It’s Hard to Love a Cop

712

If you date a cop, you date his job, and his partner.

 

Written in 2003. First published in the gen Starsky and Hutch zine, “Seasoned Timber 5,” produced by Agent with Style in 2008.

K. Hanna Korossy is a prolific fanfiction writer who has written stories in multiple fandoms, including Starsky & Hutch. You can find more of her fan fiction at Archive of Our Own at this link and at fanfiction.net at this link.

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I didn’t belong in the Seventies. I knew that, sitting there in the smoky bar, turning away drunks and playboys who were hitting on me, just as I knew it every other evening I spent there. Not that the Sixties, with the free love and war protests from my college days, were any better. I guess I’m just an old-fashioned girl who believes in true love and soulmates and one guy for one girl. I just hadn’t found that guy for me. And so I kept coming back, hating it every minute.

And then, one night, he finally arrived.

He came in with another guy, though it didn’t seem like they were…together, and anyway, it wasn’t that kind of bar. No, they just looked like friends hanging out together, which was good. Sometimes watching a person interact with someone they know is the best way to get to know them. So I watched.

There was an ease between them that spoke of long friendship, another good sign. Long relationships say a lot about a person’s ability to commit and love, and be loved. It was clear they had that from how close they stood to each other, the give-and-take of their conversation, the way one seemed to move as if already knowing where the other was going. Best friends, maybe. Okay, so maybe as a psychologist I over-analyze things, but I was intrigued. I liked what I saw.

They stopped at the other end of the bar, and the blond — he was the one my eye was drawn to — pulled out an ID of some sort to show the barkeeper. So they were on the job. Inspectors, maybe? But they didn’t seem interested in the bar or bartender so much as the clientele. Even as the blond talked, his brunet friend was subtly scanning the room.

It suddenly clicked. Cops — they were cops. No doubt partners, too. And my hopes for having met Mister Right dimmed.

Not that I have anything against cops, don’t misunderstand me. Unlike a lot of society, I admire police officers. Having had a few — very few — as clients, I knew how difficult a job they did with very little pay or respect. Anyone who’d seen the Watts Riots on TV knew how important their job was.

But they’re also a pretty closed society. I hadn’t dealt with many because most of them didn’t believe in psychologists or opening up, especially to those outside their “family.” Alcoholism and divorce rates among cops were unusually high because of that. Then there was the stress on the cops’ loved ones, never knowing if they’d come home that night, having to deal with the irregularity of shift work, never fully understanding what their spouses faced daily. Partners were often closer than wives and husbands. And there was another drawback-who wanted to share their spouse? By the looks of these two, it would definitely be a threesome.

But even knowing all that, I couldn’t help be interested. Not having gotten what they wanted from the bartender, the two men stood facing the room, debating what to do next. The brunet had a cocky grin, my blond more reserved, but when he smiled, his whole face changed. And I was hooked.

I straightened a little as the blond’s gaze swept my way. Piercing it was, too, even across the room, and I doubted that was just because they were on the job.

His eyes landed on me, and I shivered on the inside like a silly schoolgirl and smiled back at him. And with a word to his partner, he started coming toward me.

I pretended I didn’t notice; isn’t that how the game’s played? But I also had to wonder what I was doing. Here I’d just been dissecting cops, how many drawbacks there were to getting involved with one, how many reasons there were not to, yet I was sending all the signals of someone who was interested. It wasn’t fair to him and wasn’t good for me.

And yet as he sat down next to me and looked me in the eye, I forgot all that. Most of the cops I’d seen were hard and closed off, but there was a warmth and genuine caring in his beautiful blue eyes that I was immediately drawn to. Maybe his looks had been what had caught my attention, but it was the sincerity in his gaze, so rare in people those days, that kept it.

“Hello. I haven’t seen you here before.”

He didn’t start by introducing himself as a cop. Either I was wrong about him, or…he was interested in me, too. And it sounded like he’d been at the bar before. Working or playing, I wondered.

“I haven’t been too often,” I answered honestly. “It’s not really my kind of scene.”

I caught the subtle shift in his expression. He could appreciate I wasn’t part of the crowd. “I know what you mean.” He had to talk loud to be heard over the music but still managed to be intimate. “My name is Ken Hutchinson. I’m with the LAPD.”

There came the badge, and my heart sank a little. Darn, I’d been right. Oh, well. “What can I do for you, Officer?” I asked politely.

“I have a few questions. Have you seen this man before?” Hutchinson pulled a photo out of his jacket pocket and I took a good look at it. Thin guy, twenties, a slightly Latino cast to his face and something callous about his eyes. I shook my head. “Sorry. I’d probably remember him.”

His eyes really were piercing. “You have a good memory for faces?” he asked casually.

I couldn’t really see how that would help him, so I answered carefully. “Yes, I do. It’s part of my job to study faces.”

One of his eyebrows went up. “Mine, too.”

I couldn’t help smile at that.

“What’s your name?”

Despite myself, I was taken off-guard, and I rarely ever am. “Is this part of your investigation?” I asked.

“Nope. This part’s personal,” he said cheerfully.

At that I did something I hadn’t done in a long time: I blushed. There was something about this cop that made me feel…innocent again, somehow, instead of like I was being smooth-talked into bed. Like he actually wanted to get to know me. And it’s amazing how attractive that is. I held out my hand. “Doctor Stephanie Cloer,” I said, deliberately using my title. Now we’d see how serious he was.

Hutchinson’s other eyebrow went up. But he looked…impressed, not intimidated. Could it be there would be no ego trips here? Goodness, were there any men left like that?

“I’m a psychologist,” I added a little less certainly. Suddenly I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the chance of scaring him off.

“Clinical or research?”

That was when we clicked. No question about it, I wanted to know this man better. I smiled warmly, no reservations now. “Clinical. I’m in practice in this area.”

“Hutch!”

I wouldn’t have noticed the other detective’s call over the clamor of the bar, but the blond’s head immediately tilted at the sound of it. He still hadn’t looked away, though, and with a melting smile of his own said, “Is there any chance of a beautiful lady doctor going out with a street cop like me?”

Coy, but charming nonetheless. I didn’t stop smiling. “Maybe if he asked.”

“I’m asking.”

“Then yes.” I fished out a card from my purse. One of the perks of having your own business. “There’s my card. My home number is on the bottom.”

“Can I call you tomorrow?”

I actually felt suddenly shy. “Sure.”

That beautiful smile widened. “Thank you,” he said simply, earnestly, slipped my card into his pocket and turned away to walk back to his partner. I saw the other detective glance my way, then nudge Hutchinson in the side, to which I could see Hutchinson — Ken — color. A cop who blushed. Would wonders never cease? He ignored his partner with dignity, however, and they walked out side-by-side.

I didn’t want to get my hopes up too much. Cops were still cops, and I knew it wouldn’t be like going out with a car mechanic or a plumber. And maybe his sincerity wasn’t that sincere once you got to know him, although he was incredibly convincing. But…maybe he was different. His job wouldn’t matter if he was the right one.

I had no idea.

 

“…and that was all he said. We spent the rest of the hour just sitting there staring at each other!”

Ken laughed. “Nothing you did made him talk?”

“Nothing. Talk about feeling helpless — I can’t do anything for someone who won’t even talk to me!”

His smile lasted a few seconds longer before fading. It was only our first date, but I could already recognize the signs when he mentally wandered someplace else for a moment, someplace I couldn’t go. I watched his face, intrigued, as I listened absently to the background music and chatter of the restaurant. It had been his pick, and a nice one, too. Who said cops lived off greasy spoons? He wasn’t your typical cop, though, I was discovering.

I gently bumped his elbow with mine. “What?”

He blinked, looked at me, then away again with what verged on a smile. “Nothing. I was just thinking about when we’re trying to get someone to talk — it’s usually not to help them.”

The stark interrogation rooms I’d seen in old movies sprang to mind, although I was sure it wasn’t like that now. If nothing else, we had Miranda now, and I couldn’t see Ken beating information out of someone, anyway. But he’d barely said a word about his job all evening, just listened while I’d talked about mine, and I was interested. I think. “But you’re helping other people.”

He put his fork down. “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s just a matter of what’s right. We’ll never know the victims a pusher or a runner has, but they’re out there so I guess we’re helping them, but we’re doing it because it’s our job and it’s the law.”

Most revealing speech he’d made all night. I leaned forward, curious. “Runner?”

“They’re the dealers in the gambling world. They run numbers.”

There was so much out there I didn’t know about. It was sobering. “Sounds…complicated.”

Ken smiled. “Not as much as keeping up with all the latest physiological and psychopharmacological findings.”

Ooh, a man who knew some of my lingo, and was funny, good-looking, and kind. I really had struck it rich. “Where did you learn about psychopharmacology?” I smiled back.

“Beginning psychology in college. Didn’t get much past that, I confess.”

And a college man, to boot, really unusual for a cop. Was this guy real? “What did you study?”

“Pre-med. I was going to be a doctor.”

“Really! What changed your mind?”

A shadow crossed his face, gone in a second. “Life,” was all he said, and then he smoothly shifted the conversation back to me and my work.

Another place I couldn’t go. But that was only natural in his line of work, with someone he’d just met. I had a few of my own secrets, too. But I had a feeling we’d have plenty of time to learn about each other.

He took me home before midnight, saw me to the door, and kissed me once, lingeringly, before he left. He hadn’t even tried to invite himself in for a drink and maybe more. I went to bed feeling happier than I had for some time. I knew better than to think I was in love that soon, but I really liked Ken, and he seemed to like me, and that was more than I’d had or hoped for in a long time.

Who would have thought I would fall for a cop, of all people?

 

“Steph, this is Starsky.”

Apparently, the introduction didn’t need to go the other way. As I shook Starsky’s hand and smiled, I wondered how much this stranger knew about me already from Ken. Probably a good deal, if how much he talked about Starsky was any sign. “Starsky. It’s nice to meet you.”

His grin was almost as boyish as Ken’s. “Please, call me Dave.”

“Dave.” He was dressed much as I’d seen him that day in the bar, more casual even than Ken. He fit more my stereotype of a cop: rough-edged, a little uncultured. But Ken said he had a keen mind and was a lot smarter than most people gave him credit for, and I wasn’t one to judge by appearance. Besides, he was Ken’s best friend. There had to be more there than met the eye.

We slid into the booth opposite him, and I glanced around the bar. Not the kind of place I would normally have given a second look, but apparently it was owned by a friend of Ken’s and Starsky’s — Dave’s — and so we’d agreed to meet here for the all-important “introduction to partner.” It felt as serious as meeting Ken’s parents who, living out in Duluth, didn’t seem so daunting now.

“What’re you going to have, Steph?” Ken asked as I glanced over the menu. It was surprisingly diverse for a bar. I said as much.

“Yeah, and anything you want that’s not on the menu, just ask and Huggy’ll figure a way to get it for you.”

I raised my eyebrow at Starsky. Huggy?

Huggy. I blinked, baffled by the vision in green and peacock blue who came to take our order and exchange a few words with Ken and Dave. Ken’s friend. I couldn’t help think of my group of friends, uniformly college-educated, white-collar, and white-skinned middle-to-upper-class who would only meet someone like Huggy in passing on the street. I was elitist and I knew it, but I’d never had the chance to meet people like this, not even among my clients. Then again, my clients tended to be the kind who could afford my services. There were all kinds of volunteer opportunities, but I’d never thought twice about them before. Should I have? I wondered.

Our orders came, my soup and sandwich smelling and looking far better than I’d have hoped for. Ken had just gotten a turkey sandwich, I noticed, while Starsky — Dave — was digging with relish into a dripping hamburger and platter full of fries.

“Can you really eat all that?” I asked, incredulous.

“That’s just his first course,” Ken confided.

I shook my head in amazement and offered Ken a spoonful of soup, which he accepted. Then we all fell silent as we worked on our lunches.

“Oh, Dobey said he wants us back at the station by one,” Dave said around a full mouth. I didn’t know whether to wince or grin.

Ken frowned. “I thought he was giving us the afternoon off because of last night.” Our cancelled date last night, which we’d planned to make up that afternoon. I’d even cleared my schedule. I paused in the middle of my delicious soup to listen to the exchange.

Starsky shook his head. It was hard thinking of him as Dave when Ken only called him Starsky. “He’s got a new case he wants us to take a look at, from Vice.”

“We’ve got enough to do without taking Vice’s cases, too,” Ken said, exasperated. His arm, stretched along the back of my seat and just brushing my shoulder, felt taut.

“Yeah, well, he thinks this john they’ve got who’s messin’ up ladies is the same one who killed that Jane Doe in the park.”

I wasn’t sure what a “john” was, but the “Jane Doe in the park” sounded suspiciously like a dead body. I swallowed my spoonful of soup a little queasily.

“Great,” Ken muttered, then gave me an apologetic look. “Steph…”

I smiled, understanding even if I didn’t want to. What was an afternoon spent at the beach to finding out who killed a poor woman? “I know. We can make it up tonight.” The partners exchanged glances and I made a face. “Tomorrow night?”

“Maybe.” Ken sounded cautious and looked embarrassed. “I’ll call you as soon as I know, okay?”

“Okay.” I sighed, sounding put-upon. The truth was I missed him, missed spending time with him. I was on the fringes of falling in love, and I wanted to push on with abandon to see what would happen. With Ken’s schedule, however, that was going to be tougher than I’d expected.

Ken looked like he’d lost some of his appetite, too, only playing one-handedly with his sandwich, while Dave concentrated on his hamburger and tried to give us some space. I appreciated him suddenly for that tact and smiled. “So, how was your morning?”

Ken groaned unexpectedly, and amusement danced in Starsky’s — Dave’s — eyes when he looked up.

“Well, you see — ” he began.

“She doesn’t want to hear about that,” Ken cut in.

He was turning red. Curiosity completely roused, I turned back to Dave. “Yes, I do.”

He was smiling. “Well, Hutch and I went to talk to this woman who we thought might know a guy we’re lookin’ for. Her name’s Velma Black, and when she opens the door, this woman is huge, maybe three, three-fifty, black, dressed in this muumuu an elephant wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. Anyway, she takes one look at Hutch and decides she’s in love.”

“Starsk…” It was a veritable groan. I was already laughing.

“So Velma invites us in and has Hutch sit on the couch, then she sits next to him. Lady’s so big, she takes up the rest of the couch, and Hutch’s tryin’ to move down but there’s no place to move to.”

“Starsky, so help me…” came the muttered threat from my right. I’d forgotten all about my soup, picturing the hilarious scene.

“She’s sittin’ there talkin’ to Hutch — what did she call you?”

Ken muttered something that sounded like “shrg.”

I glanced at Starsky for translation. “Sugar, right. She’s callin’ him ‘sugar’ and Hutch is turnin’ as red as my car, when Velma suddenly asks him if he’s got a girlfriend!”

My side was starting to hurt from laughing so hard. Ken was doing a pretty good instant replay of his embarrassment, turning a lovely shade of red as his partner talked.

“Hutch doesn’t even answer, he just jumps up and runs outta the house and back to the car like someone’s shooting at him.”

“What did Velma do?” I asked between gasps for air.

“She just looks at me and says, ‘Can I have his number?'”

Ken groaned, and I collapsed against his chest, weak with laughter. “You had to tell her,” he griped at Starsky, but there was obviously no real annoyance there.

“Hey, she should know what she’s getting into, don’t you think? Bet you had no idea what kinda ladykiller Hutch was, huh?” That last was said to me.

I smiled. “Oh, I had an idea the minute I laid eyes on him.”

Ken was immediately smirking at his partner. “I could tell you some stories about Starsky, too.”

“Really?” I said, playing along.

“Oh, sure. Like the time we had this undercover case as pimps down in Santa — ”

“Uh, I think we need to get back to the station.”

“We have a few more minutes,” Ken insisted. “Finish your french fries. We were in Santa Monica and — ”

“You tell her about that, and I might have to tell her about the Louella Trent arrest.”

I could have sworn Ken blanched. “You wouldn’t.”

Starsky was grinning again. “Uh-uh-uh,” he warned.

Clearly, I would have to get these two separated to hear the good stuff. But as I watched them stare each other down, another thing unavoidably struck home. Those two hams really did love each other, comfortable in and enjoying each other’s presence in a way most married couples didn’t seem to. And I’d been right: if I was going to be involved with one, I was automatically involved with the other.

I went back to my office that afternoon having some idea what Ken liked about his partner and rather liking Starsky myself. But sharing my guy…that was something I would have to do some serious thinking about.

 

“So, am I going to see you tonight?” I tried not to sound too hopeful. At least over the phone he couldn’t see my expression.

Ken, on the other hand, didn’t hide his regret one bit. I could almost see the disappointment on his face. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, Starsky and I have a stakeout. The dock smuggling case — remember the one I was telling you about? We think we might have a break on it. How about tomorrow for lunch?”

I flipped through my book. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve got appointments clear through late afternoon. Are you two on the same schedule the rest of this week?”

“Eight to four for the next three days.”

“Well, how about dinner tomorrow night then?”

“I can make it if we wrap this stakeout up tonight, otherwise….”

“I know. You’ll be staked out again tomorrow night.” I tried not to sound frustrated. Trying to set up a date with Ken was not one of the easier aspects of our relationship. “Well, I’ll take what I can get.”

“I hate to do that to you.”

Ken’s voice was so reluctant, I swallowed my reservations. “It’s okay, honey, really. We’ll make it work, even if I have to bring a picnic lunch and share it with you on your stakeout.”

His laugh was low and rich and sent a shiver up my spine. “I bet Starsky would enjoy that.”

“Tell him he’ll have to get his own girl,” I said with mock archness.

He laughed again, and I could hear across the line as he relayed the message to Starsky. Starsky said something in response I couldn’t make out but that made Ken snort. “Why don’t you tell her yourself?” I heard his muffled voice.

“What did he say?” I asked, curious and cheerfully outraged.

“Never mind,” Ken answered firmly.

I laughed. The three of us had shared another meal the week before, and I’d also spent some time talking to Dave at a party Ken threw, where I met a lot more of his friends. I still couldn’t help feel there was a side to Dave I wasn’t privy to, but I was growing pretty fond of what I saw and believed the rest was worth knowing, too. Ken had a good partner, for which I’d eventually become grateful. Yes, “Starsky this” and “Starsky that” made me a little jealous sometimes, but he was also the one who kept Ken safe. That was what mattered most to me. When I was being logical, anyway.

“Hey, listen, there’s something very important I have to ask you,” Ken said, voice lowering.

My smile faded. Was this one of those secrets coming out? “Yes?” I answered, trying to sound calm.

“What are you wearing?”

Grinning like mad, I told him in great detail.

 

The doorbell rang and, surprised, I tied my hair up as I went to answer it. It was nearly nine and I hadn’t been expecting anyone that night, unless maybe Ken had gotten off early and wanted to surprise me…

A very sober Dave Starsky was standing at my door.

It was the first time I’d ever felt real panic, never in that kind of situation before. All the blood rushed to my feet and I blurted out, “Did something happen to Ken?”

I could instantly see the shock in his face — he hadn’t even considered I would think that, obviously — and I realized just as quickly that while he looked serious, he didn’t look as devastated as I knew he’d be if something had happened to Ken.

“No, I’m sorry. Hutch’s fine — probably on his way home now. It’s just… Can I talk to you for a minute?”

I slipped into professional mode, recognizing his tone. Something was on his mind. “Of course,” I said, opening my door wider. This was new, my boyfriend’s best friend coming to see me alone, but then, the men I’d dated before didn’t usually have such close friends. And if you couldn’t trust being alone with a cop….

He looked a little lost in my living room, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there, so I smiled at him, working on putting him at ease. Also a professional skill. “Please, have a seat anywhere. I’m sorry things are a little messy — I hadn’t been expecting company.” They weren’t messy, actually, but it gave me something to say and him something to respond to.

“No, it’s…nice.” The word sounded strange coming from him. He perched on the edge of my sofa, looking uncomfortable. “I wanted to talk to you about Hutch.”

I’d settled in my rocking chair across from him, just a little lower than the sofa’s level. “You’re sure he’s okay?”

“He’s fine. Well, mostly.”

I sat up a little, heart speeding up again.

“There was a shooting today — Hutch didn’t get hit,” Dave quickly added, “but he hit a guy, a guy who was tryin’ to take me out. The guy died on his way to the hospital.” He’d unconsciously settled into the sofa, discomfited only by the topic now. “Any shooting means mandatory suspension while the Review Board investigates and decides if the shooting was warranted — and they’re gonna, no question of that. Hutch’ll be cleared in a day or two. But….” He glanced up at me. “You and Hutch seem like you’re gettin’ close and so I thought I should tell you — he takes shootings pretty hard, even when he doesn’t have any choice.”

Starsky spoke as if they’d gone through this before. My Ken, shooting and killing; I knew the possibility was there, but also that it was rare. I guess I’d assumed I wouldn’t have to face it, but here it was, and maybe not even the first time. I felt chilly, stunned cold.

“It’ll help that he was doin’ it to save me, but he’s kinda sensitive and he’s still gonna beat himself up over it for a while. I just thought you should know, Stephanie.”

My voice felt odd, too, strangely flat. “Why didn’t he call me?”

Starsky shook his head. “I don’t think he’s ready — he was pretty shook up when he left for home. And,” he suddenly seemed embarrassed, “most people don’t really understand what it’s like if they haven’t been a cop. It’s not something we often talk about to civilians.”

And there was the bottom line: I was a civilian, an outsider. I wasn’t sure what else I was feeling but I was definitely stung. No, I couldn’t understand Ken killing somebody — how could anybody, really? But I wanted to think I would have tried, if he’d come to see me instead of his partner. I wanted to…even as my mind recoiled at the thought. My kind, gentle Ken killing a man?

Dave stood, quieter and less fidgety now, his eyes sharp. “Look…maybe I shouldn’t’ve come, but I thought you deserved to know. And if you don’t hear from him for a couple of days…it’s not you, Stephanie. He just has a lot to deal with right now.”

I nodded mutely and saw him to the door, attempting to smile as he said good-bye. I shut the door, then leaned my head against it. Oh, God, what had I gotten myself into? I was falling for a man who carried a gun on his dates, something that already made me uncomfortable, and who’d had to kill at least one person for his job. I’d managed to convince myself we were in the same line of work, helping people, but I never had to deal directly with evil or violence, and never hurt someone on purpose. How could I love someone who did, no matter what the reason?

I turned my head enough to see the telephone in the living room. He’d probably be home now, and hurting. I should call him, talk to him, see if I could help or at least just listen. Even if he didn’t need a girlfriend that night, he might need a friend.

I stared at the phone, wishing it would ring, that he’d come to me.

But it didn’t ring. And hours later, I went to bed without having called him, either.

 

I sat in the restaurant, tapping my fingers on the linen tablecloth, trying not to look as frustrated as I felt. Either I’d been stood up, or my date was running more than forty-five minutes late. Even as unpredictable as Ken’s schedule could be, he usually called when he had to break a date. Nothing this time, and I’d even brought my pager with me.

I watched, stonily, as the hands of my watch crept another five minutes along.

After the shooting and the Board and suspension, it had taken us a while to get back to normal. I finally decided I could look past it, especially when I’d seen it had torn Ken up considerably, as long as I didn’t dwell too long on what had happened, or the fact he hadn’t called me until days later. There was that closed society rearing its ugly head, but I’d known that going in. And Ken seemed anxious to put it behind him, too. It was hard for me, but a good person was worth the effort, and I really thought Ken was.

Until times like this when all my reservations about dating a cop came back full force. Because the disquieting thought had crept in, what if something was wrong? If ever there was a job in which the unexpected could happen from one minute to the next, it was Ken’s. He could have been shot, or in an accident, or beaten up….

I was not usually not one to let my imagination run away with me, and I wasn’t about to let it this time. I had to find out what was going on. I got up and marched to the bank of payphones just inside the restaurant’s front door.

The phone at Ken’s place rang and rang. I hung up after the tenth ring and tried Starsky’s, looking up his number in my wallet. No answer there, either. Next I tried the station, and when their extension went unanswered, asked for their captain, the man I’d briefly met at Ken’s party.

“Dobey here.”

“Captain Dobey, my name is Stephanie Cloer. I don’t know if you remember me — we met at Ken Hutchinson’s party last month?”

He immediately grew warmer than his initial gruff answer. “Miss Cloer — or wasn’t it Doctor Cloer?”

I would have been impressed he remembered if I hadn’t been so distracted. “Stephanie is fine. I just wanted to ask — would you know where Ken is? We were supposed to have dinner almost an hour ago and he hasn’t shown up and I can’t reach him anywhere.”

There was a pause. I’m good at reading silence, and this one sent all kinds of uneasy twinges up and down my body. “Stephanie, there was an incident today during an arrest Starsky and Hutchinson were making. Starsky — Dave — was injured with a knife. Ken is with him at the hospital.”

My mouth went dry. “How bad is it?” I asked quietly. Maybe not too bad if their boss was sitting calmly in his office.

“I just came back from there — he’s looking good. It was serious, but he should be up on his feet in no time.”

I knew the cop culture and its tendency to shield civilians from the worst. I had a feeling the recovery wouldn’t be quite as fast as the captain made it out to be, but surely he wouldn’t lie about Starsky being out of danger. I calmed down a little. “When did this happen?”

“Around lunchtime today.”

Lunchtime? Eight hours ago? And I was just hearing about it now? I kept my voice calm somehow. “Which hospital?”

“Hollywood Presbyterian.”

“Thank you. I hope the next time we talk it’ll be under better circumstances, Captain,” I said cordially, in my work voice.

“So do I, Doctor — ma’am.” That, at least, almost made me smile.

I hung up and the humor drained away. So did everything else. Starsky, the clown I’d gotten so fond of, was seriously hurt. And my boyfriend hadn’t even thought to let me know. Not only because I might be concerned, which I was, but more importantly so I could be there for him, to sit with and support him during what had to be a horrible time. I had never asked him to choose between his partner and me, but wasn’t this a choice, too, his partner and no one else?

I paid the check for my drinks, reclaimed my car from the valet, and headed toward Hollywood Presbyterian.

It was a distance away, and fairness and my own advice to clients had a chance to sink in on the way: don’t jump to conclusions, don’t take it personally, give the other person a chance to explain. It wasn’t as though I’d been snubbed on purpose. At least, I didn’t think so. But the fact Ken hadn’t called on this night when he’d been at a nadir and all alone…how could that not say something I couldn’t ignore?

I parked the car and, trying to still my thoughts, went inside and asked for Detective Starsky’s room. I was directed upstairs to the ICU.

A friendly nurse at the station there at least lifted one worry. The knife had sliced down Starsky’s arm, requiring a lot of stitches and emergency repair in one spot where the artery had been nicked, but the radial nerve had somehow escaped injury and they expected the recovery to be complete. The patient was being kept at least overnight until his blood fluid levels were back to normal and they were sure there was no infection, then he’d be released. And he was down the hall in cubicle four, if I wanted to take a look.

I did, going more timidly this time, my purse clenched to my side, not sure what I would see.

Starsky looked as white as the heavily bandaged arm that rested on his covers. He was deeply asleep, which he looked like he badly needed. And sitting next to him, hunched over in a chair with his chin resting on his hands, was Ken.

I stood there a long, long time and watched the two of them. Maybe I’d hoped Ken would realize he wasn’t alone and turn and look at me, because I could have used a hug pretty fiercely at that moment. I might not have been as close to Starsky as his partner was, but that was someone I, too cared about lying there.

But despite that vaunted sixth sense of cops, Ken didn’t turn. Sometimes he put his head down so his forehead was propped against his hands, his whole body language so depleted and discouraged that I almost went in to him and held him. But…I had the feeling it wouldn’t have helped. Or, worse, been unwelcome. This was a silent, unshared pain I was witnessing, between two people who constantly watched over each other’s lives and were bonded by shared experiences I couldn’t and didn’t want to imagine. For the moment, this was an inviolate twosome.

And even if the clouds would soon part and there would be room again for me at Ken’s side, I realized that evening I didn’t want someone I couldn’t even share all the time, let alone have to myself, someone who would sometimes be off-limits to me no matter how much he and I tried.

My eyes filled with tears as I stood there a minute longer, watching as Ken adjusted Starsky’s blankets and then gently touched his wrist before sitting back and rubbing his own eyes in weariness. I knew that gentle side of him, too, and I would miss it more than I could say.

I cried all the way home.

 

He took it better than I’d expected. I figured it might be easier on the phone, for both of us, and he didn’t push to meet me. I think maybe he’d realized what was coming, too, especially when we didn’t see or talk to each other for nearly a week after Starsky had gotten hurt.

“Can I call you sometime?”

I’d thought about that, myself, and had decided that while I couldn’t share a lover, I could and wanted to share a friend. “That’d be nice,” I said honestly.

“Steph…I wish…”

I waited to see how he’d finish it but I’m not sure he knew, either. Wished his life were different? Wished I was different so I could accept him as he was? I’d realized something in those days since the hospital: the problem wasn’t just him. Sharing was a difficult, almost unreasonable sacrifice to ask of a sweetheart, true, but the right woman for him would have gone into that hospital room and not let herself be pushed away, would have comforted him even when she couldn’t completely know his grief. And I wasn’t that woman, not big enough or unselfish enough for that. Or maybe I just didn’t love him enough for it. Someday perhaps we would both have been ready for that, but not now.

So the silence stretched across the phone line, unspoken wishes on both our parts. I finally smiled sadly, knowing he wouldn’t see it.

“Don’t, Ken. Don’t wish. This is who we are, right? This is the way it was meant to be.”

He gave a short, pained laugh, and I wished briefly we were talking in person so I could give him a hug. But then I heard Dave say something in the background and realized, not without a twinge, Ken already had someone there to lean on. “Okay, Steph.”

“I love you.” I really did.

“I love you, too.” It was the first and last time he said it to me.

I hung up. And felt oddly shattered and free at the same time.

Ain’t love grand?

 

It’s three years later now. I’ve become Doctor Stephanie Hardesty since then, wife of Joe Hardesty, an assistant district attorney and one of the most good-hearted men I’ve ever met. He knows about Ken and, in his job, sometimes hears news of him and shares it with me, because Ken rarely calls. He and Dave have gone through so much together the last few years, I don’t know sometimes how they can stand it, because I never could have. I think I made the right choice, but I wonder about Ken occasionally.

He still hasn’t found someone, at least not someone he’s married, and I’m starting to doubt if he will as long as he’s a cop. With a few years of distance, I know now it’s not Starsky, or a flaw in Ken, that’s stopping him. It’s just so hard to love a cop. I’d only been able to stand it for a few months.

Dave was shot recently, some sort of revenge shooting I’m still not completely clear on the details of, except that it did nearly kill him this time. I’d checked with the hospital each day with dread, hurting to hear day after day that he was critical, then started to breathe again when he was finally upgraded to fair, and eventually, thankfully, to good. I went in to see him then, but got only as far as the ICU hallway, caught in the time warp of déjà vu.

There lay Dave, still and pale as death, with Ken next to him. He’d grown a mustache and put on some weight, and looked far older than his age, but I’m sure that was mostly the result of the previous two weeks. Sitting in that room, he seemed heartbreakingly alone until Dave stirred and woke, drugged and only partly conscious. I couldn’t hear the short exchange, just saw how much it helped Dave to have his partner there, and how Ken’s face shone to be able to touch and talk to the best friend he’d nearly lost. I stayed there until Dave fell asleep again, and then instead of going in, I left without them knowing I was there, just like last time.

I hope Ken finds someone someday, that they both do, someone who can love a scruffy cop and adopt his partner just as warmly. But I know without reservation now it isn’t and wasn’t me. I couldn’t compete with the love I saw in that hospital room; it would have made me jealous. But I’m sure the right person is out there somewhere, and I can honestly say she’s very lucky, because Ken has a lot of love to give. I knew that both firsthand and observing it that day in the ICU.

Cops can be extremely hard to love, but some of them are worth the trouble if you’re strong enough to do it. And the rewards, if the depths of their partnerships are any indication, are very, very rich.

I know.