?”

He glanced up at the interruption to see the frowning face of his partner.

“Hello, Alan,” Hutch said quietly. “Am I keeping Richard from his appointed rounds?” The tone was still friendly, but an undercurrent of something else raised the hair on the back of Ashley’s neck. A subtle tension invaded the air around them.

“Yeah, you could say that. Come on, kid. We’ve got work to do.”

Irritation and embarrassment welled up at the peremptory tone, but he had no choice. Grieves was his partner. He offered an apologetic smile to Hutch and got to his feet. “Duty calls. See you later?”

“Sure. Don’t be too rough on him, Alan. I think you may have a winner here.”

The two older cops exchanged a look that was somehow more than just a meeting of the eyes.

“Come on,” Grieves repeated, turning away from the table without another word to Hutch.

“I’m sorry…I….” Ashley’s voice trailed off in bewilderment. What the hell was going on?

“Don’t worry about it. Alan and I understand one another. He’s a good cop. Do what he says.”

Anger at his partner rose in him as he hurried across the room to where Grieves was waiting with an air of impatience. There wasn’t any excuse for the kind of rudeness he’d just witnessed. Hutch was one of the nicest people he’d ever met, and he wasn’t about to let Grieves destroy their blossoming friendship. Maybe he and Hutch both needed new partners.

But they were on the street in a standard-issue, unmarked sedan before he had a chance to voice his feelings. And it was Grieves who brought up the subject.

“Well, I see Mr. Charm got to you.”

He glanced at the unrevealing profile and bit back the accusations of jealousy he felt were at the root of Grieves’ dislike. This man controlled his future at Metro to a large extent. Dobey would definitely take a senior officer’s opinion into account when evaluations came due. “Why don’t you like Hutch?” he asked, tying to keep his voice neutral and unconcerned.

“What’s not to like? Great cop, nice guy, an all around good Joe.”

“Then why do you–” He made himself let the question go unasked.

“Dislike you getting friendly with him?” The brown eyes flicked over him and then returned to watching the traffic. “It’s not jealousy, Richard, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He started to protest, but was cut short by a gesture from Grieves.

“It’s okay. I know that’s what it sounds like. But believe me, I’m just trying to keep you from buying more trouble than you can handle. And either one of those two is big trouble, especially when they’re keyed up, like today. They’re having some sort of argument, and Hutch comes on to you like big brother. He must be looking for a new partner, right?”

“Well….”

“Yeah, and that’s your first mistake. Look, kid, I’ve known Starsky and Hutch for five years. I’ve seen them square off more times than I can count. They’ve called each other every name in the book and then some. Even exchanged a few punches on occasion. But they’re still together. Think about it.”

* * *

He did–all that evening. Anne kidded him about day-dreaming, and he tried to put his thoughts aside and listen to his five-year-old’s account of the birthday party she’d attended that day. But the questions kept nagging for attention. What if Hutch only stayed with Starsky because he hadn’t been able to find another partner who measured up to his standards as a cop? Ashley didn’t make the mistake of underestimating Starsky’s professional abilities. He was hell on wheels when it came to police work–at least that’s what everyone said. But what if Hutch met someone just as good who also had a compatible personality? What then?

Before he went to bed, he took out the new Magnum he’d bought over a year ago and had never used. It had been in the way of a promise to himself. Now, as he turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight and power of the weapon, he wondered if the promise was going to be realized more quickly than he’d dared hope.

* * *

He ran a finger inside the turtleneck of his sweater and wished he’d worn something cooler. But it was June, and the nights were sometimes downright cold. It was cold tonight, he supposed; he was too excited to notice. Or maybe nervous was a more accurate term for his feelings right now. When Dobey had called him and Grieves into his office this morning to explain the detail, then he’d been excited. A job with Hutch–Starsky, too, of course–even if it was only as back-up, was what he’d been waiting for these two weeks. He’d expected Grieves to share his enthusiasm, but his partner had frowned through the entire briefing and had even suggested that a unit from Narco take their place. It was a drug bust, after all. But, much to Ashley’s relief, Dobey had squelched that idea. Narco didn’t have any manpower available at the moment. Besides, this gang had turned their hand to homicide on more than one occasion. Starsky and Hutch knew the set-up; this was going to be handled by Dobey’s men all the way. Grieves had shut up then, but Ashley knew he was still unhappy about the situation. He’d tried to question his partner a couple of times, find out what was bugging him, but the only answer he’d gotten was a few cryptic words about praying that nothing went wrong.

Now, crouched here behind some empty packing crates at one corner of the wharf, he wondered what exactly Grieves had meant. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the beginning of a cramp in his left calf, and glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. Time was going slow. An hour and fifteen minutes of nothing. The warehouse loomed dark and threatening, its bulk absorbing noise and light. Even the slap of the surf against the pilings beneath him seemed curiously quiet, as though the ocean were holding its breath, waiting. He glanced to another group of crates at the other side of the wharf-front, trying to distinguish his partner from the surrounding darkness. He couldn’t. Starsky and Hutch were hidden in the shadow of the warehouse, somewhere near the center. He couldn’t see them either.

The exchange was supposed to take place here at the end of the wharf, one man approaching on foot from each side and leaving again by the same route. They would watch the deal go down, allow the suspects to separate, then take them. Starsky and Hutch would be the D.A. ‘s witnesses to the actual exchange, since they were positioned to see clearly. He and Grieves would provide corroborating testimony concerning the arrest itself. All very cut and dried. And he wondered once more why Grieves hadn’t wanted to work this detail.

He started to shift his legs again, but froze. The soft thud of rubber soles on wood announced the arrival of one of the suspects. He crouched lower, waiting until the footsteps were well toward the meeting place before risking a look. The silhouette of a man was barely visible in the dim light. His outline was vaguely blurred, and Ashley swore softly to himself. Fog was drifting in. If the other man didn’t arrive soon, the whole set-up would be down the tubes. The mist would obscure everything. The arresting officers had to have a clear, unobstructed view of the exchange to make a dealing charge stick. Otherwise, it was mere possession for whoever got caught holding and next to nothing for the guy with the money. “Hurry up,” he whispered to the darkness, willing the second man to show now.

As if in answer to his command, another silhouette appeared beside the first. Ashley pulled the heavy Magnum from its holster, and eased to a half-standing position. As soon as he heard, “Police, freeze.”, his job was to stop any escape attempt in this direction. A verbal warning should be enough, but a cop was always prepared.

What was taking so long? The two men stood half-way down the wharf, near the ocean edge, but he could distinguish no movement or voices. Maybe the seller was taking time to count the money. That must be it. Everything was going down hassle-free, just as planned. Grieves had been worried for nothing.

But even as satisfaction took shape in his thoughts, the quiet scene exploded into chaos. A voice yelling, gunshots, screams, someone swearing, the soft thud of a body, footsteps pounding over the wood planks, his own shouted, “Halt, police!”, the runner’s muttered “Shit!” as he caught sight of the Magnum, a scuffle at the other side of the wharf, more shouting, the clink of handcuffs–all a jumbled mess of sound and images that ended less than a minute after it began. He pushed his prisoner against a crate and cuffed him, holstered his gun and dragged the man toward the others.

“What happened?” he asked as he neared his partner, who had a second man by the arm.

“Third man.” Grieves pointed to another cuffed figure lying half-in/halfout of a small office doorway. He was moaning low in his throat, and a small pool of dark liquid inched outward from his right leg. Somebody ought to do something about the wound.

“Where are Hutch and–”

“There.” Grieves pointed again, this time to two crouched figures against the warehouse wall a few yards away. All he could make out was Hutch’s blond hair. “Starsky’s been hit. I’m going to call an ambulance and bring the car. You watch these three. Don’t let them dump any evidence. No one’s had time to frisk them yet.” The older man trotted off, his hard-soled shoes echoing loudly.

“Sit down, right there.” He shoved his prisoner to the planking and indicated for the other one to do the same where he stood. Neither made any protest. In fact, they had both remained absolutely silent since their capture. They were somewhere in their mid-thirties, well-groomed, expensively dressed in fashionable sports clothes–no street dealers, these. The wounded prisoner had fallen silent. Ashley bent over him to check for a pulse, found it beating steadily. He applied a rough bandage made from his handkerchief and windbreaker to the man’s leg. The wound didn’t seem to be too serious. The only sound now was a low-voiced murmur from the other two cops.

“Is Starsky all right?” he called, wanting to go see for himself, but unable to leave his charges unattended.

“I’m okay.”

“No. Where’ s the goddamned ambulance?”

“I don’t need–”

“Shut up and sit still.”

“It’s just a flesh wound.”

“And this stuff is just ketchup, I suppose.”

“I’m not stayin’ in any hospital for a little scratch like this.”

“You’ll do whatever they goddamned well tell you to do. Where the hell’s that ambulance?”

Headlights bathed the wharf in sudden brilliance as Grieves returned with the car. He switched off the engine, but left the lights on, and got out. “How’s Starsky doin’?”

“He needs an ambulance,” Hutch snapped.

Ashley could see them clearly now. Starsky sat propped against the warehouse, knees drawn up, eyes closed. He looked a bit pale, but didn’t seem to be in too much pain. Hutch kneeled beside him, holding a folded piece of cloth to his shoulder.

“It’s on the way. A black-and-white, too.” Grieves walked over to where Ashley stood with the prisoners. “Well, let’s do it.” He hauled one man to his feet and escorted him toward the car. Ashley did the same with the other.

It took them less than five minutes to collect a half-kilo of coke and two fat envelopes of money, read the men their rights, and place them in the back seat of the car. The evidence was deposited in manila envelopes labeled with the time, date, and suspects’ names, initialed by both Grieves and himself, and locked into the car’s glove compartment. The alternating wail and whoop of a siren announced the arrival of the ambulance.

Ashley walked over to stand by the two undercover cops, anxious to help if he could. Flashing red lights of the emergency vehicle appeared around a corner, the siren died away, and three attendants swung out onto the planking.

“Over here,” called Grieves, indicating the wounded prisoner.

“Wait a minute!” Hutch began, but was cut short by an impatient exclamation from Starsky.

“For God’s sake! Will you lighten up? That guy’s hurt a lot worse than I am. I don’t wanna go through the hassle with I.A. if he dies. I’m okay.”

“Someone else hurt here?” One of the ambulance attendants squatted down by Hutch. “Let’s have a look.”

The blond cop lifted the blood-soaked handkerchief and moved to the other side of his partner. Ashley stepped back some to give room.

A pair of scissors made quick work of Starsky’s jacket and shirt. “Not too bad,” the attendant said, pressing a thick gauze pad to the wound and affixing it with tape. “Bullet just tore a gouge across the top of your shoulder.”

“Told you so,” Starsky grumbled and made to get up.

“You’re just lucky,” Hutch stated, helping him to his feet. “What’d you go and pull a dumb-ass stunt like that for anyway?” He placed an arm around Starsky’s waist, as the wounded cop swayed slightly. “I’m just as capable of taking out the bad guys as you are. You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days with that hotshot attitude of yours. This is supposed to be a partnership, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Ashley heard the tremor of anger in Hutch’s words and shook his head in sympathy. So, Starsky had acted too hastily, and not for the first time, it appeared. No wonder Hutch was upset. Not only was his partner surly and uncooperative, but unreliable, too. He wondered how many times Hutch had had to pull them out of a sticky situation like this one when there hadn’t been any back-ups available.

A third vehicle pulled in beside the ambulance, and two uniformed cops emerged. “You fellas need some help?”

“Make sure the guy with the leg wound gets booked into the prison ward at County,” Grieves directed. “We’ll take the other two in. You going with the ambulance, Hutch?”

“No. I’ll drive. The Sergeant here can give me a lift to Starsky’s car.”

“Okay. Come on, kid. Let’s get these turkeys down to the station.”

Ashley climbed into the car, reluctant to leave. He wanted to say something to Hutch, let him know that he understood. But the blond man was already entering the patrol unit. There wasn’t time for anything right now.

“Well, this is gonna complicate the hell out of the paperwork,” Grieves muttered as he started the engine. “Hope you told your wife you might be gone all night.”

“Yeah, she knows.” But he wasn’t thinking of his wife. What would have happened if he had been teamed with Hutch? He, like Hutch, thought before acting– a trait Starsky evidently lacked. And he and Hutch got along really well. They’d had several conversations over the last two weeks, and he’d grown to like and respect the older cop even more. He’d found out that Hutch liked plants, and they’d talked a lot about the problems of horticulture in Southern California. Although Ashley didn’t garden much, his father owned a nursery, so he knew quite a bit about the subject. There was also their common interest in camping and fishing. He couldn’t imagine Starsky ever tending a plant, let alone spending hours in the silent pursuit of a trout. Yes, he definitely had more to offer Hutch in the way of friendship than Starsky did. And after tonight, maybe more as a cop, too.

He smiled to himself and turned toward his partner. “Hutch didn’t seem too pleased with Starsky’s actions back there.”

“Coulda gotten himself killed,” Grieves said noncommittally, and swung the car onto the freeway on-ramp.

“Does he do things like that very often?”

“Like what?”

“You know, over react.”

Grieves threw him a quick look, and then sighed. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but whatever it is you’re wrong.”

“But Hutch said–”

“Absolutely nothing. He was just worried about his partner. You understand?”

“I guess so.” But he hadn’t mistaken the anger in Hutch or its cause, even if Grieves chose not to see it. He’d talk to Hutch tomorrow.

* * *

He removed another page from the typewriter and rubbed at his eyes. They burned from hours of concentration and lack of sleep. And the damned reports weren’t finished yet. He fingered the sheaf of papers on the table and sighed. Grieves had sure been right about the foul-up. Everybody’s accounts overlapped those of everyone else. Nothing could be completed until Starsky was back to add his version, and the shooting board would need separate reports from all four of them in order to render a decision. The wounded suspect would have to be questioned by an impartial investigator as well as by one of the arresting officers. Then everything would have to be compiled into some kind of order for perusal of the D.A.’s office. God in heaven! Was it any wonder that they spent four hours in the office for every one on the street? And the citizens wanted to know where the police were when they needed them.

He stood and stretched, listening to the dull crack of stiff joints. Sounded like an old man. Picking up his cup, he wandered over to the coffee maker and poured some of the wicked-smelling brew. Maybe an extra helping of sugar would cut the bitterness, but he doubted it. Coffee wasn’t what he needed, anyway. Sleep. That’s what he could use–about twelve hours’ worth. He hadn’t gotten home until four in the morning and had arrived back here at nine. It was now 3:00 p.m. and he was dead.

As he stirred the syrupy liquid, he looked over to where Hutch was talking on the phone. The blond hair was in disarray and there were dark circles under the blue eyes. He looked as tired as Ashley felt.

“What the hell do you mean, the report’s not done? What’ve you guys been doing down there all day, playing with yourselves?….NO, you listen…. Chambers…. Goddamnit! I know this isn’t your only case, but it’s just a lousy ballistic’s check…. No…. All right, all right!…. Shit!”

The angry voice ceased as the telephone was slammed down. He watched Hutch bury his face in his hands for a moment and then turn back to the page in the typewriter.

“You want some coffee?”

“What?” Hutch looked up, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “Oh, no…yeah, maybe.” He rubbed his face and yawned widely.

Ashley carried the glass pot over and poured the extended cup full.

“Thanks.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“No, this is fine.”

He returned the pot to its burner and sat down opposite Hutch. They sipped their coffee in silence, sharing a few moments of relaxation. It felt natural being here, like he’d known this man for years. They were comfortable together. That was the kind of rapport cops needed to make an effective team.

“You and Grieves through with your reports?”

“No…well, Alan is, I think. I’m still writing my overview statement, trying to get the sequence straight. So many things happened at once, you know.”

“Yeah, a real mess. Starsky’s snitch is gonna have some explaining to do about that third guy. We should’ve been prepared for him.”

“Who’s he work for?”

“Don’t know. No one’s talking.”

“Maybe he’s an independent. Found out about the buy and decided to rip them both off.”

“Could be.” Hutch shrugged and drank the last of his coffee. He set the cup down and turned his attention back to the incomplete form.

Ashley knew he ought to get to his own work, but he was reluctant to end their conversation. Besides, he still hadn’t mentioned the topic he really wanted to discuss. But now he felt a little self-conscious. After all, Starsky was Hutch’s partner, and it might embarrass him to know that other people were aware of his faults.

“Is there something else, Richard?”

He met the inquiring look and felt himself blush. “No, I was just wondering, uh…how Starsky’s doing. I mean, was it just a flesh wound like the medic said?”

Hutch frowned and nodded. “Yeah, nothing serious. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Oh…that’s good. He was lucky.”

“Fools and drunks,” Hutch muttered. He picked up an eraser and rubbed at some error on the report.

“It must…uh…be kind of hard having to work with someone like that.”

For a few seconds the blond man continued erasing, then he blew at the collected fiber on the paper and looked at him. “Like what, Richard?”

Something had changed in the blue eyes, but Ashley couldn’t decide what. Did Hutch know what he was about to say? Maybe it really was embarrassing to him. “Well, I mean, Starsky was out of line, wasn’t he? You said–”

“Hey, Richard, you trying to drag this thing into another all-night job?” Grieves walked up to stand beside him. “Get cracking, kid. Dobey wants those reports like–” He stopped at a gesture from Hutch.

“In a minute, Alan. Your partner was just telling me something interesting about Starsky.”

Ashley watched the silent contest of wills as the two older cops stared at one another. He wished Grieves would get lost, stop interfering.

“Hutch,” Grieves began, but was interrupted.

“I want to hear what he has to say, Alan. You understand?”

Grieves cleared his throat and shook his head. The brown eyes met Ashley’s for a moment, and then he moved away.

“Well?”

He looked back at Hutch and saw the smile of encouragement. For some reason it made him nervous. “It’s nothing, really.” He hesitated, but went on when Hutch remained silent. “I just meant…well, you know, you said Starsky was shot because he over-reacted to a situation you could’ve handled. And I just thought–”

“Is that what I said?”

“Yeah, sure, last night after the ambulance attendant patched him up. You said–”

“And you just thought what?”

The smile was gone now, and suddenly Ashley wished he’d never started this. The blue eyes were like laser beams, all light and dangerous edges. “It was nothing,” he repeated. “I…I just wanted you to know I understood, about Starsky, that is. You know?” He tried to smile.

“No, I don’t know. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

Hutch leaned back in his chair, folded his hands on his chest, and waited. The intense gaze didn’t waver, and all at once Ashley was aware that he’d stumbled into something he didn’t understand. “Maybe we oughta talk about this some other time.” He started to push his chair back, and suddenly his wrist was caught in a grip that sent shock waves of pain all the way to his shoulder. An involuntary gasp escaped.

Hutch leaned over the table, his face a pale mask of anger. “You sit right there, little boy, and listen to what I do know.”

Something deadly looked out of the clear eyes now. This was a stranger–a man he was afraid of.

“David Starsky is the best cop you’re ever likely to meet and the best person I know. You’ll never see the day when you’re half his equal. His ‘out of line’ behavior last night probably saved my life, so don’t you come slinking around here trying to play understanding friend. I have the only friend I need or want.”

“I wasn’t–”

“Shut up! I know the little game you’ve been playing. ‘We have so much in common, Hutch.’ ‘We’ll have to go fishing one of these weekends.’ Did you honestly think I’d trade Starsky for the likes of you? You with your goddamned hero worship and utter….”

The words of contempt ripped through him, shredding confidence and dreams with calculated cruelty. Hutch made no effort to modulate his voice, and a wild glance around the room only deepened Ashley’s humiliation. No one made any pretense of not hearing what was being said. The men’s expressions ranged from open enjoyment to the angry frown on his partner’s face.

As the flood of insults continued, his own anger surfaced over his embarrassment. Who the hell did Hutchinson think he was? He wrenched his arm free and jumped to his feet. “You don’t have any right to say that. You’re the one who said Starsky was at fault.” He hated the tremor in his voice, and hated Hutchinson. How could he have thought he wanted to be his friend? There wasn’t anything to admire here. He and Starsky deserved one another. Only at least Starsky was honest. He didn’t pretend to be nice and then turn on people.

“What I said is none of your business.” Hutchinson started around the table. “You keep your nose out of places it doesn’t belong or I’ll–”

“That’s enough!” And Grieves was there between them, blocking Hutchinson’s approach. “He got the message, Hutch. Leave him alone.”

“You’d better make damned sure he knows exactly what the message is, Alan. No snot-nosed kid is gonna run around–”

“He won’t.” Grieves swung around and pushed him toward the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

Ashley resisted for a moment, unwilling to compound his disgrace with retreat.

“Don’t be stupid,” Grieves hissed, grabbing his arm and hustling him forward.

They reached the hallway, and Ashley jerked free, trembling with anger and embarrassment. “The bastard! The hypocritical son-of-a-bitch. I oughta–”

“What? Jesus Christ! You got off easy. If that’d been Starsky, we’d be scraping you off the floor.”

“But he had no right to do that.”

“No, probably not. But I tried to warn you.”

“Something wrong here?”

Ashley glanced up and saw Dobey’s bulk in the doorway. He tried to compose his face and shook his head.

“Nothing much, Captain,” Grieves answered quickly. “Just a little disagreement.”

Dobey looked at Ashley for a long moment and then turned his attention to Grieves. “Anything you can’t handle?”

“No. Everything’s fine.”

“Good. Are those reports finished?”

“Just about. They’ll be on your desk by 5:00.”

Dobey nodded and walked back into the squadroom.

“Well, you ready to get back to work?” Grieves asked, his voice matter of fact.

Ashley looked through the door window and saw that Hutchinson was talking to Dobey. What was he telling the captain? More lies? Undermining him? “Maybe Captain Dobey doesn’t know what Starsky did last night.”

“You don’t know what Starsky did. I don’t know, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be dumb enough to go to Dobey with it. So what if Starsky got a little over-anxious? He’s the one who paid for it.”

“But it could have been someone else.”

“Who? I wasn’t in any danger and neither were you. And if you think he’d let anything happen to Hutch while he was around, you really are stupid. That’s exactly why he’s the one who got hurt.”

“You don’t care, do you?” He searched the impassive face, feeling betrayed and desperate for understanding. Yes, he’d made a mistake, judged a situation incorrectly, and ended up looking like a fool. But had it all been his own fault? Hadn’t he been deliberately deceived by Hutchinson, and left to fend for himself by Grieves? “You think I got what I deserved.”

“No, that’s not what I think at all.” There was compassion in the brown eyes now and concern. “Look, Richard, maybe I should’ve made it clearer to you in the beginning. I guess I hoped it wouldn’t happen like this, that your hero would stay on his goddamned pedestal, or that maybe you’d see for yourself. Oh, hell…I’m sorry. No one deserves to be treated like that.”

Confusion welled once more. One minute Grieves defended Hutchinson, the next he attacked him. Was everyone at Metro just crazy? “I don’t understand any of this–them…you. If Starsky didn’t mess up last night, why did Hutch say he did? And you tell me it doesn’t matter what happened, right or wrong. That it’s my fault Hutch is mad at me, but that he shouldn’t be.”

“I know, and I’ll try to explain things, soon. But right now you’ve got to get that report finished or Dobey’ll be the one chewing you out.”

Nerves clutched at him again. How was he going to go back in there? “I don’t think–”

“Sure you can. I remember one time Starsky half-killed me for not relaying a message Hutch had left for him, and I was the only one here Dobey could send with him. We managed, even if–”

“Alan?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“Thanks.”

“S’okay.” A smile flitted across the somber face. “Starsky and Hutch aren’t the only cops who care about their partners. Ready?”

He drew in a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and walked through the door.

* * *

And of course, Alan had been correct. No one had paid him much attention at all, except for a couple of sympathetic looks. Hutch had ignored him completely. And he’d finished the report on time.

He took another sip of his drink, and set the glass down on the cement at the side of his chair. Alan’s home was comfortable, this patio a real show place. Anne seemed to be getting along fine with his partner’s wife. He could hear their laughter from somewhere inside. Sharon Grieves was a nice person–not pretty exactly, but friendly and warm. They were both nice people. He was glad Alan had persuaded him into coming over for dinner.

Something brushed against his leg, and he looked down to see an orange and white cat staring up at him with huge night-extended pupils. “Hello, who are you?” He held a hand to the cat’s nose and let it smell his fingers. Satisfied, the animal rubbed his head along his hand, and then leaped into his lap.

“That’s Mickey. Make him get off if he’s bothering you.”

“No, I like cats. We’ve got two Siamese–both totally crazy.” He stroked the soft coat, feeling the rumble of a purr. Even their cat was nice. After an exploratory sniff or two, Mickey settled into a contented circle and closed his eyes. Ashley smiled and looked at his partner. “Thanks for having us tonight.”

Alan returned his smile–the same brief flicker that had warmed his face earlier today–and shrugged. “Thought you could use some sympathetic company.”

“Yeah.” He petted the cat absently, taking pleasure in its warm presence. “Guess I really made a mess of things.” The remembered scene made him wince internally. “You must think I’m some kind of prize idiot.”

“No, just a little ignorant of human behavior.”

“You know, I really thought he liked me.”

“He probably does…as much as he likes any of us.” Alan swirled the ice in his glass and stared up at the few stars that succeeded in out-shining the glow of the city’s lights. “Hutch is a strange person. I’ve never really figured him out. One day he’ll go out of his way to help you, the next it’s too much bother to speak.” He shrugged again and met Ashley’s gaze. “Hell of a cop, though. Next to Starsky, he’s probably the best in the city.”

“Are they really that good?” He knew he’d feel better if he could find something objective on which to base his disillusionment–some fault in Hutch besides his personality–because he was beginning to suspect that today’s fiasco had been mostly the result of his own over-developed ego.

Alan’s expression grew even more serious. “Yeah, they’re really that good. Don’t make any mistake about that. Maybe a lot of it is luck, like some of the men think, but the luckiest cop alive won’t be that way long if he doesn’t have a hell of a lot of skill to go with it.”

“But you didn’t want that detail last night. If they’re so good, why don’t you want to work with them?”

Alan sighed and got to his feet, wandering over to edge of the cement area. He didn’t say anything for several minutes, just stood looking out on the darkness. Finally, he turned to face Ashley. His eyes were troubled, and Ashley knew somehow that he wasn’t going to hear the truth–at least, not all of it, not now. For the second time today, he was aware of undercurrents that he didn’t understand.

“Because those two don’t have an emergency brake, if that makes any sense. When they go in, they go for it all, regardless of the danger. It’s why they had more felony arrests to their credit before they turned thirty than most cops do at retirement. It’s also why they have more kills on their records than any other cops in the department, and more scars than a man should live to tell about. Don’t get me wrong; they get results and that’s what counts in this job, but they move too fast for someone like me.”

“And for me? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Does that bother you?”

“No.” And it was true, he realized with a little shock of surprise. Alan looked relieved, and he smiled at this man who was trying to make things easier for him. “I guess everyone wants to be like them, though.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Alan rubbed a hand down his jaw and returned to his chair.

And once more Ashley suspected that something wasn’t being said. “But not you?” he ventured, watching his partner’s face closely.

Alan met his eyes for a moment and then swallowed the last of his watery drink, grimacing. He lowered the glass, turning it slowly round and round. “Oh, me too–sometimes. But not at the price they have to pay.”

“The danger, you mean.”

“Yeah, that…and other things. They only have each other, you know–no family, few if any close friends, probably not even a cat.”

Mickey’s ears twitched at the last word, and Ashley was suddenly struck with the emptiness of the life described. He stroked the living warmth of the animal, and was rewarded by a soft mew of contentment and the renewed rumble of a purr. Cats, children, a wife who laughed and was always there with quiet reassurance, a home that echoed to the sounds of life and love–things and people apart from the pressures of a rather ugly job. All of these were his, taken for granted most of the time, but the foundation without which he knew nothing else would really matter. “Doesn’t sound so enviable when you put it that way.” He fell silent for a few minutes, thinking back on Hutch’s anger at his criticism of Starsky and the viciousness with which the older man had attacked his offer of friendship. “Why do they shut everyone out? Surely they could have other friends if they wanted them. They’re both good looking. I’d think the women, if no one else, would be falling all over them.”

“Humph!” Alan snorted. “You can say that again.” He shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe they got too close, too young. They honestly don’t seem to need anyone else in their lives on a permanent basis.”

“But a lot of the time they don’t even act as though they like one another very much.” This was the thing that confused him most, he realized. Although he hadn’t witnessed another disagreement on the scale of the one that first day, in two weeks he hadn’t seen Starsky and Hutch behaving like anything but working acquaintances. Of course, they were out a lot, but when they were in the office they spent most of their time pounding typewriters, hardly speaking to one another. That didn’t smack of close friendship to him.

“I’m not sure they do, but that’s got very little to do with–”

“Okay, you two. Anne and I want some attention, now. You can discuss your police business at work. We’ve made strawberry shortcake as an extra incentive in case you need one.”

Mickey jumped down to investigate the possibility of whipped cream for cats, and the conversation turned to topics of general interest while they ate the rich dessert. Ashley found himself enjoying the evening more than he had any in the last several months. Later, while Alan was helping his wife carry the plates back into the house, Anne leaned over to kiss his cheek, and murmured, “Glad you’re feeling better. Rough day?”

He smiled into her pretty gray eyes, and suddenly felt very blessed. “Not really. Just needed to learn something I should’ve known. I’m a lucky man.”

She looked at him for a moment in silent understanding and squeezed his hand briefly. “We’re both lucky. I like Alan and Sharon. They’re nice people.”

“Yes, very nice.”

* * *

“It’s here, Captain.” Alan leaned over Dobey’s desk and extracted a single sheet of paper from the dozens spread fan-like across the blotter. He pointed to a paragraph half-way down the page and straightened while Dobey skimmed the typed lines.

“Okay, but this says you didn’t frisk the suspects until approximately fifteen minutes after they were apprehended.”

“That’s right. I went to get the car and call an ambulance. Richard kept them under wraps until I got back.”

“You had your eye on them the entire time, Ashley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Even while you were bandaging the third suspect’s leg?”

The black eyes were on him, waiting for an adequate explanation. He swallowed nervously. “Yes, sir. I made sure I could watch them while I worked on the other man. And it was only for a minute or two. They didn’t move.”

“You bandaged a man’s leg without looking at what you were doing?”

“Well, of course, I looked, but I kept the other two in my line of vision. They were seated just a few feet away, and–”

“You can swear to that? That at no time could anything have been exchanged between the uninjured prisoners?”

“Y…yes. Why? Is something wrong?” He glanced around the office, his gaze skipping hastily over Starsky and Hutch and coming to rest on his partner’s impassive face.

“No, not that I know of,” Dobey answered. “Just trying to cover any weak areas that a defense attorney might jump on. Your report’s a little vague about where you were in relation to the other suspects while you were bandaging the one man’s leg.”

“Should I redo it?”

“It wouldn’t hurt anything to be a bit more specific. But you’re still going to get hassled about those few minutes, so be–”

“No he won’t,” Starsky interrupted. “Neither one of those turkeys moved until Grieves and Ashley hauled them to the car.”

Ashley looked at him in surprise. For the last hour Starsky had sat slouched in a chair, ankles crossed, eyes closed, seemingly bored by the debriefing. He’d contributed little except to answer direct questions. Hutch had done most of the talking for both of them–evidently standard practice, since it didn’t seem to bother Dobey. Starsky still sat much as he had, but his eyes were open, fixed on the captain.

“How the hell would you know?” Dobey rumbled impatiently. “You were shot and at least forty feet away.”

“The wound was minor; there was five feet between them; they were outside the shadow of the warehouse; I have excellent night vision; and I was watching them. That enough?”

“What about you, Hutchinson? Did you have the suspects under surveillance, too?”

“No, sir,” the blond cop answered quietly. His eyes met Starsky’s for a moment and then dropped to his hands.

“He was playin’ nursemaid, Cap’n.” Starsky pushed himself upright in the chair and then stood. He winced slightly and touched his injured shoulder. “Is that it? Can we go home?”

“No, that’s not it. I f you’re gonna testify to the movements of those suspects, I want it in writing.”

“Fine. First thing tomorrow.”

“Now, Starsky, before you leave. Typed and on my desk as part of your overview, not some extra scrap of paper.”

“Cap’n, my shoulder’s killin’ me.”

“Can’t be helped. The D.A. wants to move on this.”

“But–”

“Come on, Starsk.” Hutch stood up and turned him about with firm hands. “I’ll type; you dictate.” He reached forward and opened the door, pushed Starsky into the squadroom, and then walked back to Dobey’s desk and scooped up the sheaf of papers. “Few minutes, Captain.” He smiled and left the room.

Ashley got to his feet, unsure if he was dismissed or not.

“Anything else, Captain?” Alan asked.

“I want to talk to you for a minute. You can get started on that report, Ashley. Just stick in something about keeping an eye on those two while you were with the other one. With Starsky’s statement, that ought to sew it up.”

“Yes, sir.” He looked at Alan, but could read nothing in his expression. Would his partner tell him what Dobey had to say? What if it was some kind of reprimand? Fighting down his anxiety, he stepped out of the office and pulled the door closed.

Crossing to his typewriter, he realized that Hutch had taken all the reports, not just the one Starsky needed. For a few seconds he toyed with the idea of just starting over from scratch. But common sense won out. He’d be here for hours if he did that, and would probably end up forgetting something. No, all he had to do was walk over and ask for the papers he needed. That’s all. It was legitimate business.

He looked across the squadroom to where Starsky and Hutch were seated side by side. As he watched, Hutch smiled at something Starsky said and then murmured a reply, which made both of them laugh. It was the first time he’d seen them laugh together, their faces even now not quite relaxed. A strange tightness settled in his chest–a sense of loss, regret, sorrow, a need to protect. And suddenly he felt years older and wiser than these men with their fragile world of only each other. No wonder Alan had tried to warn him away from them. It hadn’t been for his own sake so much as for theirs. Because they would be the ones destroyed if someone did manage to break into their closed circle.

He waited until they had selected a report and were flipping through its pages before he approached. They looked up at him as one, both pairs of blue eyes a little wary of his presence. He wished there was something he could do or say to let them know that not everyone needed to be regarded as an enemy. But it was too late for him to be trusted. He had tried–out of ignorance or selfishness–to come between them, and they’d never forget. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need my report.”

Without speaking, Hutch extended the remaining stack of papers. He sorted through them, pulled out the one he wanted, and placed the others on the table. Maybe he could say something that would be acceptable. “I wanted to thank you for helping me out, Sgt. Starsky.”

“Just doing my job.”

There was no change in the dark eyes. He hadn’t expected any.

“And, Hu…Sgt. Hutchinson, I’m sorry about what I said yesterday. You were right. It wasn’t any of my business.”

Hutch nodded, accepting the apology, his expression neutral. He glanced at his partner and then back at Ashley. “Starsky and Hutch will do, Richard. Save the titles for the lieutenants and captains.” A slight smile tilted the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll do that.” He returned the smile and walked away, feeling well-rewarded for his effort. Maybe it wasn’t too late, after all.

* * *

It was after midnight, but tomorrow was his day off and Anne would let him sleep in if he wanted. He could hear the soft music from the bedroom stereo. She was probably reading, waiting for him. Their two little girls were asleep, dreaming of whatever little girls dreamed. Sashu and Tamer–the twin Siamese demons–were quiet for once, curled in a tangle of beige and chocolate on the den sofa. A wonderful contentment welled within him. Home, job–Alan had said Dobey was pleased with his progress at Metro–both as they were supposed to be, secure and happy and full of promises for the years to come.

He rubbed the chamois over the long barrel one last time and replaced the Magnum in its case. Worn one night and one day. Still new. He’d be able to get his money out of it. Anne would be pleased if he sold it. Although she’d learned to accept his .38 as part of his job, guns bothered her, and the Magnum truly frightened her. Perhaps with good reason, he admitted as he gazed at the deadly weapon. This gun hinted at things of darkness–needs and purpose of which he had no knowledge.

A sudden chill ran up his spine, and he hastily closed the case, returning it to the cabinet and locking the door. Such things had no place in his life. He never wanted to know the desperation that made certain death a welcome companion.

Two faces–bleak even in laughter–flashed through his mind. Two, forever alone together, united in some strange bond that was its own destruction. The compassion he’d felt for them earlier was now cross-threaded with intimations of danger. Entrance into their world was bought with one’s soul. And suddenly he recognized the seduction lurking there for the unwary. This was what Alan had feared for him–this willingness to let go of all he had to run after some image of heroism that held only emptiness as its final reward.

The alien drift of his mind scared him. He turned off the den light and hurried up the stairs to the safety of familiar thoughts and feelings.

Anne looked up from her book, started to smile, then sobered. “Is something wrong?”

For a moment all he could do was stare at her, as relief to be back where he belonged washed over him. “No. I’m just glad you’re still awake.”

She did smile then, and laughed softly. “Well, it’s nice to be appreciated for the little things.”

“For everything.” He sat down on the bed and reached out a hand to stroke her silky dark hair. “I think I’ll sell the Magnum.”

“Oh?” Her eyes searched his, probing for reasons beneath the casual words.

“Yeah. It’s not very practical for an investigator. Scares the hell out of me, too.”

Acceptance of this about-face came without questions or demands for explanation. He stood up and began undressing. “Let’s take the kids to the beach tomorrow, okay?”

“They’ll like that. Maybe we should invite Alan and Sharon. Do you think they’d go?”

“Sure.” He turned off the stereo and slipped into bed. “Alan can supervise the sand castle building. Maybe he knows how to keep the towers from crumbling.”

Anne switched off the lamp and lay down beside him, snuggling into his waiting arms. She was warm and soft and smelled good, and she loved him. He held her close, his talisman against the night, and shut his eyes. Everything he wanted was here in this house. He’d sell the Magnum tomorrow…no…tomorrow was the beach. Well, soon. Of course, he’d have to find the best offer. No need to lose money by being too hasty. But soon….