Circles

704

 

Hutch becomes involved with a man unbeknownst to Starsky. When Starsky finds out, a confrontation with the man turns deadly and Starsky is accused of something heinous. Will Hutch stand by him?

 

Originally published in Dangerous Lives, Dangerous Visions Volume 4.

Art by Morgan Logan.

---

…like the ripples from a pebble
someone tosses in the stream…
–Windmills of Your Mind—A. Bergman & M. J. Legrand

Chapter I

Hutch caught a last glimpse of Starsky’s swagger as he and tonight’s what’s-her-name left the Pits. Snorting, he finished his beer.

“Hi. All alone over there?”

No need to take a look. The voice next to his right ear belonged to the blonde woman who had tried to attract his attention for the last 90 minutes. Maybe even two hours. This was hopefully her last attempt before she’d realize that he was only a poor leftover from what he’d been. Before he had changed. Before everything had changed.

He sighed tiredly.

“Look, lady,” Hutch turned to her with a faint smile, “You’re wasting your charms… I’m not up for a one-night stand.”

She was still looking interested.

One of those I’m-not-easy-to-discourage girls, he thought.

“Who said one night stand?” she cooed.

“I did.”

Lifting her eyebrows, she shrugged. “Well, I thought it… you’d be worth a try.”

Waving a lazy goodnight to Huggy, Hutch left. There would be time to foot the bill another day.

* * *

Half an hour later he stood next to his LTD in the cool night’s air, waving at passing cars. It had started to drizzle; Hutch’s hair clung tightly to his head and cold drops found their way into his collar.

Nobody stopped.

He turned and kicked the LTD’s left front tire vehemently, repeatedly. “Damn! Damn! Da—”

He jerked when somebody tapped his shoulder. “Need help?”

Hutch looked into dark sparkling eyes. A man, his height. Caucasian. Dark, short hair. Hutch’s brain went through its trained routine without conscious thought.

“Just broke down,” Hutch managed, his right foot-freeze-framed in mid-air.

“You’re going to finish that kick?” The corners of the man’s mouth were twitching in an attempt to hide a grin.

“Uh—no.” Hutch put his foot down on the concrete, feeling like an idiot.

“Open the hood then?”

Hutch complied and kept staring at the man’s profile as he bent down to take a closer look at the motor block of the LTD. His face was a thin rectangle with a prominent nose, his complexion pale, at least in the yellowish lamplight. The knee-long dark trench coat hung open and revealed a slender form in blue jeans. Hiking boots, Hutch registered with slight irritation.

“Well,” the man said after a while, “this looks pretty hopeless. I’ll give you a lift if you like and you can call a wrecking service in the morning…”

He went back to his own car and got inside, waiting. Then he rolled down the window. “You coming?”

Only then did Hutch move to the passenger side and get in. He didn’t even bother to lock the LTD.

* * *

“Over there, where the restaurant is,” Hutch said, gesturing.

The man pulled his car to the curb.

“You’re not from Bay City, are you?”

The man shot him a questioning look.

“Your accent. You sound so…”

“Yeah, I hear that quite often. I’m from Boston, but spent most of my life near Cardiff. That’s Wales,” the man added.

“Like to come upstairs for a cup of coffee or something?” Hutch asked. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he felt sheepish. Why would a stranger accompany him even for something as innocent as a cup of coffee?

“Or something?” The sparkle was back in the stranger’s eyes; Hutch could see it even within the dim car. “Actually, I’d like to. But—I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Well, thank you—uhm, I didn’t catch your name…”

“That’s right. You didn’t.”

Hutch looked at the man and realized that his eyes weren’t as dark as he’d first thought. “Hazel,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Your eyes are hazel,” Hutch said. God, I should get going before I make a complete idiot of myself, he added silently.

Hutch got out of the car, waved a hand briefly when the car pulled back to the street. His cop mind took over a split-second too late.

Should have taken his license plate number…

* * *

When Hutch was finally lying in his bed, sleep refused to come. Instead of counting sheep, he tried to figure out the last time he had felt this way. Not since… since he had buried his dreams and hopes about living the perfect partnership with Starsky. Long ago.

Too long ago since he had felt the combination of a lack of words and an almost desperate need to touch.

Turning on his right side, Hutch scolded himself. He was just a stranger. You’ll probably never meet him again.

Sighing, he turned on his back and stared at the ceiling, recalling the man’s features: his tall, slender figure, his sharply contrasted profile as he had bent down to take a closer look at the motor, his short, stubbly dark hair, and dark eyes.

The way he looked at me…

You’re reaching, Hutchinson. He was just trying to help. Nothing more. Just a nice guy. A handsome nice guy.

Hutch turned restlessly, then groped for one of the pillows and pressed it to his chest and belly, spooning around it as he had countless times around Starsky during his recovery. Attempting to calm and soothe when Starsky’s pain was too bad to sleep, to banish the demons born out of nightmares. His left hand started a circular motion against the pillowcase, and he was surprised to find himself humming—just as he had about half a million times before. But never holding a pillow. One day I’ll end up with a plastic substitute… or worse.

Annoyed, Hutch let go of the cushion, shoving it down to the floor.

Turning on his left side, he tried to calm his mind with images that usually soothed him: a dark, curly head, cerulean eyes sparkling in the sun, or with laughter, the tip of a tongue, slipping out to moisten Starsky’s soft lips, leaving a glistening trail. Teasing images. Sweet self-torture.

Nights like this were the only occasion when Hutch let himself indulge in such fantasies. He knew it was dangerous to let loose like that. One day he might not be able to keep his features under control, might not be able to keep the tight lid on all his conflicting emotions, his love, his guilt, his lust, his shame. Ever since that night, Hutch had consequently shunned all opportunities to put more details to his secret desires; he had not once joined Starsky in the shower after their shift had ended, hadn’t allowed himself to look at his partner’s hands, lips, not even at his unruly hair during seemingly endless days spent over reports and files. But now, on his own at last—he looked his full at his nighttime visitor, enjoying the sight of the springy curls, the curve of the neck, the way the fine hairs there moved in rhythm with Hutch’s own breathing.

Only then Starsky turned in his arms, his nose, clear-cut, prominent in his slender face, smiling lopsidedly, which made Hutch’s heart melt and his cock fill.

Hutch frowned. Something wasn’t right, no, was explicitly wrong with this image. Had he avoided looking at his partner for so long he had lost the ability to recall every detail of his face?

Starsky was patiently waiting for him to make the next move. To let him know he was ready.

“I love you,” Hutch whispered, “and I wanna show you just how much…”

Starsky’s eyes were twinkling in anticipation, positively glowing in the dim light. “I thought you’d never admit it,” his voice cooed, split seconds before their lips met, tongues sliding against each other, toying like wanton puppies, slippery and warm. Unbearably sweet. Agonizingly good.

When the kiss finally broke, Hutch looked into amber-golden eyes of the stranger who had driven him home and his mate said, “That’s how it’ll be. Promise.”

And realization didn’t dawn on Hutch—it struck like lightning along with his lonely climax. White-hot und undeniable.

* * *

Hutch woke with a start, tense and tired. Five-thirty a.m.

Saturday, he remembered.

Trying to go back to sleep, he tossed and turned for an hour before he finally decided to get up. He put on his sweatpants and a t-shirt and ran his usual mile, then another one and a third to bring him back to Venice Place.

* * *

The hot spray of the shower left him standing clean and nude in front of the mirror. Realizing that he was studying his own reflection with the eyes of a stranger—an interested stranger—he gave an annoyed grunt and shaved, fiercely focusing on his face and the task at hand.

* * *

Hutch made it through the day somehow, keeping his hands and feet busy, constantly in motion, avoiding idle moments.

In the late afternoon, Starsky called.

“What’s-her-name busy?” Hutch asked.

“Yeah. Was busy. Is busy.”

The telltale low moan that accompanied Starsky’s last words sent a wave of unpleasant chills down Hutch’s spine.

Muffled by a hand over the receiver Hutch heard, “Suzy, honey, just gimme a break while I’m on the phone, will ya?” Then, back to him, “So, what did you do all day?”

“Well, just some errands to run, nothing spectacular…”

“Meet me at Huggy’s for some pool and coupla beers tonight?”

“Great. At eight?”

“It’s a date. See ya at eight.”

“Oh, hey! You’ll pick me up?” Hutch remembered to ask.

“Huh? LTD broken down again?”

“Yeah. Last night on my way home from The Pits. Merle’s got it already.”

“Well, well, well. Time to think about a decent new car?”

“No, won’t be necessary. Merle said he’ll be able to fix it.”

“Can’t blame a guy for hoping.”

Hutch snorted and put the receiver back on the cradle. He felt relieved. No need to desperately seek distraction for tonight. Starsky, pool, beer—the perfect Saturday night. Well, almost. As perfect as the circumstances allowed.

 

Chapter II

The Pits was crowded and jumping like every Saturday night. The pool table was occupied when they arrived, so they sat down at a table to have burgers and beer. No serious talk, just banter and silly jokes.

Huggy put a hand on Hutch’s shoulder as he went by and was answered with an absent, slightly irritated look as he patted the shoulder and delivered drinks or food.

During the evening they played two games of pool. Starsky won the first, Hutch the second, although he suspected something fishy about that second game.

“Not true. Absolutely not true. You won because you were luckier and I was distracted by the ladies, not because I let you win,” Starsky assured him, then went to the john.

Hutch sat down at their table, sipping lukewarm beer, letting his gaze wander over the faces of the other customers. The profile of a man with dark stubbly hair and features dominated by an aquiline nose caught his eye and he almost choked on his beer. Coughing, he lowered his gaze as Starsky returned.

Reaching over the small table to pat his back, shielding Hutch, Starsky said, “Hey Hutch, what happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something. You okay?” He turned and scanned the crowd for a familiar face.

“Yeah, okay—I’m okay, Starsky,” Hutch answered, and swatting Starsky’s insistently patting hand away, he hurried to the john.

Splashing cold water onto the burning skin of his face and forcing himself to take deep breaths, Hutch tried to regain his composure.

Looking at his mirror-image, he said, “You can’t very well stay here all night, Hutchinson… ” He gave his reflection an encouraging wink. “And if you’re honest with yourself, you don’t want to stay here.”

Leaving the men’s room, he almost ran into someone kneeling in the semi-darkness of the passage between men’s room and bar, tying his shoelaces. Looking down at the dark curly hair, Hutch stopped short. But before he could say something, the man stood and when the dim light fell on his face, Hutch realized he was just another customer.

“You mind?” the man said, gesturing at the men’s room door.

“Oh, sure.”

Hutch squeezed past the man’s broad frame and stepped back into the bar. Sitting down at their table again, he took another furtive look at the face of the man he thought he recognized.

Definitely him, he thought.

“Who are you staring at?” Starsky asked quietly. “There’s nobody we know… ”

“Uh, no, you’re right. Oh, look, there’s Suzy… ”

Hutch had never been so happy to see one of Starsky’s acquaintances before.

“SUZY!! Hey! Over here!” Starsky waved his hands enthusiastically, getting not only her attention, but everyone’s.

A lot of heads turned towards them. Hutch met his familiar stranger’s gaze almost immediately, answering the offered smile with an apologetic shrug. Then the amber eyes drifted away, leaving Hutch kind of disappointed. He noticed with a small sigh of relief that Starsky was too occupied with charming Suzy to watch him. Only then did he let his gaze wander back to the man on the other side of the room.

His handsome stranger was talking to the dark-haired man Hutch had almost run down in front of the men’s room moments before, who had just returned to their table, and sat now with his back to Hutch.

His rescuer from the night before wore a light-gray sweater with a low round neck which exposed his long throat.

His skin is even paler than my own, Hutch thought, and watched the prominent Adam’s apple bob when the man laughed about something his companion had said. Hutch’s gaze wandered to the man’s hands; they were well-shaped with long, slim fingers. Hutch watched as they curled around a glass and brought it up to his mouth. As the rim touched his lips, Hutch’s tongue slipped out and unconsciously slid over his own lower lip.

A hand waving his focus away startled him back to his present company.

“Uh—what?”

Starsky and Suzy stood next to the table, arms around each other, obviously about to leave.

“I said I hope you enjoy yourself wherever you are, buddy, ’cause we’re leaving now.” A conspiratorial wiggling of dark brows accompanied the last words.

“Yeah. Right. Leave,” Hutch stammered.

“Hell, you must tell me who gets you this monosyllabic. Must be quite a girl… ” Starsky took a last look around, frowning, still unable to make out the distracting object of desire. “Anyhow, I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

After the couple had left, Huggy joined Hutch with a fresh beer. “Hey, my man.”

“Hey, Hug. Business is doing well.”

Huggy beamed. “Won’t complain. Where’s your other half?”

“On his way home. To bed, to be more specific.”

“Pretty busy with the ladies lately, isn’t he?”

Hutch rolled his eyes in not entirely mock annoyance.

“And you, bro? Haven’t you found someone to keep you warm these cold days?”

Hutch finished his beer. “Haven’t bothered to look… ”

Resting his hand on Hutch’s forearm across the table, Huggy asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Hutch straightened and shifted in his seat. His gaze fell on the suddenly empty table behind Huggy’s back.

“Gotta run,” he stood hastily, almost toppling over his own table.

The dark face turned up to him, split by a huge toothy grin. “Yeah, bro, you’re okay.”

* * *

Since the shooting, Huggy had watched his friends more closely than in years before. He had been sure that someone would need to slow down Hutch’s fierce devotion to his partner after Starsky’s release from the hospital. So Huggy had tried to coax Hutch to see former dates, fellow cops, go to the gym, whatever. Just spend some quality time every week for himself, away from Starsky’s apartment. Without much success, he had to admit. Hutch had simply refused, although even Starsky had told him ‘to get a life again,’ as he’d put it.

“I do have the life I’ve chosen,” Hutch had told them while preparing Starsky’s dinner, whistling.

When the duo had, after months, been able to resume their habitual, frequent visits to Huggy’s establishment, they had been closer than ever.

But then—something had changed. Huggy couldn’t put his finger on it, but one day there had been a silent, yet palpable tension between and around them. Maybe it hadn’t been coincidence that it had started when Starsky had finally returned to active duty? But on the other hand, hadn’t they both worked hard and persistent to achieve that goal? To be partners again on the streets? To pick up their lives where they had left them?

Outwardly, they did. Beer. Pool. Double-dating like hell. As if they wanted to make up for everything they’d missed during the months of Starsky’s recovery in just a few days.

But the more Starsky obviously enjoyed this way of life, the more Hutch withdrew. His dates happened less, then stopped altogether. Huggy watched Hutch and Hutch watched Starsky from a distance as Starsky continued dating female after female. And every new beautiful face, every soft-curved body added another line of worry around Hutch’s eyes and mouth.

But tonight—after weeks of keeping his distance and being left behind when Starsky took his present company to bed—Hutch had shown interest in somebody. In somebody other than his partner, that is.

Huggy sighed but couldn’t help smiling. He had never had any doubts about Hutch’s sexual preferences—not with the never-ending stream of beautiful ladies that clustered to the blond like moths around a flame- and Huggy would’ve never assumed that slender, stubbly men were on the blond’s list at all. If anything, he would have thought that maybe Starsky…

Huggy shrugged, clearing Hutch’s table. “You live and learn.”

 

Chapter III

Emerging from The Pits, Hutch was hit by the night air, fresh in comparison to the stale fug down in the bar, and chilly enough to make him shiver. The street was almost deserted at 2a.m., except for a bum in a doorway nestling deeper into his newspapers as he tried to find a more comfortable sleeping position, while clutching a half-empty bottle of rotgut to his chest, and two hookers on the other side of the street, leftovers who hadn’t managed to get another job for the night. Both looked cold and tired.

What did I think? He’d be waiting for me?

Sighing as he remembered that he didn’t have his car, Hutch took some hesitant steps in the general direction of Venice Beach.

“You’re looking for somebody?”

Hutch stopped cold in his tracks, then turned slowly, hand automatically reaching under his jacket to grab his gun—just in case.

The other man stepped out of a dark doorway. “Looking for—me?”

“Actually yes,” Hutch answered without minding the unmistakable relief in his voice.

* * *

Somehow they landed in the other man’s apartment in wordless agreement.

Closing the front door, Hutch felt himself pressed against the wooden frame by the other man’s body, his face close, so enticingly close and waiting.

“I’ve never d-done anything,” he stammered, “like this b-before.”

“Relax. No need to feel awkward.”

Hutch felt the words on his face, cool on his flushed skin. He closed his eyes, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart or its counterpart in his groin.

Dry, soft lips touched his and his eyes flew open again. A tentative, probing tongue slid over his lips, caressing, yet determined to find a way inside.

Hutch groaned, leaning into the touch, hungry for more.

Amber-golden eyes met his as the kiss broke. “Feel less awkward now?”

Hutch nodded, unable to get his brain and throat and tongue to work together to utter something intelligible, rubbing his wet palms against the sides of his gray corduroy pants.

“Come to bed with me?” A whisper. A plea. A plan.

Hutch felt a hot wave of color wash over his face and stammered, “I… I don’t… even know… your name.”

The other man’s face relaxed. “Peter. My name is Peter.”

Hutch looked down at the hand stretched in his direction, then grabbed it, shook it, stammering, “Ken. Kenneth. Ken.”

“Okay. Ken-Kenneth-Ken. Come to bed with me now?”

Hutch leaned forward and took the slightly parted lips with a kiss, covering his uneasiness. Panting, they both surfaced.

“I take that for a yes… ”

Stripping off Hutch’s jacket, Peter’s hand suddenly froze. Hutch watched Peter’s eyes grow wide in shock, as he took a step backwards and looked down at Hutch’s gun. His hands came up in a gesture of surrender and his gaze finally rested on Hutch’s face, as if trying to figure out how dangerous the situation was.

“It’s okay, I’m a cop. Plainclothes. I’ll take it off, okay?” Hutch said in his best calming and reassuring voice.

Peter watched as Hutch unsnapped and removed the holster to put it aside, still unsure what to make of this situation.

“Better?”

“Much.” Peter’s eyes were still fixated on the Magnum, but he lowered his hands slowly.

“I can show you my badge… ” Hutch offered and pulled the worn leather case out of his back pocket. “There you go,” he said, flipping it open to expose his ID and badge.

“You’re really a cop?” Peter asked incredulously. He seemed more concerned about that revelation than he had been about the gun. His eyes narrowed and his voice turned cold, when he said, “So what’s it going to be? Indecent exposure? Lewd behavior?”

Hutch laughed, but stopped when he realized Peter was serious.

Interesting reputation we’ve got, he thought and watched Peter’s gaze return to the holstered gun.

Taking his chin between thumb and index finger, Hutch turned Peter’s face back towards him until their eyes met. “Hey, no need to be nervous about the gun. I won’t shoot you—unless necessary.”

Peter snorted a little laugh, the tension gone. Casting a final glance at the gun, he unbuttoned Hutch’s shirt, placing light kisses all over his smooth chest. Fumbling with the belt, button, and zipper of Hutch’s pants, Peter slipped one hand inside Hutch’s damp briefs, and whispered, “Uh-oh, Officer, I found another dangerous weapon you carry… ”

* * *

Once in Peter’s bed, some reason returned.

Nah, not reason, just twinges of remorse.

Hutch was hard as a rock, arousal caused and nourished by a stranger. A male stranger.

A male stranger who obviously knew how to please another man. And was obviously pleased by his own actions, too.

“This what you want?” Peter asked. “If it’s not… ”

“Yes,” Hutch cut in, breathless. “Yes, it’s what I want.”

Peter continued his delicate exploration of Hutch’s body, hands and lips igniting wildfires everywhere they touched.

The most important thing about wildfires is not to let them get outta control.

“Let go,” Peter murmured. “Don’t fight it. It’ll be good. Sooo good.”

Hutch made a conscious effort to relax, a little annoyed by his own passiveness in the act. On the other hand, activity needs knowledge and he had no idea how to give pleasure to another man. He was truly a virgin in these woods, apart from some experimental groping during his adolescence and—no, no, don’t think about that—he had no expertise on how to please a male mate. There must be more than frantic rubbing against someone who doesn’t fight it…

“Let go, Kenneth,” Peter’s gently admonished. “Enjoy it. Stop thinking.”

As if he’s reading my mind…

Hutch opened his eyes—he couldn’t remember when and why he had closed them in the first place—and watched Peter caressing him. The realization of how much Peter was enjoying this, the look of sheer bliss on his face, was unexpected and arousing.

Peter’s lips parted and his tongue made a first cautious contact with Hutch’s cock, dipping into pre-come, his eyes rolling up in delight before he opened his mouth further and took Hutch deep inside, engulfing him in slick, hot wetness.

His immediate orgasm took Hutch by surprise.

He was 15 again, on a hot summer’s day in Minnesota and he was with 17-year-old Patricia Myers in her grandfather’s barn. She’d been cocky and provocative all day and then told him she’d wanted to show him something in that old barn, half a mile away from the farmhouse. And in the dusty twilight of the barn, with beams of sunlight sharply piercing the warm air, cocooned in the sweet scent of the hay, her cool, little hand had wormed its way inside his jeans while she’d lifted his trembling hand with the other and shoved it under her shirt, making him touch her small, firm breast. Upon the first contact of her fingers with his inexperienced cock, he’d come—and she’d sulked for days and never let him near her again.

And now it had happened again, the same tsunami had washed over him without warning. No time to warn Peter—and no necessity, it seemed.

Hutch watched with distracted fascination how Peter took everything he had to give. Swallowed.

“Oh… sorry. . .” he stammered, blushing with hot embarrassment about his selfishness.

“Shhh, don’t be,” Peter whispered into Hutch’s ear as he lowered his slender, wiry body on top of Hutch’s and started a gentle but constantly increasing rubbing of his groin against Hutch’s trembling thigh.

 

Chapter IV

Hutch woke slowly.

Keeping his eyes shut, he listened to the faint noises in the early morning silence. A ticking clock. A passing car.

Warmth under his right hand as it rose and fell with the rhythm of breathing.

For a precious, silly moment he wanted to open his eyes to see his own hand on a furry chest, against tanned skin, or a curly head.

But the sensation was different. Smooth skin. No chest hair. Just smooth, warm skin, rippled by a surprisingly strong ribcage and thoroughly trained muscle.

He opened his eyes to watch his own fair hand on equally fair skin. His gaze slid higher to the longish face, to the lips that had caressed him the night before like no other lover had in months. Lips that hid more treasures. Teeth—wonderful instruments of teasing and torture. A tongue—gentle, wet flesh, determined to please.

He closed his eyes at the mental onslaught of how this skilled mouth had loved him—had licked, nibbled, sucked and bit him. Had made him feel alive with the pure animal joy of lovemaking.

A long-fingered hand cupped his cheek and a sleepy voice murmured, “Mornin’.”

Hutch smiled. “Morning yourself.”

Peter’s amber eyes, sprinkled with small spots of emerald, rested on his face. “When will you leave?” Peter asked, anticipating rejection with resigned sadness.

Hutch took Peter’s hand and kissed his fingertips gently. “Soon—but wouldn’t you rather know when I’ll be back?”

Something lit up in Peter’s eyes.

“Why was ‘when will you leave’ the first thing on your mind after ‘mornin’?” Hutch asked.

“Oh, it wasn’t the first thing on my mind, just the first thing which made it out of my mouth… ” Peter snuggled closer and planted a few feathery kisses on Hutch’s lips.

“So why?”

Peter’s eyes closed briefly, then he said, “That guy that was with you last night. In the bar. Curly hair. Blue eyes. Muscular build.”

“Starsk? Oh, he’s my partner.”

“Your partner?” Peter moved instantly away from Hutch’s body, nodding. “I see. How stupid of me. Your partner. Of course.” He avoided Hutch’s puzzled gaze, then turned on his other side, facing the wall. “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t treat you to breakfast,” he mumbled. “Don’t forget to close the door when you leave… ”

“What?” Confusion was thick in Hutch’s voice. Slowly, realization dawned. “Hey,” he cooed, rubbing his moustache lightly over the smooth flesh of Peter’s shoulder blade. “He’s my partner—at work. We’re fellow cops—not lovers,” he added emphatically.

Peter turned hesitantly, searching Hutch’s face for reassurance. “But—he said he’d pick you up… ”

“… For work.”

“It’s Sunday… ”

“Yeah, cops work on Sundays, you know? My car broke down… remember? He’ll pick me up for work until it’s fixed.”

“… For work,” Peter repeated, a hint of doubt lingering in his voice. Then the smile was back, the emerald inclusions in the amber irises glowing with relief. “For work.” He laughed. A dark, velvety sound.

Hutch caught the angular face in both hands and took the laughing mouth in a fierce kiss. When their lips parted, Hutch got serious. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t go for one night stands anymore… You?”

Peter’s lips formed ‘no.’

“I don’t go for promises either. None of my relationships came even close to ‘happily ever after.’ I don’t believe anymore… ”

Cool fingers closed his mouth. “Pessimism doesn’t suit you. Let’s take things easy. No promises. No lies. Okay?”

“Okay,” Hutch whispered.

Their mouths met again, exchanging sweet, slow kisses, until Hutch caught a glimpse of the bedside clock.

“Damn, I’m late. Starsky’ll kill me… ”

* * *

Hutch got out of the cab in front of Venice Place and into the waiting Torino in one swift motion.

“You’re late,” Starsky complained. “Hell, I can smell Huggy’s burgers and stale smoke… Are these the same clothes you wore last night?”

“Uhm,” Hutch admitted noncommittally.

“Clothes from yesterday. A cab. And—” Clever fingers cocked Hutch’s head to the other side, “a huge hickey on your neck.” Starsky added up the circumstantial evidence, then grinned. “Someone I know?”

Hutch examined the bright passion mark in the rear-view mirror, running his fingertips over the spot again and again, remembering the suction of the hot mouth that had caused it.

“No,” he answered, smiling.

“Blond?”

“Dark.”

“Curls?”

“Straight.” He flinched, realizing the double meaning. “Too short for curls.”

“Short, dark hair? You going for contrasts these days?”

“I always liked contrasts, Starsky.”

“But—”

To Hutch’s relief, the dispatcher interrupted the dissection of his preferences with the announcement of a two-eleven in progress in the neighborhood. The cop in Starsky won over the curious bastard and he pulled the car into traffic.

* * *

After their shift was over, Starsky took Hutch back to Venice Place.

“Look, Merle’s brought your car.” The last word was accentuated by the usual snort of disgust.

Then both men noticed the folded sheet of paper trapped under the wiper. Both got out of the Torino, but Hutch managed to get hold of the paper before Starsky made it around the car. He unfolded it, while Starsky peeked over his shoulder.

“‘Dinner will be ready when you are. P.'” Starsky read out loud. “It’s a P, then… Hmm what is it? Patricia? Penny? Paula? Peggy?”

Hutch merely rolled his eyes.

“Portia? Perpetua?”

Who would call his daughter Perpetua? Hutch looked briefly at Starsky. “Where do you find those names?”

“Dated a Perpetua in New York.”

“When was that?” Hutch asked incredulously.

“Don’t try changing the subject,” Starsky admonished. “Where was I? Oh yes, Patti? Pandora?”

Well. Somehow… “Cut it out.” Hutch was annoyed by Starsky’s curiosity. For a brief moment, he considered telling him the truth. Tell him about the sexual rush, the desire to do things he never even dreamed of, of lust, of the hunger he had experienced the night before. Tell him what making love could be for two men—what it could have been for them. If he hadn’t… But then the moment was gone and reason returned.

“Don’t be late with your date,” Starsky said. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

 

Chapter V

When Hutch arrived at Peter’s house, he took a moment to look at the surroundings. The street was lined by two- and three-story buildings split into apartments, if the grouping of mailboxes on the porches were anything to go by. The houses looked as if they’d been built near the beginning of the century. Early twenties maybe, Hutch guessed. The neighborhood had probably been a good place then, located at the outer rim of Bay City, but over the years the city had swallowed it and had left it looking a bit run-down.

The house where Peter lived was a two-story building, plain, with a white façade. It was the only building without a porch. The ground floor was occupied by two apartments and in between an open staircase led up to the first floor. Hutch stepped closer to take a look at the name tags of the three mailboxes on the grass next to the staircase. Besides Peter Byatt only two other tenants were living in the house: Moira McGuire and, as a hastily scribbled piece of paper said—

“Hello, I’m Phyllis. Phyllis Hart. You aren’t by any chance Peter Byatt?”

“No,” Hutch said, smiling at the tall woman next to him. She was a curvy blonde in her mid-twenties, wearing tight blue jeans and an equally tight rose-colored t-shirt spelling “Madison, Wisconsin, Cheese Capital of America” in bright magenta letters.

“No, I’m sorry, I’m not Peter. I’m Kenneth,” he said hesitantly, “a friend of Peter’s.”

“Well, anyway,” she sighed, “could you please lend me a hand, Kenneth? I’m just moving in. But some of the boxes,” she gestured to a few cartons on the sidewalk, “somehow got too heavy.”

Hutch lifted the first box, and his back immediately began protesting; the thing was much heavier than it had looked.

When he returned to her ground-level apartment with the last box, Phyllis said cheerily, “Thank you. Would like something to drink? Coffee, lemonade, beer?”

“No, thanks, uhm… ”

“Phyllis,” she said.

“Thanks, Phyllis, maybe another time.”

Climbing up the stairs, Hutch found himself whistling low. Becoming aware of it, he felt a smile tug at his lips. Taped on the door to Peter’s place was another piece of paper, filled with Peter’s square, clear handwriting.

Sorry, had to go. Make yourself at home. I’ll be back ASAP.

P.

Hutch tried the knob, surprised to find the door unlocked. Entering the apartment, Hutch realized that he didn’t recall any details about the place from last night, when they had been focused on getting each other naked and to bed. Or this morning, when he had been in such a hurry that breakfast had been reduced to a cup of coffee Peter had made while Hutch had taken a quick shower, the coffee delivered while Hutch had been dressing. But now Hutch had time and curiosity won.

He knew that the door to his right led to the bathroom. Hutch grinned, remembering that in the morning he had ended up first in Peter’s walk-in closet, then in his darkroom when searching for the bathroom in a hurry.

To his left, a door led into the kitchen; a room with morning sun, now just dimly lit by the late afternoon light. A single white mug sat on the counter, overlooking the street in front of the house and the LTD parked at the curb. A mouse-colored mixed-breed dog came down the street, sniffing intently at the lawn, strolled down to Hutch’s car, sniffed again and lifted its leg to spray the rear tire.

Shaking his head with a low snort, Hutch turned back to the kitchen. Everything was clean and neatly arranged as a look into the cupboards confirmed. Peter seemed to be fond of plain white china instead of flashy designs or bright colors. Even the contents of the fridge were organized and, as Hutch noticed, the food was healthy and organic. Tomatoes, salad, goat’s cheese and goat’s milk. Perfect dinner for two, Hutch thought.

On the wall next to the fridge were two framed black and white photos of trees. They were somehow familiar to Hutch, but he couldn’t put his finger on where he had seen them before.

From the kitchen, a second door led into the living room. Hutch was amazed by the sparse furnishing of the huge open space. A big black leather couch, two matching easy chairs and small tables made up a comfortable setting to relax and enjoy some music from the expensive stereo or read a book. The windowless wall to his left was completely taken by open shelves holding a huge collection of books.

Hutch stepped closer to take a look at the orderly stacked hardcovers. Lots and lots of art books. Either Peter had a weakness for artists and paintings of different periods, or he had found a bargain book shop to fill the empty space. Surveying the impressive collection again, Hutch didn’t think it had been a bargain. There were books on photography, a battered Leica, and on the lower shelves books about poetry, music, a few biographies and on the lowest, well-thumbed paperbacks. Science fiction and crime stories. Hutch shook his head slightly. Just like Starsky.

On the walls were series of photos enlarged to unusually huge formats. Still-lives, interesting combinations, well composed.

Starsky’d like those.

On a sideboard, next to the door to Peter’s large bedroom, Hutch noticed a collection of silver frames. Snapshots of the family. Hutch felt an odd sting at the thought of a happy family. What do Peter’s parents think about their son’s sexual orientation? Do they even know?

He bent down to look at the photos. All of them black and whites, the oldest probably 30 years old, showing a man and a child. A child with a child’s face, yet easy to identify as Peter. Father and son. There wasn’t much of family resemblance, but it was a nice picture, since both were beaming. Letting his gaze drift over the other photos Hutch realized that most of the pictures showed Peter with the same man over the years.

Just a father, no mother, no siblings. Will he introduce me to his father? I wouldn’t if I were him.

Hutch thought, trying to imagine the scene his revelation would provoke in his parent’s house in Duluth. His father would look sternly ahead, pretending he hadn’t heard a word. His mother would probably blush and change the topic to safer grounds, the weather maybe or news about Hutch’s nieces and nephews.

But maybe Peter’s father knows…

Getting up, Hutch stepped into the bedroom. When his gaze brushed over the big bed, he felt his face warm as he recalled what he and Peter had done there last night.

This is madness, he thought and for a fleeting moment he felt like running. Just go away and don’t come back, a small voice in the back of his head whispered. He’ll never know.

Hutch took a few deep, calming breaths. “Nonsense,” he said aloud into the silent room, mentally thanking his endurance in Mrs. Fernman’s philosophy class. “Remember Erasmus, ‘Not every kind of madness is calamity.'”

The bedroom walls displayed a photo series of horses. The horses of the Camarque, as far as Hutch remembered. He was immediately absorbed by the beauty of two long, pale necks entwined, the horses’ heads resting on each other’s back. Whoever had taken the pictures had captured the simplicity of tenderness. His gaze followed the lines of necks and jaws, took in the dark eyes, the velvety lashes. He could almost smell the sun on the horses’ backs, feel the rosemary-scented breeze, hear the sound of cicadas. His hand absently reached out to touch the pale coats…

Hutch’s whole body stiffened when he felt the presence of somebody behind him. He turned fast, reaching for his gun.

“Don’t shoot. I’ll do anything, but don’t shoot,” Peter offered with a low chuckle.

Hutch’s fingers let go of the gun, as he exhaled slowly to get rid of the tingling feeling of adrenaline surging through his arms and hands. “You shouldn’t sneak up behind me like that… ”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but this is my flat, isn’t it?” Apologetically, Peter added, “I’m sorry I made you wait, but I had… ”

The ringing of the telephone interrupted him. Rolling his eyes, he mouthed ‘sorry,’ then answered the call.

“Hello? —No, Chris. Not again. —I told you.” Peter listened, chewing on his lower lip furiously. “No, I won’t explain. I said NO and I’m going to stick to it.” Anger crept into Peter’s voice. “Whatever, Chris, I’m not going to change my mind.” Terminating the call with an annoyed grunt, he turned back to Hutch.

“Problems?” Hutch asked.

“Chris. My manager,” Peter added. “He wants to talk about—” he swallowed convulsively, “things I consider settled.”

“Look, if there’s any problem with me being here, I mean, if I’m keeping you from working things out… ” Hutch offered.

“No, honestly, there’s nothing I would want to talk about with him, okay? I’m glad you came… ”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Peter’s tone brooked no argument.

Hutch suddenly felt awkward in another man’s bedroom. But then his gaze came to rest on the horses’ entwined necks.

“That’s beautiful… ” Hutch pointed at the picture.

Peter shoved his hands halfway into the front pockets of his tight jeans and watched Hutch with an intense gaze. “Would you tell me what you see there?”

Hutch’s eyes met his briefly, then returned to the horses on the photo.

“Strength. Tenderness. Equality.” He met Peter’s eyes again. “The perfect match.” He sighed. “Sorry, my words are poor compared to the quality of the photo. Who took it?”

“It was part of a wild-life documentary I did in France.”

Hutch’s eyes widened. “You’re a professional photographer? The others…?”

“All mine. Well, except for the two photos in the kitchen. Ansel took those.”

“Ansel… Adams?” Of course—the trees. Birches to be precise. He had seen them in a book about Yosemite Starsky had bought during his recovery, Hutch remembered. “You know Ansel Adams?”

“You know his work?”

“Starsky adores his photos. He never gets tired of talking about the light, the composition, the location… everything.”

“I met him about two years ago for a portrait.” Peter’s voice had a matter-of-fact tone, as if meeting the most famous photographer alive for a portrait were nothing out of the ordinary.

“You must be a real big shot in the photo business… ”

Peter chuckled lowly. “No need to look so awestruck… ” Edging closer, he added, “On the other hand… you’re beautiful when you look at me like that. Your eyes… just beautiful.”

Trying to divert Peter’s intense attention, Hutch asked with a nod towards the sideboard photo gallery in the living room, “Who’s the other man?”

“That’s Hugh.” Peter said with open affection.

“Your father?”

“No.”

Hutch’s stomach did an unexpected flip-flop and all he could manage was, “Oh. I see.”

Peter looked at him, then laughed. “Not what you think. My parents died when I was barely more than a toddler and although not a blood relative, Hugh got the guardianship. He’s not my father, but he’s all the family I know.”

“Does he know?”

“Does he know what?” Peter shot Hutch a questioning look. “Ah… I see,” he said when the shoe dropped. “Does my father know I’m gay? Yes, he knows and no, he doesn’t disapprove. Will that information put your mind to rest?”

Hutch felt a warm wave wash over his face. In an attempt to hide his embarrassment, he pulled Peter into a tight embrace, feeling how their bodies melted together as if made for each other. Lips found lips, hands found sensitive spots beneath quickly discarded clothing. Peter pulled him down to the mattress, once they were naked.

So different…

Making love to Peter felt so easy, so right, like they’d known each other for much longer than 48 hours.

“You like that?” Peter’s voice filtered through Hutch’s wanton-fogged mind.

Hutch moaned and spread his legs wider, expecting… wanting… what?

Peter’s hands cleverly teased his fair skin, leaving it flushed, hot and sweaty, eliciting noises of pleasure from Hutch.

“God, you make me so hot… ” Hutch panted.

His mate displayed a devilish grin. “That was the basic idea.”

An almost pained groan escaped Hutch as he watched Peter kiss a moist trail down his chest, suck on his nipples, lick around his navel, deliberately neglecting his aching cock.

“Peter!” he gasped.

“Yes, Kenneth?”

“You’re trying to kill me?”

“Actually, I was trying to please you… don’t you like my ministrations?”

Peter seemed outwardly calm, his voice feigning disappointment at Hutch’s reaction. Only his own weeping cock belied the composed façade.

“I love every second of it.”

Peter smiled at him, but instead of turning his attention to Hutch’s eager cock, he kissed his way back up to Hutch’s pale chest. His fingertips skimmed over the slightly different-colored, shining skin of a roundish scar.

“Where did you get this?” Peter asked, and kissed the quarter-sized spot gently, as if trying to take away the long-gone pain.

“I was shot.” Hutch stared down at his own shoulder. “But it’s been awhile and… so many things happened since then.” His voice trailed off. “Haven’t thought about it for months, I guess.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, not anymore.” He frowned, recalling the day and the events. “Hurt like hell when she shot me.”

“She?” Peter’s caresses stopped and he looked at him disbelievingly.

“Yeah, she was only a girl… not even fifteen.” What had become of her? he wondered.

“You lead a dangerous life,” Peter stated, then turned back to the scar with a slight shake of his head. “Feels funny against my tongue… smoother than smooth… hmmm.”

Hutch closed his eyes in delight. Peter’s touch was delicate. None of his lovers had paid special attention to the scar, at least not reverently. In the first months after he had been shot, he had repeatedly seen his latest bedmate’s face twitch in disgust when a new lover became aware of the angry reddish-pink skin of the healing wound and later the frayed-out scar tissue. He had never understood that kind of reaction, since it had only been an entry wound, and had been fairly small… compared to… other gunshot wounds… compared to those… on Starsky’s body…

Hutch realized he had been drifting when Peter’s explorations found another one of his old sores. Peter’s lips were now moving gingerly over the scar on his wrist, his tongue-tip tracing it. “And this one?”

“Someone attacked me with a knife the day Starsky was gunned down,” he said, absently touching the fine pink line that remained, rubbing it lightly. “It didn’t even hurt—I was numb with shock, anger, fear… ”

Peter’s lips finally found Hutch’s again, kissing him tenderly. Warmth and intimacy had replaced the heated passion between them for the moment. Their erections had softened, nestling comfortably next to each other as Hutch pulled Peter into a tight embrace and rolled them over until his body covered the lean frame of his lover.

Peter sighed into Hutch’s mouth, expressing his open appreciation of the delicate friction the rubbing of skin on skin created. Their cocks filled simultaneously, sliding against each other as Peter entwined their legs, pulling Hutch closer, searching for more contact, as if to fuse their bodies together into a single entity.

“Ooh, Ken,” he murmured. “I want to crawl under that beautiful pale skin of yours and stay there for all my remaining days… ”

Hutch rolled them over onto their sides; his hand slid between their bodies and grabbed their cocks, holding them together like Siamese twins. Peter’s hand followed his, guiding him to a perfect rhythm, their moans the soundtrack to their lovemaking.

The motions of Hutch’s hand got more frantic, as he felt the tingling waves of orgasm run up his legs and down his spine, meeting in his balls. And then the wave washed over him, cresting, and he bathed their joined hands and cocks and bellies with his come, slicking the embrace he gave their heated flesh. He felt a shudder run through Peter’s body, heard high-pitched sighs, urging him on, felt the surge in the twin cock when it erupted, mingling fluids, smells, and the low noises of completion.

Hutch slowly opened his eyes to look at Peter. His lover looked blissed-out, sated, happy. His lover? Yes.

“How do you do that?” Hutch whispered, not entirely without envy.

“Huh?” Peter’s eyes opened halfway, the emerald splinters glowing in their amber background.

“Make it seem so easy… ”

“It is easy, you golden tease. You’re troubling yourself too much. Let go, Kenneth, enjoy… ” he whispered sleepily. “Let’s go to sleep, okay?”

“Like this?” Hutch asked, looking down at the sticky mess on their bodies, the cooling wet spots on the sheets.

“Doesn’t matter, Ken. I don’t want to let go of you right now.” Peter’s eyes opened all the way. “I want to hold you and be held by you all night. We’ll shower in the morning, and I promise I’ll change the sheets before you’ll come back. Sound good?”

“As you wish… ” Hutch pulled him closer again, covering them with the blanket they had kicked aside before, when their passion had kept them comfortably warm. Suddenly ‘wet’ and ‘sticky’ were no longer important, did not even really exist anymore. Nothing existed beyond the frame of the bed and nothing mattered except the man in his arms. Nothing. Nobody.

 

Chapter VI

You’re late again,” Starsky stated when Hutch sat down on the opposite side of their double-desk, sipping coffee.

Hutch looked at him briefly. “Sorry, couldn’t get up this morning… must’ve ignored the alarm… or maybe I didn’t set it… ” His voice trailed off with an apologetic shrug. “Come on, let’s hit the street… ” Hutch got up, an expectant look on his face.

Starsky followed wordlessly, his frown deepening.

* * *

“You smell different.”

Hutch turned and met Starsky’s triumphant gaze. They were sitting in the Torino waiting for the lights to change.

“What?”

“You smell different. Not your usual aftershave… ” Starsky bent closer, sniffing intently, “… but nice.”

Hutch felt waves of heat creep over his face.

“You stayed all night?”

“Yeah.”

Starsky grinned. “Must be a helluva lady… when will I meet her?”

“Uhm, Starsk… ”

“What’s her name? With a ‘P’, right? Hm… Patricia? Phoebe? Penny? Patsy? You’re serious?”

Deliberately ignoring the first part of the question, Hutch answered, “Yes. It might be serious.”

The need to talk grew stronger with every word. He wanted to tell Starsky about it all, needed to share the intensity and at the same time he knew he could never do that. Not after what he’d done. “Maybe we should return to the precinct, and finish yesterday’s reports,” he offered.

Starsky looked at him with that special gaze as if he were X-raying his secret thoughts, then said, “If you think so… but next time think about what you wanna do before… ” Starsky stopped himself, still looking at Hutch.

Hutch felt his mouth go dry under the close scrutiny. “Before… what?” he croaked.

Finally Starsky’s eyes fell away. “Before you make us hit the streets.”

* * *

Later, after a long, boring day filling out forms was over, Hutch was propped up against a couple of cushions on Peter’s leather couch, watching him gather photographic equipment.

Peter moved with the grace and the self-confidence of a cat. Not with the panther-like power Starsky’s stride usually displayed. More like a long-legged pedigree cat—the color of his eyes—somewhere between amber, gold and green—suggested an Abyssinian. A long, lean body, soft to the touch. An outwardly cool cat one shouldn’t anger if not ready to face the consequences. A passionate temper right below the surface.

Hutch loved to watch him walk around in the sparsely furnished flat, the play of well-trained muscles hidden under a baggy sweater and fully displayed by tight jeans.

“You like what you see?” Peter asked casually, not acknowledging being watched until then.

“Definitely.” Hutch waited until Peter turned to look at him and added, “You’re a feast for the eyes.”

“And you’re really distracting.” Peter grinned, then got serious all of a sudden. “What would you say if I asked you to spend the upcoming weekend with me?” The question sounded casual, but the stiffness of his shoulders communicated anxious expectation of the answer.

“But you’ll be in San Francisco… ” Hutch got up from the couch.

“What would you say if I asked you to meet me in San Francisco?”

“San Francisco?”

“For a weekend or maybe even three days… ”

“Three days?”

“Hell, I never noticed that there’s an echo in here.” Peter’s eyes were sparkling, his mind already shaping the idea. “We could lock ourselves in a hotel room for the whole weekend and nobody’d bother asking questions… ” Peter’s voice was low, the words convincing, and his eyes filled with promises. “Just you and me… ” he purred and leaned forward against Hutch, lips slightly parted, inviting Hutch to explore his willing mouth and get a foretaste of 48 hours without the restrictions of Bay City.

No fear of being seen exchanging caresses with a man. No hiding. Just pleasure. Much easier to enjoy without fearing phone calls or surprise visits from Starsky. No need to lie to Starsky.

As Hutch leaned into Peter’s embrace, their lips met. Tongues lazily circled each other, building heat as the kiss went on. Hungry for more, Hutch moved Peter against the wall with determination, cornering him effectively, rubbing their growing erections against each other.

“I take that as a yes.” All out in one breath.

“No… can’t… ” Hutch choked out between kisses.

He felt Peter’s body stiffen in his tight embrace and the need to explain, to soothe, rushed his words., “Can’t afford it. I’m just a cop and short of cash almost constantly… especially after my car broke down, and—after all, it’ll be only a few days before you’re back… ”

“Grab my butt… ”

Hutch let his hands slide down his lover’s back, cupping the jeans-clad rear with his large palms. “Your left side feels strange… ” he muttered against Peter’s caressing lips.

“‘S for you. Take it,” came the muffled reply.

Hutch pulled a stiff white envelope out of Peter’s pocket. His eyes widened as he peeked inside. “A first class ticket to Frisco? You didn’t know… ”

“No, I didn’t know… but I hoped.” Peter’s features relaxed into a warm smile. “And there’s another thing,” Peter said, looking at Hutch.

“What? You know when you look at me like that, I’ll do anything.” Hutch said.

“Anything? Got to remember that… ” Peter grinned, then became serious again. “I want you to meet Hugh.”

“Your f-f-father?” Hutch stammered. “I mean, I know he’s not your father. I mean… ”

“Calm down, Hugh’s very nice.” Peter said soothingly, pulling Hutch into a loose embrace. “Since I’m planning on spending a great amount of my free time with you, I think it’s about time to introduce you to him.” Peter kissed Hutch lightly. “It’s important to me, Kenneth. You’re important to me and I want Hugh to see with his own eyes who makes me so happy.”

Hutch felt a warm wave of happiness wash over him at Peter’s words. He touched his lips to Peter’s, kissing him sweetly. When they broke apart, he said, “I’d be honored to meet your father.”

* * *

The following days kept the whole precinct busy when the unexpected chance to bust one of the biggest drug dealers in Bay City offered itself. Working double shifts for the rest of the week, even Starsky seemed too tired to resume his questioning of Hutch’s love life. It was almost like old times: working hand in hand, communicating without words. Effective, quiet efficiency.

After work, Hutch was eager to get out of the precinct and back to Peter’s place each night, a combination that left no time for private talks with Starsky anyway.

* * *

When Hutch left the apartment building on the morning of Peter’s departure day for San Francisco, the sun was making its first shy appearance in the eastern sky.

Hutch stood still for a moment, listening to an early bird’s song, then stretched leisurely and breathed in the fresh morning air deeply.

The night before, they had finally gone out to a late dinner with Hugh Tennant. A French restaurant with great food and a nice quiet atmosphere, which allowed for an animated conversation over their three-course meal. Hutch had immediately taken a liking to Hugh Tennant, and it seemed the feeling was mutual.

Peter had been beaming all night. Even in bed the smile hadn’t disappeared.

Life is good to you, Hutchinson. Don’t mess it up this time, Hutch thought.

Walking to the LTD, parked at a decent distance, the glowing end of a cigarette caught his attention. A dark-haired man was leaning against the side of a red car, smoking, obviously watching Peter’s apartment building. Watching Hutch.

The man seemed to wait until he had Hutch’s undivided attention, then dropped the cigarette, blew a split cloud of bluish smoke through his nostrils and walked up to Hutch.

Hutch’s right hand went to his holstered Magnum.

The man’s black sleeveless t shirt accentuated the heavy, sculpted mass of his biceps. It took a moment until Hutch recognized him as the man who had accompanied Peter at the Pits.

“Good morning, Detective Hutchinson,” the man said, and Hutch noticed with irritation that he wore black leather gloves. Thin, expensive looking driver’s gloves. Hutch’s grip on his gun tightened.

“I take it you’ll want to take a nap before your shift starts, so I’ll cut it short.”

“Why not start by telling me your name,” Hutch suggested.

“Chris Winters.”

“I see. Peter’s manager,” Hutch said, and let go of his gun. Instead he shoved his right hand into his pocket, fingering his keys absently.

“Among other things,” Winters said.

Hutch’s fingers closed into a tight fist, but he was sure outwardly he looked calm and collected.

“What do you mean ‘among other things’?” The moment the words were out, Hutch knew he’d walked right into a trap.

“You might be the playmate of the week, but I’m the constant in Peter’s life. Been there for more years than either of us cares to count and I do not intend to change that. Neither does Peter, by the way.”

Winters took another cigarette from a silver case and lit it, blowing the first acrid cloud right into Hutch’s face.

Hutch’s eyes watered but he didn’t budge.

“Peter might be a little—” Winters stared at the building as if looking for the right word, “indiscriminate with his amusements, but he knows that he needs me.”

Hutch didn’t like the tone of Winters’ voice or what the man said; in fact, he wanted to punch the smart mouth just to stop the stream of sauciness.

“Peter is what I made him. He was nothing when I met him. He’s a star because of me. Without me taking care of business, taking care of his life, he’d still be taking wedding photos.”

“I’m sure there’s a point to your speech,” Hutch said, forcing coolness into his voice and attitude.

“I’m just delivering information. That’s what you do all day, isn’t it? Gather information. Catch a little sleep before you go to work. Your partner won’t approve of your being late again.”

With that, Winters left for the apartment building, but not before Hutch heard the jingle of keys that would surely open the door to Peter’s apartment soon.

Hutch’s fingers clenched spasmodically around the bundle of keys in his own pocket, driving the key-bits deep into his palm.

* * *

Friday morning after the bust was over, and Dobey—more than content with the result of their work—had given them the rest of the day off, Starsky said, “Hey, let’s go to Huggy’s tomorrow night?” Giving Hutch an inviting grin, he added, “C’mon, beer, pool, burgers—a night like old times, just me and thee—sound good?”

Hutch hated himself for wiping the anticipation off Starsky’s face with his next words. “Sorry, I won’t be in town. Maybe next week, okay?”

“Not in town? Where are you going? Without telling me?” Starsky’s tone wasn’t entirely joking anymore.

“San Francisco. But I’ll be back Monday morning.”

“You’ll go to Frisco? With her?”

Hutch flinched slightly, then shrugged. “Bye, buddy, gotta pack and catch my plane.”

 * * *

Starsky watched him leave, frowning. It had been a long time since Hutch had shown that much interest in anybody.

Except me…

Pushing the thought aside, he said out loud, “Must be a helluva lady.”

 

Chapter VII

Hutch was stunned. After the first-class flight to San Francisco, a cream-white limousine had been waiting at the airport to take him to the hotel. And now this: a luxurious suite in a top-class hotel, fresh flowers, a bottle of champagne already sitting in a cooler (French label, not the domestic stuff he and Starsky had bought on special occasions in the past, usually when a new lover was to be charmed).

Next to the cooler sat a note from Peter.

I was looking forward to seeing you all day, but had to go back to the studio at the last minute. C. is driving me nuts these days (imagine me rolling my eyes here). Make yourself comfortable. P.

Ps.: Beer is in the fridge.

Hutch did as he was told. He took a long, hot shower to wash the residual tension of the past week away. Clad in a fluffy, snow-white robe, Hutch grabbed a bottle of Bud and stepped outside onto the huge balcony, larger than most of the hotel rooms he had stayed in over the years. The view of the city in the fading light was marvelous and Hutch stood, sipping his beer while watching the sunset.

“You look beautiful in this light… especially when you lift the bottle to your lips and the setting sun lightens up the dark glass. Just a few nuances darker than the honey color tone of your hair.”

Hutch made a conscious effort not to turn, but to hear Peter out. He took another sip from the bottle.

“Most people love your eyes, I guess,” Peter mused on, “but I prefer your mouth. Beautifully shaped. Too bad you hide half of it under that moustache. ‘Sides, it itches when we kiss… ”

There was a moment of silence before Peter whispered, “Absolutely ir-re-sis-table in this light… ”

This time, Hutch turned. Peter leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved halfway into his pockets, and watched him with that special, intense look.

“If you planned on resisting, why did you bring me here in the first place?” Hutch teased. “Must’ve cost a fortune.”

“I take it you enjoyed your trip then?”

“I still can’t believe you spent so much money on me… ”

“I don’t care how much it was. It was worth every cent. Chris took care of the details. My part in this was to convince you to come… ”

“Which you obviously did.” Hutch put the bottle on a table and stepped closer, invading Peter’s personal space. “But, you know, with all the expenses you had… maybe I should think of some way to make it up to you… ”

Peter tensed and his eyes got irritatingly dark when he replied, “No, that’s not what you’re here for. I don’t buy lovers.”

Hutch grabbed Peter’s biceps as he tried to turn away. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t mean it like that. I just can’t believe I’m here. With you. Really, it was supposed to be a joke,” he said miserably.

“Stupid joke,” Peter answered, but couldn’t help smiling at Hutch’s troubled face. “Friends?” he offered.

Hutch embraced him and sighed. “More than that.”

* * *

Peter woke first the next morning, the side of his face pressed against his lover’s back, their fingers intertwined as well as their legs. Cautiously, he moved away from the sleeping form so as not to wake Hutch.

When he returned from the bathroom half an hour later, showered, shaved, ready for another day, he found Hutch wide awake, tossing and turning in the second—hitherto unused—bed.

“What are you doing there, Kenneth?” he asked, amused.

“Oh, I’m… messing up the sheets,” Hutch explained, focused on his task.

“I noticed you’re messing up the sheets. But what are you doing it for?”

Hutch stopped for a second to look at Peter, figuring out whether he was pretending innocence, before his tossing continued with a vengeance. Deciding Peter was not faking, Hutch said, “The room maid.”

“What about the room maid?”

“I d-don’t… don’t want her to think, we d-did… ”

Peter sat down on the edge of the bed and stilled Hutch’s frantic motions with a touch of his hand.

“Ken, we did do it,” he said, looking at Hutch affectionately. “Second thoughts? Regrets?”

“No. No. It’s just… ”

“Kenneth,” Peter cut in. “She knows that only one bed was used. And she doesn’t care. Believe me. One of the advantages of this,” he made a vague gesture including everything in the suite, “is discretion. Nobody wonders, nobody cares, and nobody’ll talk about it. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said a little sheepishly, feeling like a kid chided by a grown-up.

“Then stop worrying about anything except what you want for breakfast. I’m starving.”

* * *

When Hutch stepped out onto the balcony, showered, shaved, and dressed in sand-colored pants and a white shirt, room service had set up a breakfast table.

Peter was already there, sitting in the sun, wearing white boxers and a white t shirt, making Hutch squint his eyes against the bright reflection of the morning sun.

Stepping up behind him, Hutch bent down to kiss him.

When Hutch sat down, Peter cried, “My goodness! Your lip is positively naked, Kenneth. I hope I didn’t press the issue too bluntly…

“No, you were as subtle as ever… ” Hutch took the glass of orange juice from Peter’s hand, finishing it in one long swig.

Shaving the moustache off had been a moment’s decision, but he didn’t regret that he’d followed through on it.

“So, what would you like to do today?” Peter asked casually, decapitating a boiled egg with a single stroke. “Sightseeing, maybe? As a cop you might be interested in Alcatraz… ”

Peter went on with suggestions, but Hutch wasn’t listening. He watched Peter’s lips move, waiting for the brief appearance of a pink tongue tip between white teeth. There. Hutch’s eyes went over Peter’s body, roaming unrestricted, finding the slightly protruding spots where the thin white fabric covered Peter’s nipples. Recalling the taste and texture of those small, brownish buds against his tongue, his cock rose.

“Are you listening to me, Detective Hutchinson?”

Their eyes met briefly, before Peter’s gaze lowered to the tenting pants over his lover’s erection.

“Uh-oh, I think sightseeing has been vetoed… ” he purred, and made his way around the table, reaching for Hutch’s hand. “Come inside?”

* * *

They undressed each other on their way into the suite, safe in the seclusion of their rooms. No words were needed; their eyes and bodies spoke loudly to each other, asking for and giving permission to move on.

The ringing of the telephone startled them both, but Peter recovered almost instantly, resuming his playful ministrations.

“Don’t you want to answer that?” Hutch asked, irritated by both the insistent ringing and Peter’s ignoring it.

“No,” Peter mumbled, tonguing the skin behind Hutch’s left ear.

“But—” Hutch gasped as the wet muscle moved down to his throat.

“It’s only Chris… ” Peter said matter-of-factly, nipping at Hutch’s exposed skin.

“How do you know?”

Peter stopped his caresses and looked right into Hutch’s eyes.

“Nobody knows you’re here with me, right?” He waited for acknowledgment, then said, “Nobody except Chris knows I’m here. So, who do you think is calling us?”

Almost as an answer, the ringing stopped.

“See?” Peter let his hands explore the shape and texture of Hutch’s back, deftly ridding him of the last pieces of fabric. Their faces were close enough to feel each other’s breath as a warm, orange-scented breeze.

“Peter?”

“Mmh?”

Hutch pulled back a bit to look at Peter’s face, the closed lids and the slightly parted lips of his sensual mouth before he asked, “What’s with Chris and you?”

“He’s my manager,” Peter answered without opening his eyes. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“Yes, you told me that. But does he have to call you so often? What does he want?” Irritation crept into Hutch’s voice.

The lids lifted ever so slowly and Peter’s eyes locked with Hutch’s. “Probably he wants to discuss details of next week’s shootings. Something about the upcoming exhibition in Bay City. Lighting. Guest list. Things like that,” he said quietly. “Okay?”

Peter cocked his head slightly, closing the distance between them and Hutch’s mouth opened in anticipation.

Fractions of an inch before lips met lips, the phone started ringing again.

“Answer it. Please,” Hutch groaned.

Peter looked at him, obviously annoyed at having to pay attention to the unwelcome interruption, Hutch’s plea, or both. “If it makes you feel better… ”

He picked up the receiver. “Yeah?” Positively exasperated. “Yeah, I knew it was you.” He was still facing Hutch and his eyes roamed Hutch’s pale body without shame while listening to his caller. “Look, Chris,” his tone changed instantly, no longer irritated, but soothing, “I know it’s hard for you. But we went through it all over and over and over and decided—”

A scream came through the receiver loud enough for Hutch to hear, interrupting Peter, and was followed by an equally loud tirade.

“Okay,” Peter cut into Winters’ ranting. “I decided to break up. And you damn well know why.” He turned away from Hutch and the muscles in his back and shoulders visibly tensed. “… Chris… ” His voice got softer when he went on, “Don’t cry, Chris. Please. —You know it won’t change my mind, and you also know that we couldn’t go on like that anymore, especially after… after what happened.”

Hutch frowned. After what happened?

“Look, I can’t talk with you when you’re like this.” Annoyance crept back into Peter’s voice. “To be blunt, yes, you are interrupting something.” During the following long moments of Peter’s silent listening, Hutch considered walking over, taking the receiver from Peter’s hand and saying a few choice words to Chris before terminating the call. But before he could act on it, Peter slowly put the receiver on its cradle, then picked it up again and put it down next to the phone. “Shouldn’t have answered it at all,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry I made you,” Hutch said. He didn’t like the idea that another man was calling their room just to intrude on their privacy. During his years on the force he had witnessed this kind of scenario often enough to recognize it for what it was. Definitely not a business call.

“Peter, if you need somebody, I mean, if I can help… ”

Peter turned sharply. “It’s not that easy, Ken. And you being a cop doesn’t make things easier, doesn’t make them all right. There are things—” He bit his lower lip as if he had said too much.

“Things?”

“Forget it. It’s not your fault.” Peter turned away from Hutch again.

“What things, Peter?” Hutch asked.

But Peter only shook his head and repeated, “Not your fault.”

* * *

After years of locker rooms and public showers Hutch didn’t feel too self-conscious about nudity. Usually. Under locker room conditions. Now, after witnessing a quarrel on the phone, a quarrel which included his new lover and his new lover’s ex-mate, he felt clumsy and out of place. Had he really been aroused and on the verge of coming just from kisses and Peter’s gentle petting a few minutes ago? He looked down at his body, his shrunken penis a real pathetic sight, deflated and far from being ready for a sexual encounter. He assumed that Peter’s condition was even worse.

Hutch went to the bedroom and got dressed.

If Peter were one of Hutch’s former female- lovers, he’d simply go over and kiss it better. Ignore the problem—whatever the problem was between Peter and Winters—and change the subject. It felt odd to picture himself in a gay love triangle, and ignorance wasn’t an option now.

Staring at Peter’s bare back through the half-open door, seeing the quiver of muscles under the milky skin, Hutch felt an overwhelming wave of tenderness wash over him. He just wanted to hold that man, protect him, and stand in harm ‘s way. Come what may.

With a small moment of shock Hutch realized that whenever he had felt like this in his life the relationship in question had ended more or less tragically. On the forefront of his mind of course was Starsky, had always been Starsky. But then his partner was an exceptional presence in his life, wrapping up friendship and professional partnership—and more—in a single package.

The others had been women. Sweet Alice. Jeannie. Gillian. Hookers. All of them. Apart from their profession they had two things in common: beauty and problems.

Problems I failed to solve.

He took the robe Peter had left on the bed and went back to the living room of the suite.

Peter hadn’t moved since Hutch had left him.

This time will be different. Peter is different from any of my former lovers. Beautiful—yes. Smart—yes. He is breathtaking. I’m in love with him. The realization made Hutch’s heart skip a beat. And this time, I’ll be really cautious with my love.

Looking at the slight curve of Peter’s pale neck, Hutch thought, Strength. Tenderness.

“Equality,” he whispered, embracing Peter with the fluffy white robe.

“Hm?” Peter leaned back against Hutch, seeming to savor the contact.

“Come on, let’s have some coffee. Okay?”

“I’ll join you in a minute,” Peter said faintly. “I need a moment to… just gimme a second, okay?”

 

Chapter VIII

They sat outside again, sipping coffee, squinting against the bright sun. Hutch had moved his chair from the opposite side of the table next to Peter’s; their shoulders were touching every time they turned the pages of the San Francisco Chronicle they pretended to read.

They hadn’t yet talked after the call and Peter had gotten dressed before he returned outside.

“He’s not only your manager, is he?”

Peter looked at Hutch for a moment, then shrugged slightly and said, “We were lovers. That’s what you wanted to know, right?”

“It’s not—”

“It’s okay,” Peter cut in, “Of course you’d want to know. I’ve known him for more than seven years. I was already taking pictures for a living, nothing ambitious, weddings, Bah-Mitzvahs, stuff like that. Chris encouraged me to try something different, wanted me to do more. He made me hand in some photos for a competition and I won. We celebrated, drank too much cheap sparkling wine and—well, the obvious happened… ” Peter’s voice trailed off.

Hutch swallowed thickly. Somewhere deep down, he had fostered the illusion that Winters hadn’t been Peter’s lover. That what the man had said wasn’t true. He knew the idea was stupid, if not downright ridiculous. Of course there had been other lovers in Peter’s past life, just like in Hutch’s own. It hurt nonetheless.

“How long were you and Chris together?” Hutch asked, his voice hoarse with tension.

“Five years, eight months, sixteen days,” Peter said without hesitation, as if he had been waiting for the question.

Or as if he’s still counting…

“Why… did you break up?” Hutch knew he was invading intimate terrain and braced himself to be cut down to size.

But Peter’s voice remained calm. “He’s jealous. Always was, I guess.” He took a deep breath, then exhaled with a drawn-out sigh. “Things… things got out of control. Kinda… irreversibly, you know?”

Hutch finally put his part of the paper down, took Peter’s hand and entwined their fingers. Their eyes met.

“It works as long as we keep it strictly business,” Peter continued. “I don’t care too much for the money part of my work. I don’t like to haggle about prices and contract details. I want to take pictures. It’s what I’m good at. Chris is good at deals. It’s okay as long as we don’t get too personal anymore.”

“Isn’t that difficult?” Hutch asked, throat suddenly tight. “After you’ve been… ” He didn’t want to say it out loud. After Peter and Winters had been lovers. Things had been tense between Starsky and him ever since that night and Hutch had serious concerns about whether the situation would ever wind down again to a normal relationship. Could they be friends again? Just friends?

“You’re right, it’s difficult. At best. Sometimes it seems impossible to go on.” Peter sighed. “Might as well tell you. He still wants to pick things up where we left them, but I can’t. I won’t… ” Peter shook his head with determination. “I won’t.”

“Is it still kinda fresh?”

“Not really. It’s been almost a year since we—since I broke up.” Peter squeezed Hutch’s fingers lightly. “I really don’t want to talk about it,” he said with finality. “It seems such a waste of time to talk about the past when all we should think of is the present.” Peter’s eyes made a shy contact with Hutch’s. “Or the future.”

“He talked to me,” Hutch stated quietly.

“He—what?” Peter sounded fully alert all of a sudden.

Alarmed, Hutch thought.

“When I left you the night before you flew out to San Francisco, he was waiting in front of your apartment building. He called me your playmate of the week.”

“You’re not.”

Ignoring Peter’s comment, Hutch went on. “He called me Detective Hutchinson. He said my partner wouldn’t approve of me being late for work again. How does he know these things?”

Hutch was angry; he hated the threat, the idea of being at someone’s mercy. His anger had been burning on a low flame inside him ever since the talk with Winters. Things seemed to be slipping out of his control again, a feeling he dreaded. “How come he’s so well informed?”

Peter looked at him silently, then disentangled their fingers and stood. “You think I told him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Peter went to the balustrade and leaned against it, facing Hutch. “Is this some kind of interrogation? Should I call my lawyer? Should I remain silent, because anything I say may be used against me?” There was no hint of accusation in his voice, just sadness and resignation.

They stared at each other, obviously both unsure how to deal with the situation.

Hutch got up and sat next to Peter on the balustrade, then shifted until Peter stood between his spread thighs. Massaging Peter’s long pale neck, working at the tense muscles there, Hutch admitted, “I’m not mad at you. But I dread what he might do.”

Peter leaned into the touch but said nothing.

“I’m a cop. If he spreads the news… ” Hutch’s hands stilled and his mind threw up things he had heard and seen after John Blaine’s death. It hadn’t made any difference that John had been a respected officer during his life. After his death he had become the faggot cop in disguise.

Peter turned under Hutch’s hands and looked him right in the eye. “I think you’re overrating Chris. As I told you before, he’s good at making deals. What could he gain by dragging our relationship out in the open?”

Hutch thought about it. Peter is probably right. I’m just being paranoid because of John.

“I understand that our—” Peter swallowed convulsively, “affair might ruin your career as a cop. I understand that you fear losing your partner because of me.” Hutch wanted to interrupt, but Peter went on. “I know that, Ken. And you know I’m right. You’ve been so good to me, I think I owe you.”

Hutch slid from the balustrade and pulled Peter into an embrace in one swift motion. Showering kisses all over his troubled face, Hutch whispered, “No, you owe me nothing. Hear me? Not a thing.”

Peter exhaled a shuddering breath when Hutch’s lips finally found his, his tongue probing wetly, seeking entry.

Peter’s hand slid up Hutch’s long neck, then held the back of his head in his palm, pressing their mouths together.

Hutch’s cock filled fast, as if all the blood rushed in a heartbeat from every other part of his body to the center of his desire.

“Touch me,” Hutch moaned.

Peter freed his other hand from Hutch’s, tugging his shirt roughly out of his sand-colored pants, then tried to unbutton it without letting go of his mouth. He ended up yanking the shirt open. The buttons hit the cotto tiles with a soft clatter.

Peter’s T-shirt followed. He broke their contact only for the brief moment it took to pull it over his head.

The contact of skin on skin was enticing, the brushing of pebbled nipples against each other almost unbearably arousing. Pressing their hips together, rubbing slightly, creating a delicate, electrified friction, Peter moved their bodies back inside and to the bedroom.

Being in bed with a naked man was still new and exciting and for a few moments, Hutch took his sweet time to look his fill. Peter was shivering under Hutch’s scrutiny. “You cold?” Hutch asked lowly and his voice sounded strange to himself.

Peter shook his head minutely. “Not cold,” he said finally. “Can’t wait for you to love me.”

Hutch bent low over Peter’s lean body on the broad bed and after mapping him with his lips, inhaling his lover’s scent deeply, he finally touched Peter’s hard cock with his mouth. Letting Peter’s glans slide over his tongue and against his palate, Hutch marveled at the smoothness of the skin, tasted pre-come, sweet and viscous. He had never done this and hadn’t even consciously thought about it, how to do it, how to make love to another man with his mouth. He knew that he had to be cautious with his teeth, knew from his own experience with women, of course, that sucking and licking was pleasurable. If they could do it, I can do it. His lips embraced Peter’s hot shaft and he started to suck cautiously. Peter’s cock slid deeper, filling Hutch’s mouth so perfectly, so completely—and Hutch loved it. Loved every sound, every reaction his suction drew from Peter. He hadn’t expected that giving pleasure to someone could be so arousing, so unbelievably good.

“Stop—please… ” Peter’s fingers found Hutch’s lips curled tightly around his cock and he groaned, “Please.”

Releasing him reluctantly, Hutch looked at him and found Peter’s face glowing, his muscles quivering beneath sweaty skin, his breathing ragged and shallow.

“Take me. Please. Make us one.”

The plea, the trust, the hunger, his own desire and his fear of giving in, made Hutch’s stomach drop.

Spreading his legs wide in invitation, Peter whispered, “Please.”

Producing a tube of lubricant as if from nowhere, Peter squeezed cool gel onto Hutch’s fingers and guided Hutch’s slightly trembling, hesitant hand between his legs.

“Yes,” he sighed when Hutch’s fingertips tentatively brushed his hidden opening, then slid back to caress his balls, then moved higher to give Peter’s straining cock a firm, yet slippery embrace. “Oh, yes.”

Hutch squeezed more lube onto his hand, spreading the gel on his lover’s cock, his testicles, and around his small opening.

“Tell me what to do,” Hutch said hoarsely. “Tell me how to make it good for you.”

They looked at each other, faces flushed, pupils wide, lips dry—and smiled, communicating ultimate trust.

“Open me up with your fingers,” Peter answered, voice husky and low. “Make me ready to take you. All of you.”

Without taking his eyes off Peter’s face, Hutch resumed his explorations, circled the hidden port, then cautiously entered with the tip of his index finger. He kept his eyes glued to Peter’s face, monitoring every reaction as he slowly invaded the tight passage. The muscles around his finger spasmed hard, involuntarily, trying to get rid of the intruder, and Peter’s face twitched as he made an effort to force relaxation. Hutch held his hand perfectly still, unsure what to do, waiting for Peter’s cramp to fade away. Leaning forward, Hutch placed small kisses on Peter’s mouth, caressing his lips with the tip of his tongue, attempting to distract Peter from the discomfort his finger was causing.

When he felt the tight muscle ring relax, he withdrew his finger almost to the point of slipping out, then re-entered the passage with two fingers. Slowly sliding in, withdrawing, sliding deeper back in, Hutch felt less resistance every time and his caresses grew bolder, as he searched for Peter’s prostate. Peter moaned into Hutch’s open mouth as his fingertip brushed the round structure tentatively; a deep hum vibrating over Hutch’s lips echoed in every nerve ending of his body.

Hutch’s cock felt as if it were bursting with blood and need. “Can’t wait,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “How… ? What… ?”

Peter’s body arched off the bed when he shoved a pillow under the small of his back. Hutch edged closer, resting Peter’s narrow hips on his thighs, his cock achingly hard next to Peter’s, every movement creating a sizzling friction. Grabbing the lube, Hutch coated himself with trembling, eager fingers, and positioned himself. After the first slippery kiss of the tip of his cock against the puckered opening, he moved forward and inside a fraction of an inch at a time. Even if he had wanted to, Hutch couldn’t have stopped. It felt as if Peter’s body sucked his cock in deeper; it felt as if he were being swallowed. Hutch bit his lower lip hard, desperately trying not to give in to the tight, hot grip around his cock, and thrust inside in one powerful motion. Sweat streamed down his face and chest, the tickling sensation distracting. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, focusing on moving slowly, cautiously.

As Hutch finally felt his balls brush the cooler flesh of Peter’s butt, he drew a deep shaking breath and listened to the pounding of his own heart for a moment, before he opened his eyes to look at his lover.

Peter’s face was contorted in pain, the sight instantly shattering Hutch’s relief. Swallowing convulsively, he croaked, “Shall I… pull out?”

“No.” Peter’s answer was barely more than a breath. “No. Takes a moment to get accustomed to you… You’re a big boy, you know?” A small look of admiration whisked over Peter’s face, despite his discomfort. “You’re all the way in?”

“Yeah.”

“Explains why I feel so split… ”

Hutch looked down at their joined bodies, Peter’s faltering erection resting against the dark nest of his pubic hair. He took it into his palm, letting all the tenderness he felt guide his hand when he stroked Peter’s softened organ back to life. Feeling the hot weight of in his hand, he purred, “Tell me… what now?”

“Move.” Peter’s legs embraced Hutch’s back, hugging him closer as he rocked, tentatively and shallowly at first, faster and deeper when Peter’s noises of passion and pleasure replaced his stifled sounds of pain.

“God. You’re so… hot. So tight.” Hutch cried, throwing his head back in sweet agony. He felt Peter’s cock swell against his lube-slick palm, split seconds before his hand was bathed in warm, creamy fluid. His own cock was massaged by ripples of clenching muscles, and Hutch rode the cresting waves into completion. Trembling, he fell forward onto his lover’s heaving, moist chest.

“God,” he mumbled breathlessly, listening to the sounds of afterglow. “That was… it was… ”

“Incredible,” Peter completed with a sigh.

Both men drifted slowly to sleep, legs entwined, in mingled sweat and semen, and for a fleeting moment before Hutch’s soft cock slipped from Peter’s body, they were one.

 

 

Chapter IX

“C’mon, Hutch. Tell me about her. God, look at you… ”

Starsky was truly amazed about Hutch’s change in appearance. Just two-and-a-half days since the most wicked workload week he could recall had ended and Hutch looked like he had spent a two-week vacation. With the slightest hint of a tan, that ugly, brisk brush on his upper lip gone, and all those worry lines around his mouth and eyes smoothed, he looked younger. And happier than in a long time. “How’d she do that?”

“Do what?”

“Get rid of that moustache… ” Starsky said, trying to figure out how often he had tried to get Hutch to shave that monster off—in vain. “Musta told you a zillion times over the last two years… and she does it on your first weekend… just like this.” He emphasized his amazement with a sharp snap of his fingers.

Hutch shoved an ice-cold cream soda into Starsky’s hand, cracked his own can open and took a swig.

“If I can’t meet her, tell me her name at least… it’s Patti? Or Paula? What?”

Hutch watched silently when Starsky ran the cool metal across his sweaty forehead once, twice, spreading the condensation water over his skin, before he opened and emptied the can in one long draft.

“The name is Peter.”

Starsky shook his can absentmindedly. “Who? Whose name is Peter?” Finding the can empty, his arm moved to throw it to the backseat. Realization struck and his hand froze in mid-air. Very slowly, very deliberately, he turned his head to look at Hutch.

“I thought… I believed you were through with that issue… ”

Hutch snorted a humorless little laugh. “No. You thought you were through with it.”

Watching his knuckles turn white as he crushed the empty can, Starsky said, “Damn, Hutch, you can’t be serious.”

“Who died and put you in charge of my life? Huh? Who gave you the right to judge my decisions? Who?” Hutch’s words seemed to electrify the atmosphere inside the car to the point of imminent explosion.

They kept staring at each other for long seconds until the tension was too much to stand locked up in the small space of the Torino. Hutch got out of the car, slamming the door.

Starsky watched the tense figure walk away. Numb with anger, he stared at Hutch’s back, then at his own hand still clutching the crushed can. “Damn fool. —Damn!”

* * *

They spent the rest of the afternoon at their desks, typing reports, reading files, awkwardly taciturn. The other cops in the squad room watched them unobtrusively, but with growing caution. When these two guys fought with each other—and the combination of stretching silence and eager deskwork was a strong indication of a fight—any other person who however involuntarily attracted their attention was very likely to find themselves the focus of a tornado.

* * *

Finishing his last report, Hutch threw the stack of papers onto Starsky’s side of the desk, grabbed his jacket and left the squad room without a word.

Heads turned and gazes followed him before they came to rest on Starsky’s face, but no one said a word.

* * *

On his way home, Starsky argued silently with himself about his reaction to Hutch’s revelation. Hitting the steering wheel with his fist, he turned the car around, driving back to Venice Place.

We’ll talk this through if it takes all night.

Pulling the Torino to the curb, he noticed that the LTD was gone. Gazing upwards at the dark windows of Hutch’s apartment, Starsky got out of his car and climbed the stairs. But the apartment door was locked and the spare key gone, Starsky noticed with a frustrated grunt as his fingers felt around on the doorframe. A long time ago they had worked out the key code. If the spare key was there—it was okay to come in. Spare key gone meant ‘Keep out!’ It was their variation on the necktie on the door handle or, more sophisticated, the “please do not disturb” sign on hotel doorknobs.

Dammit, what are you doing, Hutch? Don’t you realize you’re putting everything on the line here?

For a moment, Starsky considered using his own key to Hutch’s apartment, but it didn’t seem appropriate under the circumstances. Hutch wouldn’t approve Starsky strolling into his apartment while he was in bed with somebody—Starsky’s thoughts came to an abrupt stop when he realized who might be in Hutch’s bed right now. Slowly he turned and walked down the stairs.

 

 

Chapter X

“You ever tried to work this out with your partner?” Peter’s voice slowly filtered through Hutch’s sleepy state of mind.

Hutch’s head was resting on Peter’s chest, and he had been drifting, listening to the hypnotic heartbeat of his lover. Trying to stay in that almost carefree state, he didn’t open his eyes, just shifted slightly as he said, “Let’s not talk about him now, okay?”

Peter’s long fingers came up to comb through Hutch’s hair, playing with the fine strands; those same fingers had taken him to completion less than an hour ago.

“You know it’s not disloyal to have feelings for him and talk to me about it. Just because it isn’t reciprocal doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

Hutch opened his eyes, then lifted his head from Peter’s smooth chest and propped himself on an elbow. “You’re such a smart mouth,” he said gently. “You really wanna know, don’t you?”

Peter nodded, smiling.

“I met Starsky at the police academy more than twelve years ago… ” Hutch said with a sigh.

“This is going to be a long story, isn’t it? Maybe you want to resume a more comfortable position?” Peter interrupted, pointing towards his chest.

Taking the hint, Hutch slid lower and brushed his lips over Peter’s nipple before he settled against his lover’s body with another sigh. “Starsky and I had something going on from the very first moment we met. Chemistry. Finishing sentences the other one had started. Saying things out loud, realizing the other one had been thinking the very same thing. So different on the outside, so alike on the inside. We touched a lot. As if we had a special, wordless form of communication. We never thought about it. A pat in passing, a squeeze to the nearest shoulder or an arm… there was so much more comfort and reassurance in that than in words. There were rumors about our sexual orientation right from the start,” he mused, losing himself in precious memories. “To us, it seemed so… outrageous then. We laughed them off. We were partners, buddies, best friends—nothing else.” While he talked about their lives mingling more and more, about close calls and lost loves, Peter’s hand kept running slow circles over Hutch’s shoulder.

“… After he was shot, everything changed.”

Unwelcome memories flashed through Hutch’s mind: Starsky on the ground of the police parking lot, blood rushing out of his body with the rhythm of his weakening heartbeat, Starsky on a sterile bed, motionless, nearly lifeless, tied by wires and tubes to machines which kept him alive, Hutch’s own reflection in a glass window, when his heart already knew what his brain stubbornly denied, the first movement of eyelids and lashes when Starsky came back from wherever he had been, the tentative steps back to life after he was released from the hospital. The setbacks, the weakness, boredom and frustration during the long recovery period, never knowing whether Starsky would really make it back to his old life, his old self.

“He became moody and discouraged. Fighting me when I was trying to help, accusing me of not caring when I didn’t. And then there was that night… ”

Peter’s hand stilled when Hutch’s voice trailed off.

“We were both pretty plastered. We’d been celebrating his clean bill of health, the victory of his stubbornness over the odds, when he got serious all of a sudden and said, ‘I couldn’t’ve made it without you, Hutch. I don’t know how you managed to put up with me during all this time.’ I answered, ‘Because I love you.’ And it seemed to be the most natural thing to say, ’cause I really meant it. Felt it. Never taking his eyes off me, he bent closer and kissed me. Right on my lips, cupping my cheeks with his hands, holding me in place.”

“What did you do?” Peter asked hoarsely.

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut against the embarrassment rushing through him.

“I… I took advantage of him. I… took him right there on his couch… taking things that weren’t meant for me to take.” Licking his dry lips, he continued, “When he woke up in my arms, with the hairs on his thighs and belly stuck to my skin, and the smell of sex thick in the air, he whimpered. I’ll never forget that sound. Like a wounded animal. Let down by the one man he thought was his best friend in the world.” Hutch’s voice cracked badly on his last words. “Now he… ignores what happened… kinda ignores me ever since. I know it’s all somewhere in his system, slowly simmering and I fear every day… ” He paused. “I fear it all might blow up in my face one day.”

Peter pulled him closer to his chest, resting his face against the top of Hutch’s head. “What did you do afterwards? I take it, it’s been a while since it happened?” he prodded gently.

“I tried to go on as before. Women. Lots of women. Sometimes I didn’t even catch their names. It was okay, well, most of the time, but it was no longer enough… no longer what I was looking for… not what I needed. So at last I tried the streets. A young guy, twenty maybe, twenty-two at best. Looked a bit like Starsky, at least in the semi-darkness of an abandoned alley. But… ” He shuddered.

Peter’s fingers ran over his upper arm, a soothing and encouraging caress.

“He dropped to his knees and touched me through my pants. I wasn’t hard. I couldn’t… He looked up at me, said he had a room, we could go there if it would help me. Help me.” Hutch snorted, disgust thick in the small sound. “I hauled him to his feet, swatted his willing hands away, shoved a twenty into his jacket. I just wanted to run. I was so ashamed. So ashamed,” he muttered miserably.

Peter’s voice dropped to a whisper when he asked, “Do you think of him when you’re with me?”

Hutch slowly raised his head, looking right into those hazel eyes. “No. Never.”

They settled back to their former positions.

“You know,” Hutch said after a while, “I’m really glad you stopped that night when my car broke down.”

“How come?”

“Well, one look at the motor and you knew it was no use to try and make it run again. Could’ve spent the whole night there, in the rain, waiting… if you hadn’t stopped.”

“Well, actually… ” Hutch could hear the amusement in Peter’s voice,” actually, I took a look at you and decided it might be worth to give it a try.” Peter’s smile widened into a grin. “I don’t have a clue when it comes to cars; I know how to drive them and that’s basically it.”

Hutch propped himself up on an elbow, momentarily speechless, and looked into Peter’s eyes.

“You don’t know anything about cars?” he asked incredulously.

“No.”

“You just wanted to pick me up?”

“Yes.”

Hutch stared at Peter for long silent moments, before he planted a kiss on his lover’s lips and said, “Anyway, I’m glad it was you who stopped for whatever reason… ”

Peter switched off the light and in the darkness they snuggled up to each other and drifted into sleep.

 

 

Chapter XI

The next day started right where the one before had ended—in awkward silence.

Hutch refused to talk any more than necessary to Starsky and didn’t even look at him. The prospect of another day spent in alien silence, bent over the typewriter, made Starsky mentally climb the walls.

We have to talk, buddy. Hell, we’ve always talked things out and I won’t allow this time to be an exception to the rule. The only exception we’ve ever made—I’ve ever made—poisoned our lives. But I honestly believed then that it was for the best to avoid the topic rather than drag it out in the open. But this time we will talk.

But somehow Hutch managed to sneak out of the squad room during the late afternoon without Starsky realizing it.

“Hey, Minnie, seen my better half somewhere during the last ten minutes?” He tried to sound casual, but failed miserably.

Minnie’s right eyebrow lifted as she looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “Your partner left about 45 minutes ago. Didn’t you know?”

“Oh yes, I remember, the dentist appointment… ” he lied.

“Picking up his car at Merle’s,” she said with a frown.

Grabbing his jacket, he was almost out the door, when she asked, “Starsky? What’s wrong with the two of you this time?”

“Nothing.” He gave her a wry twist of his lips, baring his teeth in a bad Bogart imitation. “Nothing, sweetheart.”

* * *

Starsky spent the night in the Torino in front of Venice Place, waiting for Hutch’s return. At 5:45 a.m. he decided that it was pointless to wait any longer and drove home to shower and get changed.

Today he would try something else. Pressing Hutch was obviously not the way, so he needed a different approach. Something more subtle.

* * *

“Hey, we should go there!”

Starsky was stabbing at something in the newspaper spread on his desk. Hutch’s gaze followed the insistently pointing finger to an announcement for an exhibition.

“You like exhibitions, and I like photos… ”

Starsky’s finger left the paper and Hutch felt his knees go weak.

“Hey, Hutch?”

“What?” he croaked.

“The opening’s on Sunday. We could go there, look at the photos and have dinner afterwards. You know—nothing too fancy, maybe that Mexican place on 16^th…”

“It’s a vernissage, Starsky. There will be snacks and drinks for free,” Hutch said in his best schoolmasterly tone.

“Great. It’s a deal then? We’ll go?”

Hutch gave a weak nod. Peter’s exhibition. Peter had invited him to that vernissage during their weekend in San Francisco. Ever since, Hutch had tried to think of a way to make Starsky accompany him. As Peter had introduced Hutch to the other important person in his life, Hugh Tennant, Hutch wanted to introduce Peter to Starsky. Hutch wanted Starsky to come along, to meet Peter and see for himself that he wasn’t the seducer of innocent straight men as Starsky seemed to suspect. But two weeks had passed and Hutch hadn’t mustered the courage to just ask him. Especially after their argument on Monday.

Lucky break, he thought and felt a hysterical giggle rise in his throat like bile. Coughing to cover, he turned and busied his hands refilling their mugs.

* * *

“Look at this! Look at the way he caught the mood! The light!”

Hutch had to grin at Starsky’s enthusiasm; it was absolutely contagious. Starsky loved taking photos himself and when he had the opportunity to see professional photos, he loved to draw Hutch’s attention to details that would have gone otherwise unnoticed. And Hutch loved listening to Starsky. There was a child-like, yet undeniably sexy quality about his eagerness.

Starsky was obviously totally at ease, suspecting nothing. And how could he? Hutch on the other hand was slightly fidgety. What would this first meeting turn out to be? Would they see their common grounds and like each other? Or would there be a tight-lipped cold between them? Hutch shifted from one foot to the other nervously. God, this is important to me, please, please, don’t let them fight.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Starsky’s voice pulled Hutch out of his restless thoughts, “the way he looks at faces… through the lens, I mean… The man’s… great. I wonder how old he is. Do you think he’s here?”

“Of course he’s here, Starsky, it’s his vernissage.”

Glancing around to locate Peter in the crowd, Hutch walked at Starsky’s side through the gallery, listening to his partner less attentively than he deserved.

Since the preparation of the exhibition had been the most time-consuming thing on Peter’s mind for the last ten days, they hadn’t spent much time together since their return from San Francisco. Mostly phone calls and some precious, if too short, dates in the wee hours.

Two days ago, Hutch had told Peter on the phone that Starsky would come to the vernissage.

“So—you told him about us finally?”

“Yes and no… ”

“Could you explain the ‘no’ part, please?” Peter had asked patiently, an amused tone creeping into his voice.

“He knows about you and me, but he doesn’t know that it’ll be your exhibition… ”

For a moment, there had been silence. Then Peter had said, “I see… ”

“Look, Peter, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t… I feared he wouldn’t come… if he knew. Please… ”

“Hey,” Peter had interrupted him. “I’m not mad, I was just thinking how I’d react if I were him… ”

“And? What would you do?”

“I guess I’d like me.”

Hutch had heard the change in Peter’s voice, as the tension dissolved.

“But if I’d want you for myself… there’ll be a lot of potential for a conflict of interest.”

“No, none at all. Because you already have me.”

“I love you,” Peter had whispered breathlessly. “Yeah! I’m coming,” he added in a loud, annoyed tone to somebody else in the room. Then he said to Hutch, “Sorry, gotta go. Chris is really getting to be a pain in the arse these days…. See you on Sunday, okay?”

“Yeah, but I hope we’ll meet on a little more private basis after that vernissage. . . ”

“Call it a date, Kenneth.”

Acutely aware that he had been drifting, Hutch turned back to Starsky.

“Do you see that? I mean, did you notice the way they are hung?”

“Hi, nice to meet you.” Peter’s voice startled them both as he addressed Starsky. “I’m sorry, I interrupted you. What were you about to say?”

“The photos are hung to give an increasing impression of color,” Starsky said, his eyes skittering over the photos they had just passed.

“Starsky, they’re black ‘n whites,” Hutch said with a sideways glance at Peter.

Peter looked at Starsky with obvious interest, ignoring Hutch’s remark. “Yes, I know. That’s exactly what I intended, but you’re the first person to notice.”

“You took those photos?” Starsky asked.

Peter nodded, his eyes briefly leaving Starsky’s face to meet Hutch’s gaze.

“This is great. I mean, on the first look, I didn’t get it, but then suddenly—boom,” Starsky said, enthused.

“It’s good to see it works,” Peter admitted. “Do you take photos as well?” he asked and Starsky’s face colored lightly.

“Yeah, but, you know, just snapshots, not like—” he made a gesture around the gallery, “nothing like this.”

“If you don’t mind, I would like to take a look at your photos.”

“That… that would be great,” Starsky blushed even deeper. “Maybe you could give me some… advice,” he suggested.

“Sure.” Peter looked briefly at Hutch, then turned back to Starsky. “You like the photos? Took me quite a while to find a logical order. Not to mention two and a half days of rearranging them again. All of them.” He grinned. “Drove the people around here nuts. Do you think…?”

“Peter,” A female voice turned their heads. “Peter, just a second, please… ”

“Excuse me,” Peter said to Starsky, “duty calls.” He joined an expensively dressed woman at a huge glass table in a corner.

Starsky whistled through his teeth. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” Hutch asked absentmindedly, while his eyes were following Peter.

“The watch,” Starsky whispered insistently.

“What watch?”

“The guy’s wearing a Yamamoto Reflex, platinum band and all.”

“I knew I had seen that damn thing before,” Hutch muttered.

“Here I am again.” Peter returned to their side, smiling at Hutch expectantly.

Hutch took the opportunity to finally introduce the two most important people in his life to each other. His heart was beating in his throat when he said, “Starsk, this is Peter Byatt. Peter, this is David Starsky, my partner.”

When their hands met, Starsky turned slightly towards Hutch, gaze questioningly wandering between his partner and Peter Byatt. “You two… know each other?”

“Starsky,” Hutch held his gaze, getting serious, “Starsk, that’s Peter.” He put the emphasis on his lover’s name, nodding slowly.

Starsky needed just a split second to comprehend. Then his gaze returned to Peter’s smiling face, before it dropped to their still joined hands. He ripped his own away as if burned.

Peter’s expression was as friendly as before. “Nice to meet you, David. Ken talks about you all the time.” Glancing sideways at Hutch, he added, “Well, not all the time, of course… ”

“But he sure doesn’t talk about you,” Starsky retorted.

“Oh, Peter, there you are!” Chris Winters rushed towards them and his leather-gloved hand grabbed Peter’s arm, turning him away from the partners. “Sorry, gotta take him away from you. Come on, Peter, the Galveston’s want to meet you.”

When Peter didn’t move, Winters said, “The exhibition is a great success already. You’re talking to the shooting star in the international photo business. We’ve already sold half of the photos.”

“You did,” Peter corrected and looked down at Chris’ fingers, still digging into his upper arm.

“You wear those gloves all the time,” Hutch observed. “Afraid you’ll leave your prints somewhere?”

Winters’ eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond to Hutch’s goading. Instead, he turned back to Peter.

“Yes, I’ve sold your work, that’s right. I’ve also made appointments for you to meet reporters of the Bay City Chronicle and the BC News as well as a TV interview by the end of the week. Because, my dearest Peter, if I didn’t take care of the business, nobody would.” Tightening his grip on Peter’s arm, Chris added impatiently, “Come on now. These people are important.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Enjoy yourself. See you.” He said, winking at Hutch furtively. “Will you please let go of me now?” Peter spat at Winters when he dragged him towards a middle-aged, obviously rich couple, beaming with pride to meet the artist.

“That was Peter’s manager… ” Hutch said with a frown as the two former lovers left. It had taken all of his self-control to watch Winters touch Peter like that and not interfere. Watch Winters touch Peter at all.

“Does that translate to ex-lover?”

Hutch looked at Starsky, not even trying to hide his hurt. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?” Starsky said, the question an odd mix of false innocence and outright challenge.

“Like a jerk,” Hutch stated quietly.

“Because he’s not what you need,” Starsky hissed.

When their gazes locked, hurt met anger.

“If you know so damn well what I need, then why haven’t you given it to me?” Hutch’s voice was low and outwardly calm, but as insistent as his gaze.

“I couldn’t… ” Starsky whispered. “Can’t… talk about it.”

“Then, please, don’t interfere now.” Hutch’s fingers closed around Starsky’s upper arm, his eyes pleading. “Just don’t.” Then Hutch’s gaze fell onto his fingers digging into Starsky’s arm in a gesture so much like the one Winters had used to force cooperation from Peter, he shuddered and pulled his hand away sharply.

“I don’t wanna think about you… with him.” Starsky whispered insistently.

“Then don’t!”

“But you’re not like him… ” Starsky blurted out, looking helpless and out of arguments.

“Not like what?”

“Not a fag—” Although Starsky didn’t finish, Hutch felt his gut tighten and for a moment he was close to losing his composure. Starsky—his best friend, his partner, the man his life depended on in the streets—Starsky had called Peter a faggot. Hutch got his expression back under control. Maybe he would have to get used to hearing insults like that. Not only about Peter, but also about himself. But Hutch had expected them behind his back, not to his face. He would get used to it with time. But right now it hurt, especially coming from Starsky.

Straightening, he said, “And since when are you the expert at putting people into categories?”

“Hell, don’t be such a romantic idiot! You know what I’m talking about,” Starsky hissed, loud enough to turn heads towards them.

“I don’t have the slightest clue. But I’ll think about it in case I have some spare time. —I take it you can entertain yourself without me?” Hutch said coldly. He didn’t feel the cool he displayed, but he would get used to that, too. Stiff-legged with tension, he walked through the crowd, away from his partner.

* * *

Starsky watched as Hutch slowly made his way past the other visitors in the gallery, ostensibly interested in the snacks offered on a long table. From the other side of the room, Byatt made his way, equally inconspicuously, stealing glances at his aim—Hutch.

Hutch and Peter moved towards each other as if drawn by magnetic force. The wordless understanding tore at something within Starsky. It had been a gift they had had once. Until they had taken each other for granted. Or am I the one who has taken something for granted?

As he was moving through the crowd, people wanted to shake Peter’s hand, exchange a few words with him, and they were all treated with the same friendly attitude. Friendly, but absent-minded, a little indifferent even.

Of course he’s absent-minded, Starsky thought, looking at Hutch.

Finally Hutch and Peter stood side by side at the table, both making small talk with strangers, outwardly not acknowledging each other’s presence. Then both turned to get something to eat and their hands touched—pretending coincidence—fingers exchanging furtive caresses. Looking at each other, they smiled affectionately. Peter’s fork fell to the floor and both men bent to get it, their hands touching again, longer this time, while their eyes met.

Then they turned back to the people they had been talking to. This time their spines touched full length.

Starsky shifted uncomfortably as he watched Hutch and Byatt.

This just isn’t right. Hutch shouldn’t look like that. Not so happy. Not with him. Not in public.

An older man, wearing a gray, three-piece suit joined Byatt at the buffet table. They embraced, like father and son, Starsky thought. Hutch turned when Byatt touched his shoulder and was greeted with a warm handshake by the man. He’s already been introduced to the family. Byatt is really serious.

Starsky left the gallery, his insides quaking at the memory of how content Hutch had seemed in his lover’s company.

 

Chapter XII

Starsky had eyed Hutch all morning, while they were working on reports and files, blatant in his attempt to be unobtrusive, worried about that far-away look on his partner’s face, the tender expression that frequently appeared without outward reason.

“What?” Hutch finally asked, unnerved.

“Nothin’,” Starsky muttered.

“Lunch then?”

Although it was perfectly reasonable to think about lunch at 12:45, to Starsky, Hutch’s casual remark sounded almost like a peace offering.

“Yeah. Let’s go to that veggie deli you like so much, you know the one with the plants hanging from the ceiling… ”

“Starsky, it’ll take us half an hour to get there and pick up something to eat and another 30 minutes to come back here.”

Which was exactly why Starsky had suggested it in the first place; half an hour was probably enough for him to muster up the guts to tell Hutch about his snooping and another half an hour for Hutch to get mad at him—and he will be pretty pissed, that’s for sure—cool off, then think again and come to his senses about why Starsky had done it. Why Starsky had had to do it.

“And that’s calculated without waiting in line, let alone eat,” Hutch finished, turning back to his stack of files, having already dismissed the idea.

“We could see that guy in that pawn shop on our way back…you know, ask some questions…” Starsky suggested, hoping that Hutch would agree to the combination of an extended lunch break and duty.

Hutch looked at Starsky, silently examining him.

“Okay,” Hutch said hesitantly, “whatever you wanna do.”

He grabbed his jacket as Starsky slipped into his, before he took a manila folder from his upper drawer.

“What’s that?” Hutch asked.

“Huh? —Oh, I’ll show you in the car.”

* * *

Starsky tucked the folder securely—and inaccessible to Hutch—between his seat and the door of the Torino as they drove to the deli.

“Starsky?”

“Yeah?”

“What is it?”

“What is what?”

“What’s bothering you?”

Botherin’ me? BOTHERIN’ ME? Hell, the turn in your sex life—in our lives—scares the shit outta me, and you got the nerve to ask me what’s bothering me?

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about… ” Starsky said noncommittally.

“It’s Peter and me, right?” Calm.

No, it’s the unfair treatment of female intellectuals in China. “Yeah,” he sighed.

Hutch, obviously, was waiting for him to go on. Starsky pulled the car into a quiet side street and shut off the engine. For a while there was an eerie silence, stressed by the clicking noises of the motor as it began to cool.

“Starsk,” Hutch said softly. Hutch hadn’t used the shorter form of his name in weeks and hearing it now made Starsky flinch.

“Is there more to this ride than a healthy lunch?”

Starsky pulled out the manila folder and held it towards Hutch, refusing eye contact.

“What’s that?” Hutch asked.

“Take it.”

“No way. You tell me what it is and what this is all about.”

But Starsky kept watching the hood of the Torino, glistening bright red in the sun.

* * *

Slowly, Hutch reached out and took the folder. He drew in a deep breath before he opened it. Whatever he had expected or dreaded, what he found was worse.

He found himself staring at a photo of Peter, Peter with a huge bruise on the left side of his face, a bloody nose, cracked lower lip, dried blood on his chin, his right eye swollen shut, and dirty streaks over his face and neck. Dear God.

He closed the folder with a gasp, swallowed audibly, then opened it again. His cop mind was still processing the nauseating details when Starsky started to talk.

“He was found on the evening of November 23rd in a back alley behind a bar where f—”Starsky bit his lip, “—a bar called Damsons in Distress, a gay hangout.”

Hutch stared at the photo, unable to rip his gaze away from the image of the mutilated face. Peter.

“Two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, strangulation marks,” Starsky said, delivering facts. No emotions.

Hutch moved the photo slightly, saw the medical report underneath and the part Starsky had been quoting from.

I should have known. He’s done his homework well, Hutch thought. He always does. Almost learned that report by heart. I wonder what he felt when he first read it. If he felt anything.

More words jumped out at Hutch from the form—Victim has been urinated on. Victim has scratch wounds on his chest spelling the word ‘whore’. Victim is crying.

Hutch slowly, deliberately closed the folder, blinked a few times, willing the images away, then asked, “Why did you spy on Peter?”

“I didn’t spy on him!”

“Why did you spy on me then? But maybe I’m all wrong. Maybe the folder just turned up on your desk.” Anger crept into his voice, increasing with every word, along with the volume. “Kinda accidentally?”

“Hutch! He’s gay,” Starsky said pointedly. “It was all over the news, I’ve checked that. He’s publicly out of the closet since that incident. He can ruin everything we have. Everything we ever wanted. You remember how they talked about John after they found out? If he hadn’t been dead, they would have forced him to leave. You couldn’t be a detective anymore.” Starsky swallowed convulsively before saying, “We couldn’t be partners anymore…”

Hutch flinched, but didn’t answer the threat.

“You got me?” Starsky asked, leaning forward.

“Yeah. Yeah, I got you,” Hutch answered.

Starsky’s voice dropped to an insistent whisper. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Hutch turned his head and made eye contact with his partner of almost a decade. “Nothing,” he said calmly. “And I want you to stay out of this. You listening, buddy?” He put a venomous emphasis on the former endearment.

“But Hutch…”

“Don’t ‘but Hutch’ me, Starsky. I’m dead serious.” His index finger stabbed vigorously at Starsky’s face. “Stay out of this!”

Then he grabbed the radio. “Zebra Three to Control. Come in Control.”

“Roger, Zebra Three.”

“Hutchinson here. I quit for today. Please log me out.”

“Roger, Zebra Three, Hutchinson logged out,” the metallically distorted voice announced.

“Zebra Three over and out.”

Hutch put the radio back, then turned to Starsky again. “No need to pick me up tomorrow morning.”

“But it’s my turn,” Starsky said, sounding irritated. He seemed still confused how this talk had gone so wrong.

“I don’t give a fucking damn whose turn it is, Starsky.”

Hutch got out of the Torino and walked back towards the main street. After a couple of steps, he changed his mind and came back to the car.

Starsky looked relieved as he rolled down the window on his side.

Hutch threw the manila folder into the car, hitting Starsky in the face with it. Then Hutch went back to the corner and waved for a cab, got in when one stopped and left. He could feel Starsky watching him as the cab pulled away.

 

Chapter XIII

Another 24 hours of tense silence between Hutch and him after their fight the day before and Starsky was at his wits’ end. Almost at the end. Grabbing at straws probably—Starsky decided to start a little action on his own. He would talk to the other party involved in this mess that once had been his life. Their lives.

* * *

“Hey, you’re late… ” Byatt opened the door and the expectant look on his face was replaced by a transient pout. “Oh, uhm, I thought… uhm, well, hi.”

Starsky leaned on the doorframe, watching Byatt. He was wearing tight, black leather pants and a plain white shirt, all the way open, as Starsky noticed with a slight twitch. No shoes, no socks either.

Starsky had mistaken Byatt for being narrow-chested, and couldn’t help staring at the exposed ribcage and abdomen now. Byatt was in great shape; his skin pale and smooth, hairless, rippled by well-trained muscles and—unmarred.

Is this what turns you on, Hutch? The perfection? Starsky thought, against his will mentally comparing his own furry, scarred chest with Byatt’s. The prospect of tugging down those tight leather pants?

“Would you like to come in?” Peter stepped aside and Starsky entered the apartment, noticing the polished wooden floor, the expensive furniture, framed photographs—the aura of money.

“Would you like a drink?” Peter offered, keeping eye-contact while buttoning his shirt provocatively slow. “Coffee? Tea?”

“I’m not here for small talk.”

“Join me in waiting for Kenneth then?”

Starsky’s eyes narrowed. “He’ll be running late. I wanted to talk to you—alone.”

Deep down, he knew Hutch wouldn’t appreciate the little trick he’d played on him, but all was fair in love and war.

Byatt sat down on the armrest of a comfortable looking black leather couch. If he was uneasy about Starsky’s appearance, he didn’t show it. Folding his arms loosely in front of his chest, he looked expectantly at Starsky. “Anything specific on your mind?” Byatt’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

“I want to talk… to talk about… Hutch.”

“Oh… ” The amusement was instantly replaced by an expression of worry. “Did something… happen to him?”

“No. Not yet. But it might if… ”

“If what?”

“You of all people should know.” Starsky swallowed thickly. “You do know what could happen to him if someone finds out… about his… ” Starsky’s gaze crept from the floor up to Peter’s face.

“His—what?” Peter asked with a frown.

“His inclination.”

“His in-cli-na-tion?” Peter snorted a humorless little laugh. “You mean you don’t approve of his choice of mates?” When Starsky didn’t answer straight away, he added, “As long as he doesn’t choose you?”

“How dare you—” Starsky spat, his face suddenly burning bright with anger. “He told you?” Hutch would never tell anyone…

Peter nodded.

“He had no right to tell you!”

“Do you want to talk a bit louder? I don’t think they heard you in Philadelphia.”

“I don’t care whether anybody can hear me! He had no goddamn right to tell you!”

“It might seem extraordinary to you, but, you know, other people do talk about their feelings, honestly.”

In the wink of an eye, Starsky was right in front of Peter, hauling him to his feet and shoving him against the wall in one swift motion, knocking down one of the huge stereo speakers with a bang, shattering an expensive looking porcelain sculpture to fragments.

Staring straight into Peter’s hazel eyes, their noses almost touching, Starsky growled, “You know nothing about us. Nothing!”

“I happen to know quite a lot about you and your partner,” Peter said coolly. “You were the most important person in his life for years; nothing, no one could destroy that. Not women, not your injury, not your long recovery. No woman could ever take your part in Kenneth’s life.” Peter cocked his head slightly to the right and his voice lowered just above a whisper. “Are you just jealous, Starsky, or is the real problem here the fact that a man was finally able to do what no woman ever could?”

Starsky let go of Peter’s shirt instantly, stepping backwards as if punched. What the… ?

“Hutch—” Starsky croaked, “Hutch is not like you.”

“And what am I like?” Peter asked tauntingly calm. When Starsky didn’t answer immediately, Peter insisted, “What am I, Detective Starsky? Huh? Come on, tell me.”

“You’re a faggot,” Starsky whispered, ashamed by his words.

Peter’s eyes narrowed, but then, he smiled. “Yes, if you want to reduce me to my sexuality, that’s exactly what I am. Although I’d prefer to be called a man who loves another man. And that’s where your problem lies, isn’t it? That your partner, Kenneth,” Peter hesitated, then added, “that Hutch is the man I love. That he chose me over you.”

His expression must have given him away, because Byatt said, “That’s it, huh?”

The mentioning of Starsky’s nickname for his partner and the way Peter said it—lovingly, as if he had a right to call him Hutch—made Starsky gasp. That he chose you over me… yes, that’s my problem. You’re absolutely right. I want him for myself. More than you—or Hutch—will ever know.

From one second to the next, the anger subsided and Starsky felt no longer in command of the situation, but desperate, begging.

“Please… if you really… care for Hutch,” Starsky said slowly, choosing his words carefully, “let him go. I beg you—don’t ruin his life. Please.”

Without resuming eye contact, Starsky turned to leave.

I did what I had to do; now it’s his decision. His and Hutch’s…

Peter’s voice followed him on his way out. “If you really love him you should let him make his own decisions! And if you are honest with yourself, you know that he already has made that decision. You know that, don’t you?”

Starsky slammed the front door shut to stop Peter’s words, then ran down the stairs, almost knocking down an elderly lady and her dog on his way to his car. He pulled the Torino back into traffic with tires screeching, haunted by Peter’s words. By the truth behind the words.

… that a man could finally do what no woman could… that he chose me over you…

Dammit, Hutch, how could you tell him? Starsky thought, hitting the steering wheel with his fist. I thought it was best for you—for us—to forget what I did, not to stir it again and you? You tell strangers. How the hell could you? You can’t talk to me, but you could talk to him? Dammit, I wanted to tell you what you mean to me. Wanted to show you… I just… had too much booze. Sentimentality. You know I don’t handle soapy scenes well.

Starsky pulled the Torino to the curb, ignoring the shouts and blaring horns of other drivers.

I’m still doing it. Denying what I did, what I felt. Denying the way I feel.

Looking at his reflection in the rearview mirror, he said, “You’re a fucking coward, Detective Starsky, a lousy coward.”

 

Chapter XIV

When Hutch entered Peter’s apartment with his key a few minutes after 11 p.m., hours later than expected, he was fuming. So much time wasted…

“Guess what?” he shouted from the hall, hanging his jacket on the coat rack. “My nutcase partner set me up. Made me drive all the way to—” Hutch shook his head. “Forget it, no longer important now. I’m sorry I’m late… ” Hutch fell silent, listening into the quiet apartment. Peter hadn’t shown up.

Probably he is in the darkroom and didn’t hear me or can’t come out right now. Something to look forward to. We could talk dirty through the door before… Hutch licked his lips in anticipation.

He took a bottle of water from the fridge and went to the living room. Something connected with the tip of his shoe and skidded across the hardwood floor; looking down he saw the shards from a white porcelain sculpture that had been on top of one of the speakers. The shards had been swept into a pile, and although the broom leaned against the wall, the debris hadn’t been thrown away.

“Peter? What happened to the—” The words froze on his lips when his gaze fell on a naked foot lying in the small slice of light that fell from the living room into the bedroom.

“Peter?”

Hutch put the bottle onto the floor silently and drew his Magnum. His senses were refocused all of a sudden, shifting into full cop mode. Staying close to the wall, he made his way towards the bedroom. Pushing the door slowly open with his left hand, he surveyed the empty room. Empty, but for the body on the floor.

Peter! NO!

Holstering his gun, he dropped to his knees, searching Peter’s throat for a pulse. So much blood. No pulse. NO!

Tilting Peter’s head back, pinching his nose, Hutch covered the cool lips with his own and blew warm air into Peter’s lungs. Turning his head he saw Peter’s chest rise and fall again. Breathing in deeply, Hutch repeated the action, then checked for a pulse again. Nothing. Hutch felt panic rise in his throat.

Distance. That was it. He needed to distance himself. Heart massage, he thought.

“Don’t you die on me, Peter, you hear me?” Hutch shouted.

Oh, God, don’t take him away… please, don’t…

Don’t think, Hutchinson, act! Save a life.

He had done it before—when Starsky was shot. And Starsky had survived and had gotten well again. I must do it again! I must save the one I love. I failed to protect him, now I must save his life.

Hutch’s hands moved as if on autopilot. Feeling for Peter’s breastbone, he pushed away every thought the sensation of the cool skin against his own triggered, when he put his hands, fingers interlaced, on Peter’s chest. Fifteen compressions, a shallow breath. Too fast, Hutchinson, take it slow, he admonished himself. Another breath, slower—deeper—this time. Fifteen compressions, three more breaths.

Hutch checked for a pulse again. Nothing.

Come on, Peter, breathe! Breathe for me!

Fifteen minutes later Hutch’s arms hurt like hell, his lungs were on fire and his head was swimming from the lack of oxygen.

Sitting back on his heels, trying to ignore his protesting back, he had to admit defeat. Peter was dead. He probably had been dead when Hutch had entered the flat.

He let himself drop back against the doorframe. His breath came in short painful gasps, while he was staring at his dead lover.

Peter wore tight black leather trousers and a plain white shirt, and his naked feet looked so… alive somehow. Hutch remembered their first dinner in San Francisco when Peter had worn the same clothes and had put one of his bare feet into Hutch’s lap under the table. The foot had looked so vulnerable. Hutch had covered it with his broad hand, needing to feel the warmth and the life rushing through his mate. It seems like only yesterday…

Hutch banged the back of his head against the wooden frame. Maybe the pain would help him to keep his senses together.

I can’t lose it now. Not here. Not now. Get your act together, Hutchinson. Get your sorry ass off the floor and be a cop. Make that call now!

Slowly, he made his way over to the telephone next to Peter’s side of the bed. “This is Detective Kenneth Hutchinson. I need a coroner’s wagon and a crime lab team… ” His voice sounded oddly calm in his own ears as he gave Peter’s address.

Hutch put the receiver back on the cradle and left the apartment. He couldn’t stand to stay so close to the dead body of his lover.

Why does it always have to end like this?

His legs felt numb as he went down the stairs.

Taking out his notepad and pen, Hutch knocked at Phyllis’ door, but nobody answered. He turned to Moira’s door and used the brass mermaid that served as a doorknocker. He heard some low rustling inside and knocked again.

“Who is it?” came the brittle voice of the old neighbor muffled by the door.

“It’s Kenneth, Moira. Please open the door.”

“But… I’m already dressed for the night, Kenneth. Can’t you come back in the morning?”

“Moira, please, it’s important.”

After a few moments, Moira opened the door and as she recognized Hutch, she looked at him expectantly.

“Kenneth, how nice to see you. Even if it is the middle of the night.”

Moira wore a woolen cardigan over an ankle-long white linen nightdress. Her bare feet were shoved into old-fashioned checkered slippers and her gray hair, usually tightly drawn back into a bun, formed now a thin plait, falling down her back. She looked so fragile like that. Hutch wondered how she would take the bad news he was about to deliver.

“Moira, I’m sorry for the late disturbance, but I need to ask you some questions.”

“Yes, dear,” she answered. “What do you need to know?”

“Have you been home all evening?”

“Oh, of course, Kenneth, where else would I be?”

“Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary?”

“Well, I didn’t want to mention it, but since you asked… yes, there was something earlier this evening. I was about to take a walk with Tom.” She regarded her pug, and so did Hutch.

The dog looked up at them and started to pant; with the flews drawn back and the tongue moving like a yo-yo between the two lines of smallish teeth, it gave Hutch the irritating feeling that the pug was laughing at him.

“But you know,” Moira said apologetically at Hutch, “old bones. I’m not that quick on my feet anymore and it took a while to fasten the lead on Tom’s collar. Then I heard this noise, you know, shouting, and a bang, and then an impact as if something heavy had hit the floor… ”

Hutch felt a chill run down his spine. “Do you know what time that was?”

Moira thought about it for a moment, then said, “No, Kenneth, I’m sorry, to me it doesn’t matter whether it’s six or seven or eight o’clock… no, sorry, I don’t know. But it was still light.”

Since it had just gotten dark about an hour before, this was not much of an indication, Hutch thought.

“And what happened next, Moira?” Hutch prodded.

“The door was slammed shut and somebody, I think it was Peter, shouted something. You know, it’s not what he usually does and he shouldn’t make a habit of it. I thought I should have a word with him about that.”

She smiled at him amiably, and Hutch felt his throat tighten. But before he could say anything, she went on.

“Well, anyway that was when I finally got the lead on Tom. We went outside and made our way up to Peter’s apartment only to be almost run over by a man.”

“What man?” Hutch asked, scribbling on his pad.

“That curly-haired man who came running down the stairs as if all the hounds of hell were hot on his heels. Wore what all of those young men wear these days, dark leather jacket and jeans. Didn’t even excuse himself for almost giving poor Tom and me a heart attack, but ran on to his car. Made one hell of a racket as he drove off.” She shook her head with an angry little frown.

“Do you remember the color of the car?” Hutch asked, dreading the answer. Please don’t, he thought, please…

“Yes, dear, of course. It was red. Red with a white stripe on the side, like a Coke can.”

No. That can’t be true.

Slowly he dug out his wallet and the photo of Starsky he kept there. It was worn, the glossy surface broken in many places, crackled and shaped from being carried around in Hutch’s rear pocket.

Turning it around for Moira to see, he asked tonelessly, “Is this the man you saw running away, Moira?”

She frowned at the photo for a moment, then said, “Yes, Kenneth, that is the man. Why?”

Hutch’s heart sank and his throat suddenly was so tight it hurt. Not trusting his voice, he remained silent, but made eye contact with Moira.

Moira looked at him and an expression of shock went over her wrinkled face.

“Oh my, Kenneth, you’re white as a sheet. What is it? Why are you asking all those questions?” Her hand reached out to touch his sleeve. “Did something happen to Peter?”

“Yes,” he replied, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat, aching from holding back tears. “Peter was shot earlier tonight.” Her questioning look told him that she hadn’t understood. “Peter is dead, Moira.”

One hand still clutched his sleeve, she put the other hand over her mouth as her eyes went wide.

“No,” she whispered. “No, Kenneth, that can’t be. I heard him, I thought I should have a word with him about it… not Peter… ” She burst into tears.

Hutch knew that Moira had kind of adopted Peter when he moved into the house, long before he became famous. “In some of her not so clear moments she thinks I’m really her son,” Peter had explained. “He was run over by a car when he was five.”

Hutch pulled Moira into a loose embrace. Holding her against his stomach, he felt the coarse wool against his palm and her small body shake and shudder with every sob.

Hutch raised his right hand, still clutching the photo he had shown to Moira, and looked at it. It was a photo taken before the shooting, probably the last photo taken of Starsky before their world had started spinning the wrong way round.

On the photo Starsky was leaning against the Torino, but only a tiny slice of the bright red paint was visible.

What have you done, Starsky? Did you…? No, you’d never do that. Would you?

The wail of an approaching siren ripped him out of his reverie. Moira was still crying against his stomach, but obviously she had heard the siren too, because she pushed away from his embrace, sniffling. Hutch shivered as the cool night’s air hit his tear-wet shirtfront, wet from her tears.

The wailing of the siren came to an abrupt end when a midnight blue Sedan stopped right next to Hutch’s LTD. Two of Metro’s homicide detectives, Robson and Hendricks, emerged. First Hendricks, then, at a much slower pace, Robson exited the car and walked together over the lawn towards the house.

Watching them was like watching a younger version of Starsky and himself, Hutch thought. Robson, the dark-haired detective originally from Washington, DC, and Hendricks, the California beach boy. Whenever somebody in the department would remark on the similarity between the two pairs of partners, Robson would reply dryly, “Yeah, we’re twins, even our mothers can’t tell us apart.”

Hutch missed Robson’s jokes. Since his wife had died a year ago, he just wasn’t the same man anymore. He still did a good job on the force and watched his partner’s back, but the humor was gone.

During Robson’s prolonged leave of absence due to his wife’s terminal illness, Dobey had partnered Hendricks and Hutch. After a few rounds of complaining on either side and a rough first month getting accustomed to each other, they both had had to admit they were more than just a matter-of-convenience team. They had worked their shifts with growing efficiency and success, but separated the moment they hit the parking lot, heading home to be with their respective partners.

“Hi, Hutch,” Hendricks said now, slightly irritated, “we didn’t copy your response to the one-eighty-seven.” Looking around, he added, “Where’s Starsky?”

“He’s not here,” Hutch answered.

Hendricks looked at Robson, then back at Hutch. “What do you mean he’s not here? Are you here on your own?”

“I was the one who called the murder in.”

“You discovered the body? Shit! It isn’t anybody you knew?” Hendricks asked. Hutch nodded, not trusting his voice. He became acutely aware that Robson was watching him.

“What?” he snapped at the dark-haired detective.

“Nothing,” Robson said calmly. “So who is the victim?”

“Peter Byatt,” Hutch managed with difficulty around the lump in his throat. “Two shots. Chest and abdomen.”

A white Taurus stopped behind Hendricks’ Sedan and diverted the detectives’ attention briefly away from Hutch. Paula Lund, the youngest coroner in Bay City, got out of her car, just as a gray van pulled to the curb behind her. The crime lab team emerged and gathered their equipment from the back.

Paula walked over the lawn towards the waiting group.

“Mark,” she addressed Robson, who just nodded. “Hendricks, Hutch. —Where’s Starsky?” she asked, looking around.

“Not here,” Robson answered as the crime lab team joined them.

“Where’s the crime scene?” the elder of the two technicians asked.

“Upstairs. Bedroom,” Hutch said, but didn’t move, until Paula said, “Shall we go, then?”

Hutch took a deep breath, then led the small group up to Peter’s apartment.

* * *

“This is going to be a long night. The crime scene guys are dusting down the place now.” Robson walked over to where Hutch and Hendricks stood conferring on the landing outside the apartment. “Look what I found in the book on the nightstand.” He handed Hendricks a piece of paper in an evidence bag.

“‘I was looking forward to seeing you all day, but had to go back to the studio at the last minute. C. is driving me nuts these days (imagine me rolling my eyes here). Make yourself comfortable. P. Ps.: Beer is in the fridge,'” Hendricks read out loud.

Hutch’s stomach did flip-flops at the familiar words. Peter had kept the note. Had he kept the others, too?

“P. probably stands for Peter Byatt and C. might be the initial of his lover,” Hendricks said.

“Don’t think so,” Robson threw in. “To whom would you write that your lover is driving you nuts?”

“You got a point there,” Hendricks said, grinning at his partner. “Is this Byatt’s handwriting, Hutch?” Hendricks gave Hutch the plastic bag.

Not trusting his voice, Hutch nodded.

“So Byatt probably had a new lover.” Hendricks turned back to Hutch. “Do you know whether there was somebody?”

God, what am I supposed to say now? He settled for a non-committal shake of his head.

“Any idea who ‘C’ might be?” Robson asked.

“His manager’s first name is Chris. Chris Winters. Apart from that, I don’t know… ” Hutch said, watching Robson scribbling on his notepad.

“No signs of forced entry,” Hendricks stated, looking at the lock. “Whoever shot him either had a key or was let in.”

“How did you get in, Hutch? Was the door unlocked?” Robson asked.

Hutch hesitated, then said, “No, it was locked. But I have a key. Peter and I… we were friends. Close friends.”

One of the crime lab technicians appeared in the doorway. “Did you touch anything?” he addressed Hutch.

“Yeah,” Hutch said absently, regarding his hands and the dried blood on them. “I put my jacket on the rack when I came in, got myself something to drink—you’ll find the bottle on the floor in the living room—and when I found Peter, I touched him. I thought he might be still alive.”

“You did CPR?” Hendricks asked, taking notes.

Hutch nodded. “I thought he was only hurt, seriously hurt, but alive.”

Paula came out of the apartment, closing her bag. Some strands of her auburn hair had loosened from her tight ponytail, and she brushed them back behind her ears.

“Poor guy never stood a chance,” she said wearily. “Two shots at point blank range. Estimated time of death, 9 p.m. Hutch, we’re ready to take the body to the morgue, if you’ve seen enough?” She waited for Hutch’s tight-lipped nod, then gestured for two men with a gurney to go in.

Hutch’s eyes followed the coroner’s assistants into the apartment, as he waited outside, listening to the sound of straps being unfastened. Hutch heard the huffs of breath, when the men lifted the body—Peter, the body is Peter, he thought with a sting of pain—onto the gurney. He knew the sheet was next. A stiff sheet to keep bystanders and gapers from getting too good a look. Last, the straps were fastened again.

“Did you talk to the neighbors?” Hendricks asked.

Handing his notepad to Hendricks, Hutch said, “Phyllis wasn’t at home, just Moira.”

Hendricks thumbed through Hutch’s pad until he found his notes.

“Dammit, Hutch what happened to your handwriting? This is so messed-up, it could be Starsky’s scribble,” Hendricks said with a shake of his fair head. As he opened his mouth to continue the tirade, Robson’s hand came down on his forearm, silencing him momentarily.

“But I can read it,” Hendricks said uneasily, frowning at his partner. “I’ve been Robson’s partner long enough to decipher cuneiform.”

Neither Robson nor Hutch commented on the weak attempt at humor.

The door to the apartment opened wide as the coroner’s team brought out the body, covered by a sheet. Hutch stood and watched the gurney being pushed past him and carried down the stairs. He took a step to follow when Hendricks said, “Where are you going?”

“Morgue,” Hutch answered tonelessly. It’s the last thing I can do for him, not let him go there alone.

“We’ll see you at the station, then?” Hendricks asked, irritated. “Later?”

Hutch didn’t answer as he followed the coroner’s assistants.

Waiting next to the gray van as they loaded the gurney and its cargo, Hutch didn’t want to think about the way the tight straps pressed into the flesh of Peter’s body, didn’t want to think about the darkness in the back of the windowless van, didn’t want to think—

“Kenneth?”

Phyllis’ anxious voice startled him back to the present.

“What’s going on? Did something happen to Moira?”

The rear doors of the van were closed with a bang that made Hutch jump and one of Paula’s assistants said, “We’re going back to the morgue now. Okay?”

Hutch nodded, then turned back to Phyllis. Her blue eyes were wide with fear and at some point she had grabbed his sleeve.

“Ken? Is it—” She looked at the van as it pulled away from the curb, “—is it Moira?”

From the corner of his eye, Hutch saw Hendricks and Robson come slowly down the stairs, talking in hushed voices.

Although it was obviously not meant for his ears, Hutch heard Hendricks say, “What do you mean he’s acting weird?”

“I didn’t say weird, I said he’s acting like a grieving man.”

“What do you mean, grieving? Grieving for whom?”

“Dammit, Steve, sometimes you can be as dense as they come, you know?” Robson said, rolling his eyes. Glancing at Hutch, he continued, “Just look at him. This victim is more than just a dead friend.”

“I think you’re imagining things,” Hendricks said, patting Robson’s shoulder. “Besides, what does that have to do with the murder?”

Hutch felt odd, detached somehow. He had been on many crime scenes, but he had never felt this way, completely numb and fully alert at the same time. Gesturing for the other two detectives to come over, he put his hand on Phyllis’ shoulder and said, “No, Phyllis, it’s not Moira. It’s—” he swallowed, “it’s Peter. He was shot.”

“Oh my God.” Phyllis put her hand over her mouth. “Peter?”

Hutch nodded.

“Who would do something so terrible to a sweet man like Peter?”

Hutch shook his head. “I don’t know, Phyllis. Have you been out all evening?”

“I left around nine. Nine-thirty, maybe.”

A brief sideways glance assured Hutch that Hendricks had pad and pen out already and was taking notes.

“Did you see anything? Somebody you didn’t know? Hear anything?”

She brushed a hand over her cheek, frowning. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, now that you ask. I heard a car backfiring and thought it was my ride. I looked out of the window and there was that sound again, although there was no car in the street. I got my jacket and purse and went outside. I remember thinking that backfiring does sound like a—” she stopped and looked at Hutch. “Like a shot,” she whispered.

Hutch swallowed and made eye contact with Hendricks. “And then?” Hutch asked.

“I was waiting at the curb when I heard someone come down the stairs in a hurry. I turned and saw a stranger running down the stairs. When he saw me, he slowed down to a walk. He was patting down his pockets, for the car keys, I guess. When he pulled them out, something dropped from his pocket. I said, hey Mister, you lost something, but he hurried on as if he hadn’t heard me. Got into his car and off he went.” She drew in a shaky breath.

Hutch squeezed her shoulder, then let go.

Robson got a flashlight from their car and started searching the area Phyllis had indicated.

“Can you describe the man?” Hendricks asked, “Or the car?”

“It was dark. He, he had dark hair, a dark jacket, maybe leather, it caught the light from the streetlamp, yes, I think it was dark leather.” She sniffed. “Jeans. I don’t know… ” She sniffed again.

“You’re doing very good, Phyllis,” Hendricks said patiently. “The car? Did you see the car?”

“I only saw the back of it, when he pulled away. I think, yes, it was red. A sports car.”

“Is this the man?” Hutch asked tonelessly, showing her the picture of Starsky.

Hendricks took a look at the picture, and his eyes shot up to meet Hutch’s, but immediately turned back to watch Phyllis’ reaction.

“I don’t know,” she frowned, “it was dark and I couldn’t really see him. I don’t know. Maybe.”

Hutch put the photo away and said, “Thanks, Phyllis, that’ll be all for now. Get yourself a cup of tea. And maybe you could look after Moira, too.”

Hutch gave her one of his cards and added, “If you remember anything else, call us, will you?”

Phyllis nodded and left. When she was out of earshot, Hendricks asked, “What made you show her Starsky’s picture? Are you deliberately trying to confuse her?” Before Hutch could answer, Robson came back holding up a bagged gun. “Look what I found. I can understand why the guy didn’t come back to pick it up while the girl was watching him… ”

Hutch felt like fainting. He had seen this particular gun so often, seen Starsky clean it meticulously countless times, he would have recognized it anywhere.

Oh no. Starsky.

“Damn, Hutch,” Hendricks said, “wanna sit down? You’re as white as a sheet.”

“That’s… that’s Starsky’s gun.”

 

Chapter XV

Starsky knew it was bad news when the insistent ringing of the phone ripped him out of a deep slumber. He knew it when his eyes flew open and the red luminous figures of his bedside clock read 2:35 a.m. Phone calls in the wee hours usually didn’t mean good news. Not in a cop’s life.

“H’lo?”

“Starsky? You awake?” Dobey’s unmistakable bark came out of the receiver.

“Now I am. Problems?”

“I need to see you as soon as possible at the station. Don’t shower. Don’t shave. Get dressed and meet me in my office.” No invitation. An order.

Starsky flicked on the light of the bedside table and blinked in the sudden brightness.

“What is it?”

“There’s a problem.”

Starsky felt suddenly cold. “Is it Hutch?” He sat up, and folding back the cover, swung his legs out of the bed.

He heard Dobey’s intake of breath, then his weary voice. “You might both be involved.”

Reaching for his jeans on the floor next to his socks and sneakers, Starsky said, “I’ll be there as fast as possible.”

* * *

“Close the door,” Dobey barked when Starsky stormed into his office.

“Where is he?”

“Sit down, Starsky.”

“Cap’n, where is Hutch? What happened?”

“I said, Sit down.”

Looking into Dobey’s eyes, Starsky sat down without further protest. He felt uncomfortable under Dobey’s scrutiny. Watching his superior run both hands through his short, graying curls, Starsky wondered what this was all about.

It can’t be too bad. If Hutch had been seriously hurt in an accident, Dobey would’ve told me right away to meet him at the hospital. If Hutch were dead, God forbid, he wouldn’t have called, but showed up on my doorstep, to take me to the morgue. But what…?

Straightening, Dobey asked, “Where were you between 8 p.m. and 10 p.m.?”

“At home. Why?”

“Is there anybody who can confirm that?”

“No, I was watching TV, alone. Why?”

“All evening?”

“Yes.” Starsky didn’t feel good. Dobey’s tone was not the one he normally used with them, not even when he was mad at them. He’s… business-like. Questioning. Interrogating. The nagging feeling growing in Starsky’s gut since Dobey’s initial phone call had worsened considerably over the last five minutes. Something was wrong. Very wrong. “Please, Cap’n, where’s Hutch?”

“Does the name Peter Byatt ring a bell?”

Starsky fought down a rising feeling of panic. There’s nothing to fear. Hutch and I didn’t do anything wrong. Legally wrong. “Where’s Hutch?” Starsky choked out.

“I take that as a yes. And I ask you again, where were you between 8 p.m. and 10 p.m.?”

“At home. Why?”

Dobey’s insistent gaze pierced Starsky. “Peter Byatt was shot last night around 9 p.m. A neighbor reported a loud altercation… ”

“Fatal?” Starsky asked tonelessly.

Dobey nodded, then continued. “One of the neighbors saw a curly haired man, wearing a leather jacket and jeans,” Dobey looked pointedly at Starsky, “leave the apartment in a hurry, almost knocking her down. The man sped away in a red car with a white stripe on the side.” Dobey shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “After her description, Hutch showed her a picture of you, Starsky. She identified you.”

“Gotta talk to Hutch.” Starsky jumped to his feet.

“Sit down!” Dobey shouted. “You’re going nowhere. IA agreed to meet with you here while I’m present. You can consult an attorney and a union representative before speaking to IA and have an attorney present during the questioning, too.”

“But Cap’n… ” His eyes met Dobey’s. “I gotta see Hutch first.”

“You don’t get it, do you? A man you knew was shot, and his neighbor identified you as having left the scene of crime.”

Starsky felt all color drain from his face. Dobey was right. Until then, Starsky hadn’t realized that Dobey was telling him, he, one of his top homicide detectives, was the prime suspect in a murder case. He’s known me for years… he can’t believe I could kill somebody in cold blood like a common criminal. But if Dobey did believe it—what about Hutch?

“Why would I kill that man?” Did Hutch tell Dobey I killed Byatt?

Shaking his head slowly, Dobey said, “That’s what I’d like to hear from you and Hutch.”

“How’s Hutch involved?” Starsky asked uncomprehendingly.

Dobey spoke very slowly as if to make sure Starsky would get the message the first time. “Hutch found the victim. He’s still in the morgue with the body as far as I know.” Dobey looked at his watch. “We’ll need powder tests of your hands, Starsky. At least we’ll have the negative results to clear you… ”

“They won’t be,” Starsky said darkly.

“They won’t be what?” Dobey looked at Starsky stunned, obviously not trusting his ears.

“The test will come back positive. I was at the firing range yesterday afternoon. Last minute appointment.”

Dobey closed his mouth and ran a broad hand over his face. “That’s complicating things.” He sighed. “A lot.” Looking at his watch again, he said, “Get those tests done on the way to the morgue. I’ll call IA and tell them you’re on your way, but had a problem with your car.”

Starsky was out of the office before Dobey had finished his sentence.

* * *

Starsky pushed the door to the morgue open and the smell of disinfectant and decay made his stomach churn.

“Looking for someone?” The woman in a pale green lab coat didn’t look up from the report she was working on.

“Is Hutch… here?” Starsky forced out.

“Oh, Starsky, it’s you.” Paula Lund’s expression changed from indifferent to sympathetic. “He’s in Room Two. He’s—well, see for yourself.”

He mouthed ‘thanks,’ but no sound escaped.

“Starsky?” Her voice stopped him and he turned to her again. “He’s been in there for more than two hours with the body. He won’t leave. But I have to do that autopsy…” Her eyes pleaded with him to take control of the situation and were full of unspoken questions.

“Byatt was… was a close friend, Paula.” Turning towards the metal door, he added, “I should look after Hutch now.”

* * *

Hutch stood next to the shining stainless-steel table that held the corpse of Peter Byatt. Hutch didn’t touch him; Starsky wasn’t even sure whether he was even looking at the body.

Paula’s assistants had cut the clothes off the body and put them into paper evidence bags; standard operating procedure in murder cases. The body was nude, only covered by a white sheet below the waist. Letting his gaze wander from the torso up to the pale face, Starsky thought Peter Byatt looked strangely peaceful. If it weren’t for the two blood-crusted spots on his chest and stomach he might have been sleeping—with Hutch guarding his dreams. No longer perfect, Starsky realized with a small moment of shock. Not shocked by death, but by the fact that he could draw such a comparison at a time like this.

Slowly, Hutch reached out and touched the pale skin of Peter’s lower arm with his fingertips, running them down to the unmoving, unresponsive hand. Then, with a tenderness that tore at Starsky’s composure—he dragged the sheet up to Peter’s chin, tucking him in ever so tenderly.

“Why are you here?” Hutch asked.

Unsure whether Hutch was speaking to him or the body, Starsky hesitated before he answered, “Because of you.”

After an uncomfortably long silence, Hutch said, “Aren’t we here because of you?”

Starsky’s legs felt suddenly weak. “You don’t… you can’t… Hutch!”

“You were there, weren’t you?” Hutch’s voice was eerily calm. “Do you enjoy this kind of Deja-vu, partner?”

“What?” Starsky’s response was nothing but a breathless whisper, as if all the air had left his lungs, the room, the universe.

“For the second time you tried to talk somebody out of my life, didn’t you? And for the second time a few hours later my lover ended up dead.” Hutch turned slowly to face Starsky. His blue eyes were as cold as arctic ice, matching the tone of his voice. “Where were you when Gillian was strangled?”

Starsky didn’t—wouldn’t—believe his ears. Staring at Hutch, he stammered, “Hutch, you don’t think I… ”

“Where were you when Peter was shot?”

“How can you think I would…?”

“There was a time when I wouldn’t have questioned anything you said. Or did.”

Hutch eyes dropped down to his own hands and Starsky let his gaze follow. In the upturned palms, Starsky noticed the rusty pattern of dried blood in the lines of the broad hands. Heart, life, and fate.

“But now,” Hutch said, “—I don’t know what to believe. Except the obvious.”

“Hutch!” Starsky’s cry was a pained sound emerging from the bottom of his soul as Hutch’s implied meaning registered.

He believes I killed his lover. Doesn’t he know me better?

In the following silence, the door opened and Paula cautiously peeked in. “Dobey called. He wants to see you in his office. Both of you,” she added. Waiting in vain for a sign of acknowledgment, she said, “Did you hear me?”

Hutch ripped his gaze away from Starsky and walked stiffly out of the room. Starsky followed three steps behind, his mind reeling.

He’s in shock. He can’t really think I killed Byatt. Why should I? What would I gain from it?

Starsky’s eyes were fixed on his partner’s back as they walked to Dobey’s office in silence, keeping a new distance between them.

 

Chapter XVI

“Your powder test results indeed came back positive.” Dobey’s voice didn’t give away his feelings, but he felt like he had aged years during the last couple of minutes, since he had gotten the news.

“As expected.” Starsky leaned against the metal file cabinet on one wall of the office, Hutch against the opposite wall, putting as much physical distance between them as possible without leaving the room.

Dobey’s eyes left Starsky’s face and turned to Hutch’s. The lack of emotion he found there hit him, but it was the lack of communication between the two detectives that rattled him the most.

What the hell is going on here?

“Where were you between eight and ten last night, Hutchinson?”

“Chasing after a phantom… ” Hutch replied.

“Huh?”

“Somebody set me up. I drove out all the way to West Hollywood because I was supposed to meet a man there with a lead on a cold case. I waited about an hour, but, of course, it was in vain.”

“What cold case? Who set you up?” Dobey asked, growing more impatient with every word.

“I did,” Starsky said.

Dobey’s stare shifted from Hutch to Starsky without losing its intensity. “You’ve got something to tell me, Starsky?” he bellowed.

“I needed two hours—”

“What for?” Dobey interrupted.

“I wanted to talk to Byatt alone.”

“You were there? At Byatt’s apartment—before he was killed?” Dobey couldn’t believe it.

There was a nod from Starsky, but no reaction from Hutch.

“Dammit, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place! Starsky, if you’ve got something else to tell me… ” Ridding his voice of the anger and confusion he felt, Dobey said, “Starsky, if you shot him… ”

Starsky’s gaze didn’t leave Dobey’s face when he said pointedly, “I did not kill Peter Byatt.”

Hutch kept looking out of the window, seemingly indifferent to Starsky’s words, as if he knew more about Starsky’s involvement in the case than he cared to reveal.

“What were you doing at Byatt’s place, Hutch?” Dobey asked.

“Paying a visit,” Hutch said curtly.

“So you knew the victim, too, Hutch? Since when?” Dobey was about to get really mad. He had never seen his best detectives this monosyllabic before.

“He gave me a lift when my car broke down some weeks ago.”

Dobey looked at him, waiting for more.

“Starsky and I were at Huggy’s; Starsky left first and when I finally went home, my car broke down. Peter Byatt stopped and gave me a ride home. We became friends.”

Starsky visibly flinched at Hutch’s words, but regained his composure immediately.

“I’m taking you off this case,” Dobey said with finality.

Hutch pushed away from the wall and was in front of Dobey’s desk in a flash.

“Why?” he demanded angrily.

Dobey was surprised by the vehemence of the reaction; all he’d seen from Hutch so far had been indifference. He tried to keep his voice even, when he said, “Because of your friendship with the victim. I’m going to assign Robson and Hendricks to the case.”

“Captain,” Hutch interrupted, “excuse me, but I should be the prime investigator. I was the first officer on the scene, and did the initial investigation.”

“Rejected,” Dobey said and although his tone brooked no argument, Hutch wouldn’t give in.

“Starsky was allowed to stay on Helen’s case…”

“What does Helen’s case have to do with this? Helen was Starsky’s…” Stopping, Dobey looked at Starsky and saw his own discomfort about Hutch’s remark mirrored on Starsky’s face. What the…?

“The difference between Helen’s case and the current case is that your partner is implicated in this crime. In case you two haven’t got it ’til now, Starsky is the prime suspect.” Dobey sounded dead serious even to his own ears. He turned back to Hutch, pointing his index finger at Hutchinson’s pale face. “Your main interest should be to help prove your partner’s innocence, shouldn’t it?”

“But Captain—”

Dobey’s fist hit the desk hard, causing both men to jump and make eye contact with their superior. “I said Robson and Hendricks, Hutchinson. Is that understood?”

Hutch didn’t answer, but Dobey noticed the defiance in his expression. More calmly, he said, “I don’t know what is going on with you two. And I don’t want to. But I want…” he cleared his throat, “… no private parties. Do you understand me?” Looking to and fro between them, he examined their faces, trying to find—what? His best detectives, as close as Siamese twins for years, were sitting in their seats like strangers. Worse, like hostile strangers. Won’t it be great to have IA join the menagerie soon?

* * *

As if on cue, there was a knock on the office door and Simonetti entered just as Dobey finished his tirade. Starsky wanted to groan, but confined himself to a roll of his eyes.

“I hope you didn’t allow him to wash his hands.” Simonetti displayed a self-confidence that bordered on arrogance.

He oozes sense of duty and correctness like a snail oozes slime, Starsky thought.

“Well, well, well,” Simonetti said slowly, and a smirk spread on his—despite the ungodly early hour—clean-shaven face, “if that isn’t you, Starsky. I hoped we would meet again. Hello Hutchinson.”

Starsky did not look at Simonetti, but made a show of looking for Dryden. “Didn’t you bring your brain?”

Dobey cleared his throat and said, “Detective Sergeant Starsky is familiar with the procedure of homicide investigations. He voluntarily took the powder residue test immediately after I told him what this was about.”

“Anyway, you should have waited for me,” Simonetti chided.

“You wanted to clean my nails yourself?” Starsky asked.

Dobey shot Starsky a warning glance.

“I just like to make sure everything’s done in a technically correct way.”

“Simonetti, what are you trying to imply here?” Dobey barked.

“Nothing, Captain. I don’t understand why people tend to hurry investigations unless…” Simonetti left the sentence unfinished.

“Unless—what?” Starsky stood and stepped menacingly closer towards Simonetti.

“Starsky!” Dobey’s shout stopped him cold and he stepped back to the filing cabinet. “The results came back about ten minutes ago. There were powder residue traces on Detective Starsky’s hands.”

Simonetti sneered at Starsky. “Interesting… have you called your lawyer yet, Starsky? If not, this might be the right time.”

“You’re jumping to all the wrong conclusions here, Simonetti,” Dobey said. “Detective Starsky was at the firing range yesterday afternoon. I already ordered copies of the forms.”

“Well planned, then,” Simonetti said.

“Careful, Simonetti. I wouldn’t mind a repeat performance,” Starsky said, rubbing his left hand, balled into a tight fist.

“Back off, Starsky,” Dobey said.

Simonetti cut in, “I received Robson’s and Hendricks’ reports already.” He ticked the points off his manicured fingers. “Detective Starsky knew the victim, was in the victim’s apartment last night, a witness overheard an argument, and he was identified by an eye-witness as having left the scene of the crime in a great hurry. And in that hurry he lost what we believe may be the murder weapon.”

Starsky lifted the right side of his jacket to show off his Beretta securely holstered and in place, but nobody looked at him.

Dobey and Simonetti stared at each other, Simonetti with an expression of superiority, while Dobey was barely keeping his cool.

Stealing a glance at Hutch, Starsky was shocked by his partner’s appearance. He was standing at his former place at the opposite wall again, staring out of the window. His lips formed a thin white line in his sickly pale face. Look at me, partner. Don’t shut me out.

But Starsky’s silent plea wasn’t answered.

Simonetti’s movement refocused Starsky’s attention. Holding the door open for him, Simonetti said, “Since the powder residue test results are back, we can take Detective Sergeant Starsky’s official statement now. Hutchinson, I’d like to speak to you later. It would be good to bring your report.” He made a gesture towards the open door. “Starsky—after you.”

 

Chapter XVII

“I didn’t shoot Peter Byatt,” Starsky repeated pointedly. He had lost count of how often he had said it during his statement.

Simonetti opened the file on the desk in front of him and started to read out loud. “Detective, a witness reported a loud argument preceding what we conclude were two gunshots. After that you were seen leaving the victim’s apartment in a hurry, and your hands tested positive for gun powder residues. What’s your explanation for these facts?”

“I. Didn’t. Shoot. Peter. Byatt. I was at his apartment to talk to him, but he was alive when I left.”

“What was the purpose of your visit?”

“None of your business.” Starsky fought very hard for composure. Simonetti wouldn’t make him lose his temper. Not this time.

He didn’t give a damn what this smartass might think of him, but Hutch’s doubts about his innocence had shattered him. How can he believe…?

“So it’s only a rumor that it was a crime of passion?” Simonetti’s attitude was outwardly calm, but his gaze was piercing. “That’s the word on the street, you know.”

“I didn’t shoot Peter Byatt.” Starsky clung to his statement like his last grip on sanity. The blood was roaring in his ears and his fingers curled unconsciously into tight fists; now he knew where this interrogation was heading.

“Did you know that the deceased was a homosexual?”

“I didn’t shoot Peter Byatt.”

“That’s not the answer to my last question, Detective.” When Starsky didn’t respond, Simonetti took an evidence bag from a drawer and put it on the desk in front of Starsky.

Starsky’s stomach did flip-flops as he recognized the item inside.

“That’s a piece of evidence handed in by the investigating officers. The murder weapon as far as we know. Of course, ballistics are still evaluating their tests, but since an officer found it on the pavement next to the spot where your car was parked… Recognize it?”

“It’s my father’s gun,” Starsky whispered.

Simonetti pushed the microphone closer towards him. “Repeat that for the record, please?”

Starsky cleared his throat. “It’s my father’s service revolver.”

“Would you like to explain how it turned up near the scene of the crime?”

“I have no idea how it got there,” Starsky replied, composed again.

“When did you use it the last time?”

“I never use it.”

“What do you mean you never use it? This gun has been fired recently, Detective Starsky.”

“Not by me.”

“Do you want me to believe that someone broke into your apartment, stole your father’s gun but nothing else, that you were unaware of the theft until now, and that the thief went to Peter Byatt’s place and killed him?” Simonetti looked at him with open skepticism.

It sounds completely crazy when he says it, but it’s the truth. Starsky felt sick. Who had done this to him, to them? Who had known about the gun? Hutch. Nobody else.

When Starsky remained silent, Simonetti added, “Isn’t there something you want to say to me, Detective Starsky?”

“I did not shoot Peter Byatt,” Starsky repeated.

Simonetti sighed. “Let’s go over this again. Peter Byatt was gay. He lived openly as a homosexual. You and your partner knew him.” Simonetti paused. “You were both also quite close to Lieutenant John Blaine, weren’t you?”

Starsky took a shallow breath.

“Were either you or Detective Hutchinson involved in a homosexual relationship with Peter Byatt, Detective Starsky?”

Starsky willingly unclenched his fists, but couldn’t suppress the hot rush of color to his face. He forced his eyes to meet Simonetti’s intense gaze and said coldly, “No, we are not… ” Faggots was on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed and continued, “Our relationship to the victim never went beyond friendship.”

It’s a lie, Starsky thought, since I was not a friend of Byatt’s and Hutch was so much more than just friends with him. But that’s not the point here.

Simonetti switched off the tape recorder and stated matter-of-factly, “I’d bet my promotion you’re involved in this killing, Starsky. The only question that remains open to discussion is, whose fuck-buddy was Peter Byatt? Yours or your partner’s?”

“I take it you don’t have any further questions regarding the investigation, Simonetti.” Starsky got up and made an effort not to slam the door as he left.

Outside, he almost ran into Hutch, who had been leaning against the opposite wall and pushed away from it to step into Simonetti’s office.

Starsky’s hand reached out to pat Hutch’s stomach as he had done uncountable times before. After the shock of seeing his father’s gun in an evidence bag and the questioning by Simonetti, he needed the comfort of connecting with Hutch, even with such a small gesture as a pat. But just before he made the contact, Starsky realized how unwelcome his touch might be.

As if on cue, Hutch stopped and made a small, yet unmistakable move to avoid Starsky’s hand as he went into Simonetti’s office.

Starsky stood in the hall, staring down at his own hand, not wanting to acknowledge the enormity of the gap between them. The Grand Canyon came to mind.

Dammit, Hutch, you really do believe I killed him.

* * *

Inside the IA office, Hutch didn’t sit down, but stood with his back against the door. Simonetti sat on the edge of his desk, looking at him expectantly.

“What am I doing here, Simonetti?” Hutch asked.

“There’s no need to be hostile. You were the first cop to turn up at a crime scene shortly after a man was killed. Coincidentally, the victim was a man you knew. You were the one who took the witnesses’ statements and discovered that your partner might be implicated in the shooting.” Simonetti’s eyes rested on Hutch’s face like diamonds—hard and cold. “Are you covering for your partner, Hutchinson?”

“There is nothing to cover, Simonetti,” Hutch said, fighting his rising anger. His mind was replaying the scene outside just a minute ago. Starsky had acted as if this were a case like any other. What had that been in the hall? Had he really reached out to touch him? Like old times? Before they had stopped touching each other altogether? What had that gesture been? Comfort? Reassurance? Acceptance, even when it came too late? Too late?! He pinched the bridge of his nose roughly, then looked at Simonetti again.

“As far as I understand from your statement at the scene of crime you and Byatt somehow became—” Simonetti tapped his index finger against his upper lip as if he were looking for the right word, “—friends?”

“That’s correct,” Hutch answered. He didn’t like the way Simonetti twisted the words to give them a whole different meaning.

“We’ve got an additional statement from one of the victim’s neighbors, Moira McGuire. She told Detective Hendricks that a tall, blond man had been in Byatt’s flat quite frequently over the last few weeks—even at very odd hours. She named you. Do you deny that you’ve been a welcome visitor at Byatt’s apartment?”

Trying to look indifferent, Hutch said nothing.

From the upper drawer, Simonetti pulled out the evidence bag and put it down on the desk. Then he sat, leaning back, regarded Hutch.

“This gun was found near the scene of crime. It’s quite likely that the murderer dropped or lost it when he fled,” Simonetti stated, not taking his eyes off Hutch.

“I was at the scene when it was found, Simonetti,” Hutch said. “I questioned the neighbor who said that she saw a man leave the building who lost something, which turned out to be this gun.”

“You want to take a closer look? Go ahead, take a closer look.” Simonetti paused and leaned abruptly forward. “Do you have something you want to tell me about that gun, Hutchinson?”

Hutch set his jaw, folded his arms across his chest and remained silent.

“All right,” Simonetti said after a couple of minutes of silence. “You don’t have to say it. Starsky has already identified it. I bet the only prints on it are Starsky’s. But of course, any cop would know better than to wipe it squeaky clean… especially when he wants us to believe it was stolen from his apartment. On the other hand, one would assume he would have been smarter than to lose it after using it on Byatt.”

“Be careful what you’re implying here, Simonetti,” Hutch snarled, leaning forward until their noses were almost touching.

Simonetti pulled back first, leaned back in his seat, resting his fingertips against each other. A complacent look spread on his pale-gray face and Hutch suddenly understood why Starsky had punched the man years ago. It was exactly what he wanted to do right now. A single, well-placed straight right would wipe the satisfaction off Simonetti’s face.

“How do feel about the case, Hutchinson? About the fact that your partner may have killed your… friend?”

Unclenching his hands, Hutch got up and left the office, hoping he looked unimpressed. Outside, he leaned against the wall, trying to take deep breaths to clear the cobwebs of doubt in his mind.

Oh God, Starsky, what have you done? Did you go to Peter’s place to talk to him and he got you mad? Did you lose your cool? I didn’t really believe you had anything to do with the murder until I saw your father’s gun. God, Starsky…

* * *

After the door closed, Simonetti’s sneer grew even wider. He’d seen the moment of shock on Hutchinson’s face, the flicker of uncertainty. He’d seen the fine sheen of sweat on Hutchinson’s upper lip as he recognized the gun that once belonged to Starsky’s father, had seen the clenched hands as he’d pushed Hutchinson closer to his limits.

This time, Simonetti was sure, this time when he gave the partners a good shake, at least one badge would hit the floor. He chuckled low, turned in his seat, folding his hands behind his head and looked out of the window. He would have a beer for lunch. As a little celebration.

 

Chapter XVIII

The firm knock on his office door ripped Harold Dobey out of his dark thoughts. He was astonished to see that it was already after 2 p.m.

Obviously not giving a damn about politeness, Simonetti entered.

Pretending to be busy with a file, Dobey said, “What do you want?”

“To fill you in on the Byatt investigation. Ballistics says the bullets that killed Byatt were fired from the gun Starsky identified as his late father’s,” Simonetti said. Then he added coolly, “And to inform you that we’re going to issue a warrant to arrest Starsky for murder in the first degree.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Simonetti,” Dobey barked. “Murder in the first implies premeditation!”

“Of course it does,” Simonetti said calmly.

Dobey stared at him with a frown, then said, “Why would Starsky kill that man?” He shook his head. “There’s no motive… ”

“I could think of at least two,” Simonetti replied. “The two of them are partners and close friends. What would it do to their partnership if one of them became friends with an openly gay man?”

Dobey snorted. “Nonsense.”

Simonetti silently watched Dobey’s face for a few moments, before he said, “What were they doing at Byatt’s place? They say they were friends. But why wouldn’t friends go there together, instead of at different times of the night?”

“Come on Simonetti, I got stuff to do. What are you implying here?”

“I say one of them, or even both, might have had an affair with the victim.” Dobey opened his mouth to interrupt Simonetti, but was cut off. “Just let me finish this, Captain. Let’s say, just for the sake of discussion, Hutchinson had an affair with Byatt. Surely, Starsky would have a major issue with that. What if Hutchinson were exposed? Captain Dobey, whether we like it or not, we both know about the problems homosexual officers face on the force. I don’t need to tell you—”

“You’re right, you don’t need to tell me,” Dobey cut in. “That’s sick.” He looked sternly at Simonetti. “Even if Starsky didn’t like the idea of Hutch being friends with a gay man, it isn’t a motive for murder.” He shook his head angrily. “But for the sake of discussion, let’s say Starsky shot Byatt. Don’t you think he would know how to cover his tracks?”

Simonetti leaned forward, resting his hands on Dobey’s desk. “Nobody said Starsky wasn’t clever. After all, he’s a cop. He knew what we’d be looking for.”

“What do you mean?” Dobey got up, and bent towards Simonetti.

“He fired a few rounds at the range and later went to Byatt’s apartment. They had an argument and Starsky shot Byatt. Once the murder was discovered, he told you about the firing range. Smart, really smart.”

“Nonsense,” Dobey huffed.

“Premeditation,” Simonetti said pointedly.

Dobey tried hard not to show the effect that word had on him. Premeditation could mean the death penalty.

Simonetti produced a sharply folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket, and waved it slightly in front of Dobey’s face. “This is a warrant for the arrest of Detective David Michael Starsky for murder in the first degree,” he said, and placed it on the desk.

Dobey got up and leaned heavily on his fists. It seemed a good way to ensure that Simonetti would leave his office unharmed.

His unyielding gaze was met with an icy stare. “You know where he is? Otherwise… ”

“Otherwise—what?”

“Otherwise you should put out an APB on him.”

When Dobey didn’t react, Simonetti reached for the phone. “Want me to do it?”

Dobey pressed the receiver firmly down on its cradle. “He’s one of my men and I’ll deal with him.”

Simonetti stared back at him for a long moment, then let go of the phone and left the office wordlessly.

Dobey ran a slightly trembling hand over his face, letting it rest over his closed eyes. “I’m getting too old for this job… ” he mumbled. Walking around his desk, he felt tired and too heavy. Opening the door to the eerily quiet squad room, he felt everybody’s eyes on him, as if they had been waiting breathlessly for his door to open and for him to announce the verdict.

His voice sounded weary in his own ears as he said, “Hutchinson, in my office.”

* * *

“Captain?”

“Sit down.”

Hutch complied, waiting for Dobey to go on. But his superior just looked at Hutch, his eyes searching his face.

“You think Starsky killed Peter Byatt?” Dobey asked finally.

Hutch’s jaw was working, but he didn’t answer right away. Ever since he had told Starsky about Peter, Starsky seemed completely occupied, almost obsessed by the idea of ending the relationship. He had tried to talk Hutch into leaving Peter, he had tried to talk Peter into leaving Hutch. What else would he have done to get rid of Peter? Would Starsky have really gone as far as killing?

No.

Try again, Hutch admonished himself.

Could he picture Starsky holding his father’s gun, face-to-face with Peter, shouting at him, aiming at his heart, pulling the trigger? Could he?

No. Starsky might not have taken the news well, but he would’ve never killed Peter. Not like that. No.

“The bullet was fired from Starsky’s revolver.” Dobey’s gaze drifted briefly to the paper on his desk before he met Hutch’s eyes again. “Simonetti issued a warrant on Starsky.” Dobey picked it up and held it out to Hutch. “Bring him in.”

Hutch looked at the folded paper as if it would bite and said, “You know what you’re asking?”

“It’s you or an APB.”

Hutch reached out to grab the warrant.

“No stunts, Hutchinson,” Dobey admonished seriously, handing him the paper finally. “No stupid stunts this time.”

“Captain, I know how it looks… but Starsky would never kill somebody. Not like that.”

Dobey nodded. “That’s what I hoped you’d say. Now, go and bring him in.”

 

Chapter XIX

Starsky wasn’t at his apartment when Hutch arrived.

He hadn’t been at Starsky’s place since that night when things had gone so wrong between them, but a quick glance told him nothing had been changed—not even the couch. How can he stand having this constant reminder around?

Hutch sat stiffly, prepared to wait for his partner as long as it would take. He felt uncomfortable. Too many memories…

As he shifted his position, the warrant in his pocket rustled like a rattlesnake. Putting it on the table in front of him, he thought, This time the roles are reversed.

And a mean little voice in the back of his head whispered, But you won’t do for him what he did for you then, will you, Detective?

No, he wouldn’t. The voice was right.

It’s different this time…

Oh, yeah, this time it’s not your ass they’re gonna nail…

The voice was right again. But when Vanessa was murdered, things had been different. He had been innocent.

Uh-oh, and Starsky’s guilty?

No! No.

He had wanted to believe his own words when he told Dobey that Starsky could never kill somebody just like that. He desperately wanted to believe Starsky hadn’t killed Peter.

I trusted him with my life for years. I never doubted him. Why do I now?

Because somebody’s killed your lover and Starsky is the easiest target for your grief and your anger. He’ll never run from you, not even when you lash out at him. Not even when you hit him.

Like I did in the morgue.

He pulled the latest issue of the Bay City Dispatch out of his pocket. The headline had caught his eye and he had felt the need to buy all copies the store had in stock, to make sure nobody else would see it.

The headline read, “Who Shot The Shooting Star?” And in smaller font, “Former Hero Cop Questioned In Murder Investigation Of Celebrity Photographer Peter Byatt.”

Below it was a promo shot of Peter, his face all sharp edges and bones, his expression serious. Next to it was a blurry image of Starsky, cut and blown up from a picture taken on the day of their reinstatement in the early days of what turned out to be the Gunther case. But nothing of the upcoming events was visible in the photo; this photo showed a confident, happy, carefree man.

Didn’t take Gunther long to change that.

He put the paper next to the warrant on the coffee table and started pacing the well-known apartment, touching things, looking into drawers at random.

Snooping?

I’m a cop. I’m a homicide cop investigating a murder case, Hutch assured himself.

And what are you looking for? Evidence or exoneration?

Hutch found himself in front of Starsky’s desk, staring at it, trying to shake off the voice in his head. And before he made a conscious decision, he watched his own hand reach out for the right lower drawer and pull it open.

I’m investigating…

Yeah, keep telling yourself that; you might actually start to believe it, the voice taunted him.

Hutch stared down at the plain wooden case, where Starsky had kept his father’s gun.

The wood was polished to a shine, as usual. With a pen, Hutch lifted the case until the small brass lock caught some light. No scratches around the lock.

Simonetti’s words resounded in his ears. I’m betting the only prints are Starsky’s.

Hutch took an evidence bag out of his pocket and used it like a glove to flick the lid open.

Empty, except for the paraphernalia Starsky used to clean the gun, and an almost empty box of ammunition.

Hutch closed the case with a sting of disappointment. What did I expect to find?

The crime scene guys would dust the place down soon; maybe they were already on their way. Sitting down on the couch again, Hutch sighed.

Will they find anyone else’s prints except Starsky’s?

* * *

When he heard the key in the door, Hutch stood slowly.

Starsky didn’t seem surprised to find him waiting.

“Where have you been?” Hutch asked.

“Took a walk.” Starsky shrugged, then said quietly, “I’ve been at the gallery.”

Hutch felt a hot knife twist in his guts. Just a few days ago…

“They’ve put up a photo of him, black ‘n white, framed in black…”

“Starsky!” Hutch said warningly. He didn’t want to hear it.

“White lilies, candles…”

“Stop.” It was a pained groan.

Their eyes met.

Starsky looked away first; his gaze dropped to the newspaper, then returned to Hutch’s face. “Another 15 minutes for me?” Squinting his eyes, he said, “They could have taken a better picture, though.”

“Starsky…” Hutch took the warrant from the table. “I’m not here for small talk.”

“I see,” Starsky said quietly. “You’re going to cuff me?” He was not joking.

“Starsky, I don’t have a choice.”

Nodding, Starsky turned and presented his wrists behind his back.

“Aw, Starsk, no!” Hutch’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

“It’s okay, Hutch. Do it. I’m grateful that you came. Dryden wouldn’t’ve felt right.”

A violent shudder ran through Starsky’s body when Hutch’s hand came to rest on his shoulder and turned him around.

“I won’t cuff you,” Hutch choked out. “Dobey wants me to bring you back to Metro.”

Hutch didn’t move when Starsky looked him right in the eyes and said, “I didn’t kill him, Hutch.”

I wish I could believe you no matter what. But I don’t understand what happened. How could somebody break into your place without leaving any trace? How could someone find your father’s gun? There wasn’t much time between when you left Peter and I got there. Maybe an hour. Two at best. How could somebody use that small time frame to get there and kill Peter and leave without being seen? I want to believe you. I wish I could. I really wish I could.

 

Chapter XX

After Hutch brought Starsky to Dobey’s office, he left the squad room long enough to make sure he wouldn’t see them leaving to process Starsky. He didn’t want to be there to see their fellow cops watching Starsky’s fall from grace.

The drive from Starsky’s place to the station had been bad enough. They had both remained silent, as if there were nothing left to be said, but the silence had been filled with all the things they would have to sort out sooner or later.

When he was sure Dobey and Starsky had left, Hutch returned to his side of their desk, trying hard to ignore the empty seat across the table, where Starsky usually sat.

Maybe I’d better get used to him not sitting there…

He pushed the unwelcome thought aside with an angry growl, but it came back.

What if…?

The other detectives in the squad room were quiet, but Hutch felt their gazes brush over him every now and then.

Trying to run from his unbidden thoughts and the sidelong glances of his fellow cops, he grabbed his jacket and left the precinct.

I’ve got to find out what happened. I can’t stand this limbo. I got to do something.

* * *

The gallery where Peter’s vernissage had been was redecorated just as Starsky had described; candles, calm little lights in the dim room, flickered softly when the draft of the closing door hit them. The smell of lilies was thick in the air, almost suffocating.

Hutch slowly went over to a large, black-framed portrait of Peter.

Unruly dark hair, laughing eyes, and a teasing smile. He looked so vivid, as if ready to leap out of the frame and shout Surprise! Hutch’s throat tightened and his eyes filled.

Peter had given him some framed photos from the same series as a present just two days ago.

“Studies in contrasts,” Peter had said, “but—what a match!” He’d given Hutch that wistful, sexy look that turned his knees into Jell-O and his groin into throbbing heat, aching for the touch of Peter’s long-fingered hands.

On the back of the frame Peter had written a message in black ink: ‘Strength. Tenderness. Equality. + Love.’

* * *

They had both been stark nude when Peter had taken the photos, Peter’s hair still damp from the shower they had taken together earlier.

“Good thing you left your marks on the back of my neck… ” Peter had mused while setting up the photographic equipment, smiling over his shoulder at Hutch.

Hutch, sprawled on the couch, eyes heavy-lidded in the afterglow of lovemaking, had smiled back.

It had been the night after the vernissage and Hutch had already gone to bed when Peter had called him way after midnight and asked him to come over.

“Will I regret it?” Hutch had teased sleepily, and Peter had answered, “Are we talking about sleep deprivation here?”

Lowering his voice to a seductive purr, giving Hutch the prickly sensation of goosebumps rising all over his legs, Peter had added, “I promise you won’t get much sleep tonight. Sound good?”

A sharp intake of breath had been all the answer Peter had been waiting for. “See you in 20 minutes then?”

“Gotta get dressed first…” Hutch had argued weakly.

“Don’t put on too much. ‘S just stuff to get out of the way, you know?”

A low chuckle, a click, and Hutch had vaulted out of his bed as if being fired from a launching platform.

Sixteen minutes later he had been at Peter’s apartment, hard as a rock, panting from running and anticipation, and they had made out right on the floor in the hall, rubbing against each other like crazy.

“May I… would you mind if I…?” Peter had stammered, suddenly unexpectedly shy. “I’d like to take photos of you…. Want to remember that look on your face forever.”

“Together?”

“Yeah,” Peter had breathed, smiling, and had brushed a moist blond strand off Hutch’s forehead. “You and me. Together. That’s nice.”

He had set up the camera after a quick shower, then taken the self-portraits first.

“You look positively radiant… ” Hutch had said.

Peter had laughed at the remark. “They’ll put it on the back of my new book… and every time I’ll look at it, I’ll grin, remember this night—and probably get a zipper-wrecking hard-on.”

Peter had carefully chosen negatives and had developed the first prints himself.

While he had been working, hands busy with photographic paper, negative strips, and the enlarger, Hutch had marveled at Peter’s slender body, his bony features softened by the red light of the darkroom.

“Ken?”

Hutch had almost jumped at the quiet voice. “Huh?”

“Your partner was quite tense tonight, wasn’t he?”

“Hmm,” Hutch had replied noncommittally.

“Was that because of—us?” Peter hadn’t stopped working on the enlarger, but there had been a sudden stiffness in his hands.

For a moment, Hutch considered lying. No, you know, heavy workload, the gruesome things we see. All that… But then Peter had turned to him and suddenly lying hadn’t been an option.

“Yeah,” Hutch had admitted in a low voice.

Peter had nodded and turned back to his equipment. “Did you finally talk to him?”

“About us?” Hutch had asked, trying to buy time.

“No. About what happened between the two of you.”

“No.”

“You’ve gotta.” Peter had pressed a button and both their faces had appeared below the enlarger. Peter had studied the projection intensely, brushing over the brow of Hutch’s image tenderly. “For him and for you.”

“Yes, Mom.”

The long-fingered hands had stilled on a screw they had been turning. “I’m serious, Ken.”

Then the hands had been back into action, putting photographic paper from a black plastic bag under the enlarger, pressing a button. Again, their faces had flashed up.

Peter had taken the paper and put it face down in the developer, picked it up again with a long forceps, turned it right side up, waited until their images had appeared, then watered and fixed it. Every movement had been repeated thousands of times over the years, his hands now working on autopilot. Having put the enlarged photo into fresh water, Peter had turned to him and leaned against the table.

“I know it’ll be difficult, but—what’s the alternative? Go on pretending nothing happened?”

Though Peter hadn’t raised his voice, Hutch had felt punched. Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he had said, shifting into defensive mode, “It’s what’s best for us.”

“The hell you know.” The tone had been gentle, yet the words had been unmistakable.

With two steps, Hutch had been in front of him, gripping Peter’s naked arm hard. “You know nothing about us!” he had shouted.

If Peter had been intimidated, he didn’t show it. “From what you’ve told me, I thought you were friends,” he said. “Not the kind of friends money can buy. The real thing.”

Hutch’s hands had lost their grip on Peter’s biceps and he had backed away from the quiet voice. “I didn’t know how…didn’t know where to start.”

Hutch remembered how lame the excuse had sounded, even in his own ears. “Starsky tried to talk about it… I think,” he had continued.

Peter hadn’t said anything, but from his stance—hands halfway buried in the front pockets of his jeans, head slightly tilted to one side, eyes fixed on Hutch—it had been clear that he would patiently listen to anything Hutch had to say.

“He tried to talk to me… the week after… you know, after it happened.”

“And?”

“I asked him to let it rest. Never mention it again.” Hutch had turned and hit the wall with his fist. “I know it was wrong. I know it was the coward’s way out. I know I shouldn’t’ve done it. I know it’s my own fault that things got out of hand since then.” He rested his forehead next to his fist against the wall. He had expected Peter to join him, to touch him, but nothing had happened. “Why don’t you say anything?”

“What do you want me to say?” Peter’s voice was low.

Hutch leaned against the wall, looking at him in the red glow. “Is it too late?”

“Too late is when we’re dead, Ken. Talk to him.”

“Why is that so important to you?” Hutch had asked.

“Because it makes you unhappy to live like this. I want you to be happy. With me. And with him. He will always be in your life, Ken.” Peter had shrugged. “And he really seems to be a nice guy. Maybe one day we can be friends, too. Not like the two of you. But, you know, accepting.”

Hutch had closed the distance between them and folded Peter into a tight embrace.

“I love you, you know that?” Hutch whispered.

“Actually, the thought had occurred to me lately.” Peter had kissed him deeply, before he had turned back to the enlarger and the negatives.

* * *

The three photos Peter had framed for Hutch told a story of their own: The first one showed them grinning into the camera like friendly, harmless idiots. On the second, their grins had mutated into tender smiles as they looked each other in the eye. Actually, it had felt as if Peter’s eyes had reached down to look right into Hutch’s soul. On the last one, their faces had been turned back towards the camera again, still smiling. Their expressions were full of anticipation, full of tenderness, afterglow still lingering.

Peter had been more than satisfied with the results of his work, humming as he hung up the dripping photos to dry.

Yawning, he had taken Hutch’s hand. “You’ll come to bed?”

“To sleep?” Hutch had asked, pretending suspicion.

“That’s what beds are for… ” Peter had kissed him again in the warm, red glow, stirring thoughts very likely to veto sleep, “unless you’ve got a better idea… ”

Just two days ago…

* * *

“It’s so unreal. Peter did that photo himself just a few days ago,” said a female voice behind Hutch’s back. “And now he’s… ”

Hutch blinked back the tears and cleared his throat before he turned.

“You know, actually the gallery is closed today. Peter Byatt,” she made a small gesture with her left hand, “the artist, he was killed last night.” She wiped her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex. “I’m sorry,” she sniffed, “but Peter was more than just a client.” She blew her nose, then said, “Sorry, I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Louisa Hernandez. I’m the owner of the gallery.”

Shaking hands with Hutch, she turned back to the portrait. “What a loss,” she sighed, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with the tissue. “Chris is so devastated… uhm… you know Chris was his… uhm… ”

“Manager,” Hutch supplied.

“Right. He was his manager,” she said, obviously relieved. “Wait a second. We’ve met before, haven’t we?” She cocked her head to one side, frowning. “I’m good with faces. Yes, now I remember. You were at the vernissage, right? I’ve seen you talk with Peter and his father, right? You were a friend of Peter’s?”

“Yeah. A friend,” was all Hutch could manage. He cleared his throat again. “So, is Chris around? I’d like to talk to him… pay my respects… ” He almost choked on the lie.

“No, he was here this morning, when the police came to deliver the news, you know, that Peter had been killed. The policemen asked him to come down to the—what did they call it—precinct? Station? Whatever. They took him right away. The police could at least have given him some time to compose himself. But,” she said raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows, “guess what? They even want to talk to me. God only knows why… ” She gave up babbling, holding out her hands in a gesture of surrender.

“I’m also with the police, Mrs. Hernandez,” Hutch said calmly, “and it’s just a matter of routine. Me and my colleagues need to talk to everybody who knew the… ” Hutch couldn’t bring himself to speak of Peter as a victim or the deceased. “Everybody who knew Peter,” he finally settled for.

“But poor Chris. Everyone wants interviews now. God, it must be so hard for him to talk about Peter… ” She bit her crimson lower lip and shook her head with a small sigh of compassion. When she spoke again, Hutch saw lipstick on her front teeth. “He’s… devastated by Peter’s death. —I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice suddenly was no longer strung-out, just sad and tired. Her eyes drifted back to Peter’s portrait. “It still seems so unreal, you know?” She looked at Hutch, her eyes again full of tears. “How do you cope?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea, Mrs. Hernandez,” Hutch forced out. For the first time he realized how many lives the shock waves of Peter’s violent death had hit and turned upside down. On impulse, he took her hand into his. It was small against his own, cool and slightly trembling, like a frightened bird. “I’ll let you know if I ever find out,” he said seriously, walking slowly towards the door. “Will you come to the precinct to answer our questions? Today?”

“Your colleagues asked me to come around five,” Louisa Hernandez said, showing Hutch out.

 

Chapter XXI

Back at Parker center, Hutch found a note on his desk.

We got Winters in No.2

Hendricks

When Hutch entered the darkened room next to the interrogation room number two, he was surprised to find Dobey there. On the other side of the one-way mirror, Robson and Hendricks were sitting on opposite sides of the small table, and between them Chris Winters slouched in a chair, looking hung over. Next to him sat a man in a gray suit.

“Cap?” Hutch was unsure what to expect.

“They’ve been all over him for half an hour, after they waited for more than three hours for his lawyer,” Dobey said without taking his eyes off the one-way mirror. “Said he was at a party last night where he got himself drunk. Robson said he still smelled like a liquor store when they picked him up at the gallery where Byatt’s exhibition is. Hendricks said Winters was all tearful, acting totally grief-stricken when given the news of Byatt’s death.”

“But why did they bring him in?” Hutch asked.

Dobey turned and looked at him disbelievingly, before he turned back to the mirror. “What do you mean, why? They—” He pointed at the two detectives in the adjoining room, “are doing their job. They brought him in as a putative suspect. The people Byatt worked with recently told them that Winters and Byatt were fighting a lot. Seemed that Winters wasn’t exactly scrupulous when talking to his—”

Not looking at Hutch, Dobey asked, “Did you know that he and Byatt were—” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearing his throat. “Winters said they had been…”

“A couple?” Hutch suggested tonelessly.

Dobey nodded.

“Yes, Peter told me.”

On the other side of the mirror, Hendricks asked, “Do you have any idea who might’ve had a grudge against Peter Byatt? Did he have enemies?”

“Enemies?” Winters snorted. “Peter was the hottest guy in town—and everybody knew it. He left a lot of broken hearts along his way and maybe some jealous ex-lovers who were dumped by him. But enemies? No. None that I know of.”

“Why did you say you broke up with him?” Robson asked.

Hutch balled his hands into tight fists. Winters broke up with Peter? Don’t make me laugh!

“Insurmountable differences.”

“And that translates to?” Hendricks insisted.

“You don’t have to answer, Mister Winters,” the lawyer said.

“He started cheating on me,” Winters said darkly, ignoring his lawyer’s advice. “I think the fame went to Peter’s head. He was handsome, successful and, last but not least, he was rich. That combination can buy anybody’s attention. He liked to experiment, you know? If it hadn’t been for me, he would have turned his life into a never-ending orgy. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He called me a spoilsport; he told me that homosexuality is not about monogamy.”

Hutch clenched his teeth so hard, his jaw muscles ached.

“To him it was all about sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll. He started to pick up men at odd hours and places just for the thrill of it. Indiscriminately.” Winters shook his head. “It was sad to see what fame had made of him.”

“You mean, Peter Byatt had no meaningful relationships after you two split?” Hendricks’ tone had been calm, yet unmistakably disapproving.

Winters stared at Robson, momentarily speechless. Then he leaned forward and pointed his index finger at Hendricks. “Men like you,” Winters’ tone and expression said straight guys, “can’t imagine what it’s like to love another man, right? Eeeek, hairy guys. You go back to your good little wifeys,” Hutch saw the flicker of pain on Robson’s face, “at the end of the day, don’t you? I have no one to go back to tonight. Never again.”

Winters’ voice broke on those last words and Hutch clenched his teeth even harder. The man was really putting on a show.

“Have you got any idea what brought about the change in Mr. Byatt’s attitude?” Hendricks’ tone was emotionless.

“Yes.” Winters took a deep breath. “Yes, I think I know. He was severely beaten last year. He was attacked behind a bar where gay men meet.” Winters looked at Hendricks. “The man who attacked him was never caught.”

You bastard, Hutch thought. You son of a bitch.

“Were you in the bar that night, Mister Winters?”

“You don’t have to answer that question, Mister Winters,” the lawyer said, then turned to Robson and Hendricks. “Mister Winters agreed to answer some of your questions concerning the murder of his business partner, and you’re treating him like he’s a suspect.”

Winters said, “I have nothing to hide, Mister Martin.” He turned to Robson, “Briefly, yes, but I left before it happened. Maybe Peter went out with a man to—” He looked first at Robson, then at Hendricks, as if he wasn’t sure how to put his memories into words. Or what he wanted to say.

“To do what, Mister Winters?” Hendricks asked impatiently.

“What do you think?” Winters snarled. “For a quickie. Hand job. Blow job. Peter was game for anything. He liked it fast, no obligations, no ties attached.”

Hutch felt as if he’d been punched. Whenever Winters opened his mouth, another lie fell out. Hutch desperately wanted to have some time with Winters alone to pound some sense into him.

On the other side of the mirror, Hendricks slid the crime scene photos onto the table.

Robson flipped through the glossy black and white photos, putting them in front of Winters on the table.

Hutch remembered everything: the shards on the living room floor, white against the dark hardwood, Peter on the floor of his living room, naked feet sticking out from the black leather pants. In the pictures, the blood on Peter’s white shirtfront was a dark shade of gray, almost black. Hutch swallowed thickly.

Winters stared at the pictures wide-eyed. Hutch saw Winters’ Adam’s apple bob convulsively before he swept the photos from the table and growled, “You bastards.”

“I must protest, Officers. Your behavior is outrageous,” Martin cut in.

“Did you kill Peter Byatt, Mr. Winters?” Hendricks asked calmly, ignoring the lawyer’s interruption.

“Do you actually expect my client to answer that question?” the lawyer asked, his voice tinted with anger.

Hutch was taken aback when Winters got up, stood right in front of the mirror and looked at his reflection. For a moment it seemed as if he could see through the mirrored glass right into Hutch’s eyes. Then Winters turned back to Robson and Hendricks. His attitude had changed back to grief as he sat down again.

“I loved him,” he said, brushing a stray tear away. “We broke up, yes, but we still kept our business relationship, because it was good for both of us. I loved the man, but I couldn’t live with him anymore. Maybe you should look for his killer among those who tried getting close to him or those who were dumped by Peter.”

“Do you mean anybody in particular, Mister Winters?” Hendricks asked impatiently.

“One of Peter’s latest pick-ups is one of your people. A homo-cide,” Winters smirked at Hendricks, “cop. A tall blond. Nordic type. Hotchkiss? No, wait, Hutchinson. The name is Hutchinson.”

From the corner of his eye, Hutch saw Dobey turn to him.

“Just friends?” his superior asked.

“Cap, I—” Hutch started, but Dobey’s gaze—more hurt than angry—silenced him.

“I thought we knew each other too well for lies, Hutchinson.”

Dobey was upset. And he was right. Hutch shouldn’t have lied about the nature of his relationship to Peter in the first place. But how could he have told him?

“Cap—”

“I don’t think this is the time or place to discuss this. But I’m sure you understand what that statement—” his thumb pointed at Winters on the other side of the one-way mirror, “does to Starsky’s case, don’t you?”

Hutch nodded. He hadn’t thought about it, but yes, of course, it meant Starsky not only had the opportunity, but also a motive to kill Peter. Having his partner exposed as “gay” could have been the end of their partnership on the force. If a jury believed Winters’ statement, they could decide that Starsky had killed Peter because he had seen no other way to protect their partnership. Opportunity and motive could add up to a guilty verdict.

Hutch hung his head. Murder in the first…might mean death row.

The door to the small anteroom opened and Robson entered. “Cap, Hutch,” he said, leaning against the wall, looking at Winters through the mirror. “We’ll have to let him go. There’s nothing to keep him on.” Looking back at Hutch, he said, “I’m sorry.”

 

Chapter XXII

Starsky wasn’t surprised to see Dobey instead of Hutch show up to spring him from the holding cell 48 hours after his arrest.

“What took you so long?” Starsky asked, rolling his shoulders and trying to massage the stiffness out of his tense muscles.

“It took a lot of convincing to get you out on bail.” Despite his words, Dobey looked like a huge weight had been lifted from him recently.

The guard on duty unlocked the prison cell and let Starsky step out. “You know where to claim your personal belongings?”

Starsky nodded and walked next to Dobey down the aisle.

“Did Hutch…? I mean, did he pay my bond?” Starsky asked, hoping against hope that the answer would be yes.

If he paid my bond—and it must’ve been quite a lot—then he must believe I’m innocent. He wouldn’t pay if he believed I killed Byatt, Starsky thought.

Dobey sighed. “No, I paid the bond.”

Starsky felt as if he’d been punched. “Oh,” he said weakly. Hutch didn’t pay my bond. Does he really think I’m a killer?

It took a moment for Starsky to get his reeling emotions under control. “But Cap—How? I mean, it must have been a lot. Premeditation and all.”

“I talked to Edith, and she agreed to put up the house…” Dobey’s huge hand made contact with Starsky’s upper arm, squeezing lightly. “It’s not as if we won’t get it back, son, is it?”

Starsky didn’t answer immediately. Hutch didn’t pay the bond. Dobey did. Does Dobey believe in me more than my partner? He drew a shaky breath. “Of course, you’ll get it back,” he managed, then straightened and asked, “Has anything new come up in the investigation?”

“Byatt’s manager was questioned…”

“And?”

“We had to let him go.”

Starsky fell silently in step next to his superior.

As they walked out of the building, both men squinted against the low, yet bright sun.

Starsky took a deep breath, stretching, rotating his left arm. “I wish I could erase the last 48 hours. The beds didn’t do my shoulder any good.”

“Starsky… you might want to see Hutch. Peter Byatt’s funeral was this morning… ”

Starsky felt as if he’d been punched by Dobey’s words. “TAXI!!” he yelled, waving at a cab coming down the street.

* * *

Starsky remembered the funeral of Robson’s wife and the effect it had had on Hutch too vividly. Philippa Robson had died only a few weeks after Starsky’s release from the hospital. During the ceremony, Hutch had been composed—for Starsky’s sake, he admitted later. Much later.

During the requiem, Starsky had held onto Hutch’s arm for support and also for comfort. Robson had stood near them, looking straight ahead, as if he couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Next to him stood his partner, Hendricks, with his wife, Melissa, Philippa’s older sister. Melissa had clung to Hendricks just the way Starsky clung to Hutch, and she had been crying inconsolably. Hendricks’ other arm had been around Robson’s shoulders, trying to comfort his partner, and Starsky remembered thinking how good it was to have a friend like that, someone who really cared for you and could be trusted to take care of you.

The way Hutch took care of me. Every time I needed him. Always.

When Starsky had been settled on his couch after they had returned home from the funeral, Hutch had gone to the bathroom. Starsky had dozed off and when he’d woken up, Hutch had still been gone. Cautiously making his way over to the bathroom door, Starsky had heard the muffled sounds of harsh breathing. Starsky hadn’t bothered to knock, but opened the door quietly.

Hutch was sitting on the toilet seat, white as a sheet, hyperventilating. Starsky had pulled him into a tight embrace, pressing Hutch’s face into his stomach. It had hurt, but it was what Hutch had needed. Starsky had held him, waiting patiently until Hutch had calmed down enough to talk.

“It could have been you, Starsk,” Hutch had finally whispered, drained from the emotional strain of the day and all the days since the shooting. “I could have lost you, and I wouldn’t have known how to go on with my life. I couldn’t go on with my life without you in it. I simply couldn’t.”

“I’m here, babe,” Starsky had answered, stroking the soft strands of hair at Hutch’s neck. “You didn’t lose me; I’m here.”

But now Hutch had suffered another loss for real. Byatt was gone.

Hutch… I’ll be there for you, buddy.

* * *

After knocking several times without getting an answer, Starsky felt for the key on the doorframe and, finding it, let himself into Hutch’s place. Usually filled with Hutch’s voice when he was talking to his plants or playing his guitar and singing along, the silence in the empty apartment felt all wrong. Starsky went to the kitchen and made coffee. While the noises of the coffeemaker drove the eerie silence away, Starsky took a look at the contents of Hutch’s fridge. It was empty except for a container of goat’s milk—gone sour, as a tentative sniff at the opening revealed. As I thought… nothing edible.

Closing the fridge, he walked through the quiet rooms. The apartment looked as if it hadn’t been used or cleaned for weeks. The shelves and books, the set of three green candles on the table, even Hutch’s guitar leaning against the side of the couch—everything was covered with a fine layer of dust. The bed wasn’t made and the sheet was twisted as if Hutch had had a night full of tossing and turning. A dark wooden frame was leaning against the nightstand next to Hutch’s bed. Starsky picked it up, turned it around—and froze. He plopped down on the bed, unable to rip his eyes away from the three photos of Hutch and Peter Byatt.

Hutch looks so… happy. Starsky felt a sharp stab of jealousy. They both looked perfectly content, slightly glowing, pupils wide, smiling as if about to kiss each other.

Or as if they just unlocked their lips from one another.

“Put it down.”

Starsky jumped at the sudden, calm command. He hadn’t heard the front door open or Hutch walk into the apartment.

“I said put it down.”

Starsky looked at Hutch and slowly put the frame down.

He looks as if he hasn’t slept at all. And if looks could kill, I would have a real problem now.

“Get off the bed.”

Starsky got up and stood face to face with Hutch.

Hutch’s eyes were grey with grief, no longer that familiar light blue Starsky had learned to love over the years.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Hutch mumbled, obviously troubled.

“Why not? You look…”

Hutch opened his mouth, then closed it again and shook his head.

Starsky’s hand found its way to Hutch’s shoulder and kneaded the tense muscles lightly.

“I’m sorry I hurt you… ” Starsky choked out. “You looked so happy… with him. I’m sorry I interfered. I didn’t wanna see that he made you happy.”

Starsky pulled Hutch into a tight embrace when he saw tears well up in Hutch’s pale eyes.

Déjà vu, he thought. After Gillian’s death…I held him the very same way. And I was equally relieved when she was gone. Starsky shuddered at the memory.

He pressed their bodies tighter together; an attempt to reassure himself that he could still embrace Hutch, that he was still allowed to hold him. Shifting his face to the crook of Hutch’s neck, he felt the flutter of Hutch’s pulse against his lips, and inhaled the mix of aftershave, male sweat and warm skin that was uniquely his partner. Starsky was shocked to realize the effect this sensual assault exerted on his own body. He hadn’t expected to physically respond this strongly—and so inappropriately—to the contact. Damn.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, letting go of Hutch.

Starsky hurried to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee and stared out the tiny window, willing his straining erection away.

Hutch stepped up behind him and patted his arm. “Nothing to be sorry for, Starsk,” he said. “It’s just…”

“Him… ”

“Peter wasn’t just a convenient lay.”

Starsky turned slowly and looked Hutch straight in the eye. “I can see that now. But I couldn’t… didn’t want to see it before…” Starsky still looked at him, anxiety creeping into his voice. “Do you think we can still work together? Still be partners?”

“I couldn’t think of a better one.”

Starsky swallowed the rest of the bitter coffee and put the empty mug down into the sink. But can we still be friends? Out loud he said, “I’ll get us something to eat. I think you could do with some solid food. Okay?”

He waited for Hutch’s silent nod, before he asked, “Anything special you would like?”

When Hutch shook his head minutely, Starsky turned to the door.

* * *

One hour later Starsky was back at Venice Place. A six-pack of beer safely tucked under his arm, and balancing a huge pizza in the other hand, he bumped his hip twice against the door to Hutch’s apartment. When nothing happened, he put the pizza carton down and let himself in. The harsh sound of crying hit Starsky the moment he entered the place. He silently closed the front door, left the six pack on the kitchen counter, the pizza already forgotten outside, and followed the desperate sobs to the sleeping alcove. Even in the semi-darkness he could make out the fetal position Hutch’s body had assumed on the bed.

Sitting down next to Hutch, Starsky cradled him in his arms and rocked him gently. “It’s okay,” he murmured into Hutch’s hair. “It’ll all be okay.” That’s it, buddy. Let it all out.

It seemed like an eternity until the sobbing got quieter and finally stopped. Where Hutch’s head rested against Starsky’s chest, the shirt underneath was wet with tears. Starsky leaned over to the nightstand and switched on the reading lamp. Sheltering Hutch from the light with his body, Starsky realized Hutch had fallen asleep. Pushing a moist blond strand away from Hutch’s forehead, he saw swollen eyes, a tear-stained cheek, new lines of worry around the mouth and the deepened crease between his brows. Brushing the back of his fingers over the pale skin, he whispered, “I’m sorry. I wish I had been there for you…” He eased the lax body down to the bed, pulling the blanket up to cover him. “I always feared you’d find somebody else. But I didn’t think…you’d replace me that easily.”

“Nobody can ever replace you,” Hutch murmured sleepily, turning onto his other side.

Letting the words sink in, Starsky felt a smile tug at his lips. “I love you too, Blintz,” he whispered and touched Hutch’s arm lightly before he left.

* * *

Hutch’s skin was tingling from the cold water. Sunlight was bouncing off the water’s surface and off droplets on Peter’s shoulders. The swallows flew so low over the quiet surface of the water that their bellies shone azure. Peter laughed at him and waved, treading water. Then he turned and swam away from Hutch, parting the water with even strokes. Hutch called after him, but Peter didn’t hear. Hutch squinted against the sun and watched the retreating form until Peter’s image blurred and merged with the horizon.

Hutch opened his eyes. Light streamed into his bedroom; sunlight, bright and warm, and for a futile moment he felt good. Then the stark reality came crashing down around him.

Peter is dead. Dead and buried.

He groaned, turning away from the light and the warmth.

The sheets were clammy as if he’d had a night full of bad dreams, of tossing and turning, his nightmares filled with sweat and tears. Fortunately, he didn’t remember any of it. His eyes felt raw and swollen. He shivered; despite the stripes of sunlight warmth on his body, he was cold.

Hutch got out of the bed, went to his bathroom and stepped into the shower, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. Turning the water on full force, hot needles pierced his shoulders, chest, back—he grunted, but stood still under the scalding spray.

 

Chapter XXIII

Starsky had spent the morning pacing his apartment like a caged tiger; after a night of tossing and turning restlessly in his bed while thoughts chased each other in his head, the morning had not been different. What if…? What if…?

Finally, the decision to go back to Hutch’s place hadn’t been difficult to make. Maybe he knows some of the answers…

Opening the front door as noiselessly as possible until he heard the sounds of running water, Starsky entered Hutch’s apartment. When he opened the bathroom door, he was greeted with a white wall of steam. Starsky groped his way to the tub, shoving the shower curtain aside to reach in and turn off the water. The sudden silence was stressed by the plop plop of the last drops falling. Starsky left the door wide open and the steam evaporated.

“C’mon Hutch. Step out of the tub,” he said quietly.

There was no reaction from his partner, who stood with both hands braced against the tiles. The hot water had turned his usually fair skin to an angry red, yet, Hutch was shivering as if cold.

Holding out Hutch’s old, slightly faded orange robe for him, Starsky used his best calming voice as he said, “Hutch?! Let me dry you off, okay?”

“Don’t look at me.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t look at me.”

“Okay, I won’t, but step out of the shower. Please.”

Hesitantly, Hutch let himself be wrapped in the worn fabric, but winced when it made contact with his over-sensitized skin.

* * *

They sat in companionable silence on the couch, sharing the comfort of physical closeness.

Starsky had missed these moments of intimate quiet more than he had realized or would have admitted—even to himself. They had never needed words to communicate, but since that morning months ago, silence between them had often become uncomfortable, strained. The things they didn’t say slowly formed a solid barrier between them.

Starsky was sure most of it was his fault. He had learned during his early adolescence—even before his father died and his mother sent him away to live with her sister in Bay City—that it, The Unspeakable, was abnormal, sick. Faggots, queers, pillow biters, fruitcakes—he had known the words long before he had known their meaning. In the streets of Brooklyn he’d learned fast that you’d better not be one of them.

He had never questioned his own conviction about homosexuality—’til John Blaine’s death and the indiscreet revelations it had caused.

Hutch had been right about them spending 75 percent of their wakeful time together—and after the shooting, when Hutch had brought him—well, what little was left of him—home, they were together 100 percent of their time, awake or asleep—and Starsky had never minded.

Hutch had been there through his recovery, through the bad times—and there had been more bad times than good times. Hutch had always been there. Starsky had needed his presence, had needed the physical closeness even more than before—and Hutch had never failed him. The doctors at Memorial had admonished him to have a live-in nurse—at least for a while. But he hadn’t needed anyone else than Hutch. Just Hutch.

Why didn’t I see that he needed something different? Needed more? Why didn’t I see where we were heading?

Because I made sure I wouldn’t think about it.

But when Hutch finally had moved back to Venice Place, Starsky had become painfully aware that countless, meaningless one-night stands couldn’t take away the emptiness and the loneliness when Hutch wasn’t with him. Still he couldn’t admit…

Starsky reached over to touch Hutch’s hand, covering it loosely first, then laced their fingers together.

If only he could make Hutch understand that his first reaction had been one of shell-shocked self-consciousness on waking up after a night of activities Starsky couldn’t remember. He would never forget the images he had found himself confronted with when he had opened his eyes. First, it was just the shock of the unexpected closeness of another human body, the relief when he realized it was Hutch, only Hutch, but then their nudity and the way their bodies touched registered. And with growing awareness of the situation, Starsky feared that his actions during that night—say it, say, after I took advantage of him—and his outburst could not be taken back, had created a crack, a growing rift too wide and too deep to be bridged. He feared losing something as precious as Hutch’s friendship and love.

I wish I could tell him…but what should I say? That I’ve loved him for such a long time that I didn’t realize the change? That I’ve dreamed about touching him in an all but a brotherly way? Would he believe me?

The fingers entwined with his own tightened, communicating—encouragement?

Their calm breathing and the low ticking of the kitchen clock were the only sounds in the apartment, until Hutch said, “Thank you for being here.”

“Welcome,” Starsky replied, turning to look at Hutch for the first time since they had left the bathroom—how long ago? Hours?

Hutch’s eyes already awaited his gaze, clear blue crystals holding a confusing mix of residual grief, relief and love. The grip of their hands tightened simultaneously and Starsky couldn’t help but smile. He felt light-headed, light-hearted and happier than he had been in a long time. Then, like the sun coming up on a gray winter morning, a tentative smile developed on Hutch’s face.

Disentangling their fingers, Starsky’s eyes asked permission, which was wordlessly granted. Edging nearer, he hugged Hutch, enjoying the chance to be close again after all the strain of being separately together during the last months.

And when Hutch’s arms encircled him, all those tiny pieces and splinters that once had been Starsky’s self, slipped back into their places.

Reluctantly, he finally let go of Hutch, but remained close enough to slip an arm around his hunched shoulders, seeking and providing comfort and reassurance in the physical contact.

“You told… Peter what happened between us?” Starsky asked, his heart beating in his throat.

Hutch simply nodded.

“‘S okay.”

“Starsk?”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry for what I said in the morgue…” There was a long silence, before Hutch went on. “I’m sorry I doubted you. I admit I thought you were guilty. But the things I said to you were way outta line.”

“‘S okay.”

“No. It’s not okay. I was… was… ”

“I know, buddy, I’ve been there myself.”

Hutch gave a weak nod, blinked, then sighed. “Starsk, I’m tired. So tired of losing people I love…”

Starsky thought of all the lovers who’d left Hutch before. Gillian. Abby. Vanessa. Peter. Even me in a way.

Starsky’s hand slipped around the nape of Hutch’s neck, squeezing lightly on its way up; his fingers parted the blond strands, and massaged the skin below.

“I won’t go away, Hutch. Never again,” Starsky said, then added in a hoarse whisper, “And I will always—you hear me—always love you.”

Hutch looked at him and his silence spoke louder than words. He got up, pulling the belt of his robe tighter, and sat down on the coffee table. Looking directly into Starsky’s eyes, he said, “You’re my best friend, Starsk, but that’s not…”

Starsky opened his mouth to contradict, but Hutch’s hand came up to cut him off. “I’m sure you think you’re doing the right thing, but you don’t love me like that.” His hands came up and grabbed Starsky’s arms, shaking him lightly. “Don’t do that to me. To us.”

Starsky held eye contact for long moments, then let his gaze creep down Hutch’s chest, nodding. “If that’s what you want…I think I’d better be going.”

Starsky got up and took a few hesitant steps towards the door. Just say something. Anything will do, Hutch, just say something. Hold me back.

But when he felt the doorknob between his fingers and Hutch still hadn’t spoken, Starsky left.

* * *

When the door closed behind Starsky, Hutch ran a weary hand over his face. Great, Hutchinson, now you’ve lost another one.

Hutch hadn’t been prepared for the sharp stab of pain he felt when Starsky asked whether he had told Peter about the incident that changed their lives. The memory of how he had told Peter about what he had done—the lovemaking with Peter, the intimacy of cuddling with him, the almost unbearable relief of talking to Peter about what he’d done to Starsky, Hutch’s anxious expectation of Peter’s rejection and disgust only to find understanding and sympathy—tightened his throat until he could barely breathe.

He went to his small greenhouse. The scent of mold, the higher humidity and the wealth of green, all shades of green, usually calmed him. Not now. There were so many memories…of Starsky, none of Peter. Peter had never been to Hutch’s apartment, because Hutch had reasoned…because I was scared to death that my neighbors might see something, hear something…what they might think…say…

Hutch took the old wine bottle he used for a watering can, and tested the dryness of the nearest plant with his index finger—a fern Starsky had found next to a trash can on 15th Street the day they took their first walk after his long hospital stay.

Hutch had looked at it and condemned it. The roots had been completely dried out and the poor thing had had only one pathetic shoot left. “Starsk, it won’t survive. Leave it.”

“You didn’t leave me, Hutch, even though everybody believed I wouldn’t make it.” Starsky’s words had been said in a low voice, yet they had cut Hutch to the quick. “I can take care of it, 24/7, like you did for me…please?”

How could I have denied him anything, even something as small as a stupid plant, Hutch thought with a wry smile.

In the end, Starsky had taken the fern home and taken care of it until its fresh green fronds had covered most of the kitchen window. “Take it home to your jungle, Hutch,” Starsky had wailed and pressed the pot into his hands. “It’s grown so much, it’s blocking out the morning sun completely. I’m not cut out to have breakfast in semi-darkness…please Hutch, take it home.”

Hutch watered the fern and all his other plants in the greenhouse, feeling better. Maybe our friendship is like this hopeless plant, not so hopeless after all…maybe there’s a way back to what we had before…

* * *

Eight hours later, Hutch found himself in front of the gallery. He hadn’t known what he expected to see by going there, but lying in his bed, sleepless again, anything had seemed better than tossing and turning. His mind was reeling like a hamster after hours and hours on a treadmill.

Who killed Peter? Who had the opportunity? A motive? Besides Starsky? How could he assure Starsky that he didn’t believe he killed Peter? How could he win Starsky’s friendship back? Or had he already lost it for good? What if…?

Driving through almost deserted streets, a little walk and some cool night air… maybe that would be enough to take away his restlessness.

The gallery was closed—as could be expected around 1:30 a.m.—but through the huge glass front Hutch had a good look at the portrait Louisa Hernandez had set up after Peter’s death. It was illuminated by a single bright spotlight while the rest of the room was almost dark. Hutch rested his hand against the cool pane and stared at the photo. It hurt to look at Peter, knowing it was just an image, knowing he would never hold him again, kiss him, tell him that he loved him.

I wish you had trusted me enough to tell me about what happened to you…maybe…maybe I could have done something…protect you…

He jerked when somebody touched his arm.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to startle you, Detective,” Louisa Hernandez said. “I saw you standing here…you must be cold,” she added when he remained silent. “Would you like to come in?”

“What are you doing here at,” Hutch looked at his watch, “1:45 in the morning?”

“I could ask you the very same thing,” she replied with a brittle smile, shivering in her thin dress, “but wouldn’t you rather discuss it inside?” She turned back to the door, holding it open for him.

“Coffee or wine?” she asked once they were inside her gallery.

Hutch could smell alcohol on her breath. “Wine sounds good.”

“Sit down, I’m getting a fresh bottle…” she said, and vanished in the shadows in the back of the room.

Looking around for a place to sit, Hutch noticed a half-empty wineglass on the steps leading up to a platform. The platform where the buffet had been on the night of the vernissage, he remembered. Now it was empty except for a huge glass desk and a chair.

Louisa Hernandez returned with a bottle of red wine, a glass and a corkscrew. Driving the screw into the cork with precise movements, she asked, “So, how come you’re paying the gallery a visit in the middle of the night?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Hutch said curtly. “You had late business to do?”

She pulled at the screw until the cork slid from the bottleneck with a resounding plop. Filling his glass, then topping her own, she said, “No, not business.” She clinked her glass against Hutch’s before she took a sip of the dark red wine. “The idea of another sleepless night in bed wasn’t too appealing.”

Hutch took a mouthful of wine to cover his discomfort at her words. Swallowing, he tasted the rich bouquet. “Hmm,” he made an appreciative sound. “That’s good.”

“Peter’s fave.” She took a sip. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t talk about him all the time. Just keeps the grief fresh.”

“No,” Hutch said, touching her arm lightly, “from my experience talking helps…helps the healing,” he added hoarsely.

“Sitting here in the shadows, surrounded by his work…” she sipped more wine, “seemed like a good idea. Comforting, somehow.”

“I felt the same,” Hutch admitted before he could stop himself. “That’s why I’m here.”

She looked at him, nodding her understanding. Hutch noticed the slightly smeared mascara, the tracks of dried tears.

“You liked them a lot, Peter and Chris,” Hutch said. Maybe he should get used to the idea of Peter and his manager as a well-liked couple.

“I didn’t feel comfortable with the two of them around,” she said, looking at Hutch. Then, as if she had just realized how her words might be perceived, she hastily went on, “Don’t get me wrong. Not because they were… A lot of artists are…you know?” She looked at him as if to make sure he would get the message without her having to say the word. He did.

“This was Peter’s third show in my gallery.” Letting her gaze wander over the mounted photos, she said, “He was good. Really good. And getting better every time.”

“What made you uncomfortable then?” Hutch probed.

“Winters,” she spat.

“You sounded quite sympathetic last Friday.”

Louisa Hernandez gave a small snort. “Not because of Winters. But the situation was so—bizarre. A man I’ve gotten to know over the years as a hard-boiled egg comes here to give me hell about my way of doing business, screams and shouts that I sell them dirt cheap and then the cops arrive and tell us…” Her voice broke and she took another sip to compose, “tell us that Peter…” She couldn’t finish the sentence as it seemed.

“It’s okay, take your time,” Hutch assured her.

“… and then the cops take him away. The situation was so unreal. You know?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said, looking at Peter’s portrait. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“I don’t want you to think I change my loyalties the way it suits me best. It was my highlight of the year to have Peter come in for another show. Working with him was…unique. He was so fresh, so passionate…while Winters,” she shook her head, “Winters was all business, money, fame. His business, his money, his fame, that is. Over time I got the impression that he didn’t really care for what Peter was doing, as long as it could be sold. Sometimes it was just embarrassing to be around them, the way he talked to Peter.”

“Yeah, I understand how that feels,” Hutch said, thinking of the way Winters had treated Peter at the vernissage.

“Last year…things didn’t go so well. The opening was on November 21^st—”

Hutch’s stomach did a flip-flop at her mentioning the date. Just two days before the assault…

“—and I still don’t know why, but the photos didn’t sell. They were good, but hey, you never know what customers will buy. Peter knew that, but Winters…” She rolled her eyes, and topped off her glass, then Hutch’s. He hadn’t realized he had emptied it.

“How well did you know Peter?” she asked, looking right into Hutch’s eyes.

For a moment he felt speechless. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he surely didn’t want to confess, either. He settled for, “Well enough.”

Louisa Hernandez nodded. “Two days after the vernissage last year, something happened to Peter. At first, I didn’t know what exactly, since he wouldn’t talk about it, but I thought he was involved in a gay bashing. That’s what they call it, right?”

Hutch nodded.

“He looked bad, really bad, with a blackened eye and his lip split, and the only thing Winters could talk about was going public to attract attention to the exhibition.” She took another sip of wine, before she continued. “While he was shouting at Peter about what a failure he was, what a financial loss the exhibition would be, he stabbed his index finger into Peter’s chest… and I noticed the skin on his knuckles was broken. He suddenly turned and looked at me, followed my gaze to his hand, and said coldly, ‘You better go sell his stuff instead of gaping at me.’ I looked at Peter and he simply nodded. The next time I saw Winters, he was wearing those stupid gloves.”

Hutch’s throat was so tight, his voice sounded alien to him when he spoke. “Did you…” he cleared his throat, “did you tell my colleagues about that when they questioned you?”

“No,” Louisa Hernandez said. “I didn’t really think about it until tonight. The way I acted then is nothing I like to remember. I should have done something then…or at least insisted that Peter would do something…”

“But why think of it tonight?” Hutch asked incredulously.

“Because today I sold the last of Peter’s photos…” Louisa Hernandez got up and went, slightly unsteadily, over to the opposite wall. On her way, she toed off her high-heeled shoes, before she pointed to a photo. “What do you see?” she asked.

Hutch shrugged. “A single tree in autumn, foliage on the ground, a dog nosing in the leaves.”

“Very good. What do you think it might be worth?”

“I have no idea.”

“Come on, guess. Guess high.”

Hutch remembered that Peter had told him the prices for his photos were about five hundred to two thousand dollars.

“Three thousand,” Hutch said.

Louisa nodded. “At the vernissage the price was one thousand two hundred.”

“And?”

“Today I sold it for four thousand nine hundred.”

Hutch let the information sink in. Four times more profit, he thought, then asked, “Who sets the prices?”

“Wanna guess?” The silk of her dress whispered softly against her skin as Louisa Hernandez sat down next to Hutch again and downed the last of her wine.

“Winters.”

Raising her empty glass in mock salute, she said, “You oughta be a detective.”

“Last year,” Hutch said looking into Peter’s eyes on the portrait, “what did Peter think about going public after he was hurt?”

“Wouldn’t hear of it. ‘For God’s sake, I’m a photographer, Chris,’ he said. ‘Who’s interested in what I do in bed?’ But of course Winters had already made the deal.” She snorted, then hiccupped. “Dragged him into the open, giving people the opportunity to stare at what happens to gay artists here. In this free country,” she added, her voice filled with disgust. “The tabloids just loved it.”

Hutch put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She leaned against him, her hand touched his chest, first just to steady her own body, then stroking him affectionately.

At another time I would have taken her right here on the floor, on a makeshift bed of our clothes. Right here, right now. A comfort fuck.

She turned her face up to him and in her eyes he saw that she knew what he had been thinking.

Hutch had estimated her to be in her late thirties when he had first met her at Peter’s vernissage. Up close now, he realized she was at least five years older than his initial guess.

“What do you like?” she asked, running her nails gingerly over his shirtfront.

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I can’t do that.”

She sat up straight, letting her hand drop away from his chest. Looking into her eyes, he saw tenderness and understanding—nothing more. She didn’t hold his refusal against him as she said gently, “Go home, Detective. Be safe.”

* * *

Stepping out of the gallery, the cold night’s air and the silence hit Hutch. He heard the two turns of the key in the lock of the gallery door behind his back. The little treadmill in his head was turning again, speeding up.

I gotta know more about Winters. Where does he come from? Was Peter his first lover? Was Peter his first victim?

Looking around out of habit, Hutch noticed a lone figure in a Torino on the opposite side of the street.

Starsky rolled down the window when Hutch was close enough to talk.

“What are you doing here?” Hutch asked, irritated by Starsky’s unexpected presence.

Starsky shifted his weight in the seat, but didn’t answer.

“Starsk?”

“I couldn’t sleep…”

Welcome to the club, Hutch wanted to say, but before the words could make it out of his mouth, he thought, Why can’t he sleep?

“Just wanted to make sure you’re all right,” Starsky added in a low voice.

Starsky followed me from Venice Place all across town to the gallery in the middle of the night without me noticing? Some detective you are, Hutchinson.

“I’m okay,” Hutch said, patting Starsky’s shoulder. “How are you?”

“Huh?” Starsky looked up at him, stunned by his question.

Hutch smiled tentatively at him.

“I’m all right, too,” Starsky said, but the look he gave Hutch indicated he wasn’t sure that was the right answer.

“How about some shut-eye?” Hutch’s hand was still lying on Starsky’s shoulder. Did he just imagine it or was Starsky pushing up into the touch?

“Okay, I’ll follow you to Venice Place before I head home,” Starsky suggested. “That okay with you?”

“Why don’t you crash on my couch?” When Starsky’s features turned into a stony mask, Hutch hurried to add, “If you like.”

“I’ll see you home,” Starsky said, turning the key in the ignition.

* * *

Starsky waited until the LTD finally started on the third try, before he pulled the Torino away from the curb. After he followed Hutch home as promised, Starsky made no attempt to get out of his car or even roll down the window. He just waved briefly and pulled away.

Hutch watched the red taillights until they disappeared around the next corner. What is going on in that thick skull of yours?

 

Chapter XXIV

Four and a half hours later, at seven o’clock sharp, Hutch opened the door to the squad room, hearing the familiar squeal of its hinges. On the other side of the room, Minnie was on the phone, talking quietly, taking notes. Hutch surveyed the otherwise empty room, trying to imagine that he was seeing it for the first time. Two rows of double-desks too close to each other, chairs pushed back when their occupants had left in a hurry. Each desk loaded with manila folders. When had he last thought about what those folders meant? Each one held evidence of violence: abuse, rape, assault, murder. And somewhere along the line, he had stopped wondering about what he was doing here. He hadn’t stopped caring, but stopped considering the outrage of their everyday business.

Hutch slowly went past the row of desks, and in passing, caught a glimpse of Robson’s mug, cold coffee clouded with curdled milk. Neatly packed stacks of files and reports. In and out baskets.

Hutch sat down at his own desk, staring at the empty seat opposite him.

When will he be back? I don’t think I can stand being without him. God, Starsk, what a mess have we turned our lives into?

* * *

By 12:20 p.m. the doors to the squad room opened and Robson and Hendricks strolled in, talking quietly.

“You’re late,” Hutch said gruffly.

“And you’re in a foul mood,” Hendricks shot back.

Again, Hutch watched with growing irritation as Robson’s hand came to rest on his partner’s sleeve, tugging lightly. When Robson got Hendricks’ attention, he shook his head. “Don’t,” he said, then strolled off to the coffee machine. Preparing three mugs with coffee, one with double sugar for his partner, a second with a splash of milk for Hutch, and the last one plain black for himself, Robson returned to Hutch’s desk.

“Could as well have been a waitress,” Hutch snarled, when Robson handed out the mugs.

Batting his lashes at Hutch, Robson said in a sing-song voice, “Well, you know, once you’re over thirty it’s not as if you can make a living from tips.”

Hutch took a sip of coffee, then asked, “Did anyone talk to the people at the party where Winters claimed to be when Peter was murdered?” He was amazed how business-like his voice sounded.

But when he looked up, Hutch saw Robson’s hand on Hendricks’ arm again and he grunted inwardly. So much for his acting skills.

“We did talk to about 15 people,” Hendricks forced out, anger at Hutch’s question barely hidden. “Forget it. No need to try and find the rest. No one seemed to know how many people were there, like it was a huge coming-getting-shit-faced-and-going thing. Some of them couldn’t even recall when they had arrived or left, let alone whether others were there at specific times during the night. Sounds like they had never-empty glasses, if you ask me and some drugs, too. But that’s just an opinion. Anyway, they all remembered having seen Chris Winters that night, but when…?” Hendricks let the sentence unfinished with a shrug.

Hendricks had sat down on Starsky’s side of the desk, while Robson had pulled up a chair, now sitting next to his partner.

“I made a list of people we need to talk to… ” Hutch said, crossing out ‘people at party’ before he shoved the paper towards the partners.

“Okay,” Hendricks said, after he’d studied the short list, “we talked to the people in the studio where Byatt did his last photo sessions.” He put his notepad on the desk and flipped it open. “Nobody there had worked with Winters and Byatt before. One of the lighting technicians said, when they started to work on his latest project a few weeks ago, Byatt was quite tense. Always on edge.” Robson flipped his notepad open and continued, “The technician, a Simon Miller, said, Byatt’s mood completely changed from one working day to another. Tense and irritated on Friday, Byatt was relaxed and good-natured on Monday, bringing coffee and bagels for all of them, telling jokes.”

Hutch didn’t need to ask for the date of the change—it had been the weekend when they had met. The weekend that changed both of them. Changed everything.

“Hutch?” Robson said. They both were looking at him.

For a moment Hutch wasn’t sure whether he had said the last words aloud.

“Sorry,” he hurried to say, “I was just thinking, that manager… Winters… Has anyone run a make on him?”

Robson and Hendricks exchanged a glance, then nodded in unison.

“And? Any useful information?” Hutch heard the growing impatience in his own voice, but before he could make an even bigger fool of himself, Robson said, “We were just about to tell you, Hutch.”

“Winters has lived in Bay City since 1972. No previous convictions, not even a parking ticket,” Hendricks said.

“Another technician we questioned at the studio said Winters insisted he came from New York, but Steve read in one of his early magazine interviews that he said he came from a small town in northern California,” Robson continued.

“Buttonwillow,” Hendricks added, not looking up from his notes.

“Right, Buttonwillow, small town, around 5,000 people during the cotton picking season,” Robson nodded. “Yesterday we called the sheriff at that time there. He’s one of those big fish who knows everything about everybody in his little pond.”

“You know, one of those recently retired cops who loves to talk about his old cases,” Hendricks cut in.

“He remembered the family well,” Robson went on, “maybe due to the fact that his late wife and Winters’ mother were somehow related.”

“Third cousins,” Hendricks added.

“Right. Whatever.” Robson looked back down on his notepad. “Winters was born as the result of a one-night stand. Mother barely seventeen, father unknown. Parents sent her packing when they found out she was pregnant. Fought her way through as a waitress, cleaner, whatever brought money in. When Winters was seven, she married Steven Barkley. Wasn’t a good choice, since the man turned out a heavy alcoholic. Over the years, Daddy beat up little Chris pretty bad pretty often. One night the kid ran away after another beating and the sheriff took the boy back home himself to talk some sense into Barkley. Didn’t work though, since Winters’ mother brought Chris to the local doctor the very next night. Barkley had almost beaten him to death. The day after was his fourteenth birthday. When his mother arrived at the small clinic with a cake, the boy was gone, although the doctor said he could barely crawl in his condition. He was gone and was never seen again.”

“Except at his stepfather’s funeral five years later.” Hendricks threw in.

“Did he die of natural causes?” Hutch asked. When had they done all this work? Probably while I was licking my wounds. He briefly closed his eyes to ward off the rising images from Peter’s funeral, then refocused on Robson’s report.

“Accident,” Hendricks threw in. “‘Or so it seemed,’ as the sheriff put it.”

“What do you mean? Was he killed?” Hutch felt his irritation diffuse as his mind finally shifted into cop mode.

Robson shrugged. “Sheriff didn’t want to put it that way. Said,” he looked at his notepad, “Barkley had an accident in his own house while his wife was at the choir rehearsal. Broke his neck.”

“Anything fishy about the circumstances?” Hutch asked.

“Winters couldn’t be connected, if that’s what you’re asking. Barkley was found at the foot of the stairs. Sheriff said he smelled like a liquor store. Pissed himself.”

“Don’t they all?” Hutch said matter-of-factly.

“Up the shirt front?”

Hutch’s head shot up. “What?”

“He was soaked in urine,” Hendricks said, looking at Hutch with a frown. “Something wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” Hutch said slowly. Does Winters like to piss on his victims? Does it give him a feeling of superiority to humiliate them?

“Not sure about what?” Hendricks insisted.

“Do you remember the assault file on Peter Byatt?” Hutch waited for their nods, then added, “I was wondering whether there is a connection between the cases.”

“You think Winters likes to piss on his victims?” Hendricks frowned.

Hutch shrugged absently, thinking about his own stupidity. How come he hadn’t really considered the likelihood of Winters’ involvement in the murder? It had all been there, the jealousy, the aggression, the fights. How come Hutch had never questioned Starsky’s guilt? Why had he been willing to accept that Peter had died by Starsky’s hand? He knew the man better than that. He had loved him. Damn, he still loved Starsky. Why was it so hard to talk to him lately? When had his life gotten so messed up?

“You okay?” Robson asked, touching Hutch’s arm lightly.

Hutch mumbled something unintelligible and retreated to the men’s room. He felt two pairs of eyes follow him out of the squad room. He wasn’t sure why Robson’s sympathetic attitude was irritating him so much. Maybe he was just reading too much into it. All Hutch knew was he wanted to get away from Robson’s clairvoyant eyes.

* * *

But when he returned, they were still there, typing up their reports. Hutch sat down at his desk, trying to avoid looking at Starsky’s empty space, when Robson turned to him.

“Hutch? Do you know something we should know, too?”

Hutch sighed. How could he speak about the things Louisa Hernandez had told him without spilling everything?

“I was at the gallery last night,” he started. “The owner was also there and we got into talking. She told me about the vernissage last year. The date was November 21^st.”

“Two days before the attack on Byatt behind the bar.” Hendricks looked at him expectantly. “Any connection to that?”

With another sigh, Hutch filled them in on why he suspected Peter’s assailant that night might have been Winters himself.

“That’s why,” Hendricks said after Hutch had finished.

“That’s why what?” Hutch snapped, leaning forward.

Hendricks leaned forward, too, opening his mouth.

“That’s why it’s a good idea to take a closer look at Winters’ past and his stepfather’s death,” Robson cut in, putting his hand on his partners’ shoulder, pulling him back slightly. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Robson added, getting up, his jacket already in hand. “Come on, partner, let’s go to Buttonwillow.”

“But my coffee…” Hendricks said, gesturing with his mug.

“You’ll get another one later. I’ll buy,” Robson replied, waiting for his partner to follow him.

* * *

Hutch watched them leave, feeling an odd mix of relief and gratefulness. Robson was taking care of him, he realized. Maybe it was the relative freshness of his own loss, Hutch didn’t know. He didn’t want to think about it in detail; it was bad enough that Robson was noticing his weakness. One day when this investigation was over, Hutch would talk to Robson, and thank him for his support. Until then, he would have to stand being the focus of the man’s attention.

Twenty minutes and another cup of coffee later, Hutch took the stairs down to the sticky basement rooms, where the archives were stored.

“Hey, Williams,” Hutch greeted the officer on duty. Williams was a heavy man in his late fifties, who looked like he never saw the sun, if his pasty complexion was anything to go by. The bright fluorescent lights and his thinning white-blond hair added to the impression of a medieval albino monk protecting precious manuscripts from illicit access.

“Hutch, long time no see,” the heavy man replied, looking up from a form he’d been checking. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for a file on a cold case. Byatt, Peter. He was assaulted last year.”

Williams looked at him with open suspicion. “Is it coincidence that Starsky requested that file just last week?”

“No, it’s not. The man who’d been assaulted has now been murdered and there might be a connection between the two cases.” Not even a lie.

Williams got up from a plastic chair that gave a relieved squeal when he lifted his body weight off it. Then he vanished between the metal filing cabinets.

Hutch took a deep breath of the dusty air and listened as one of the drawers slid open and closed again, before Williams returned with a single, thin folder. He handed it over the counter, along with the proper paperwork and a pen he had produced from behind his right ear. Hutch signed the form silently.

“Hutch…” Williams said when Hutch was about to leave, doorknob already in hand. “I just wanted you to know…” He fumbled with his pen nervously. “I don’t give a damn about rumors…”

“Yeah, thanks, I appreciate it,” Hutch mumbled and left the room and the precinct, clutching the folder.

* * *

Hutch drove down to the beach, away from the areas where people were swimming, sunbathing, or taking a walk, all the time aware of the file on the seat next to him. Finally he found a place that suited him for its isolation; this part of the beach was too rocky to be a comfortable place to lie in the sun and the water was not calm enough for a lazy swim. Hutch pulled the LTD over and parked.

Then he sat in the car, watching the bright sun bouncing off the hood of his car until he had mustered up the guts to finally open the file, unfolding a tale of brutal abuse and humiliation. The pictures of Peter’s mutilated face, his downcast eyes, the shame written all over his handsome features sent a wave of chills over Hutch’s body. Next were two pictures of Peter in boxers, one of his front, one of his back and a close-up of the word “whore” scratched into his chest.

Hutch put the photos—face down—on the passenger seat and started reading the file. The investigating officer, John Gabriel, had taken a few sparse notes of the chain events—nothing more. Gabriel hadn’t even taken the time to complete the report. Peter had signed the incomplete report while still in the hospital, refusing to name the man or men who had assaulted him behind Damsons in Distress—and some people think The Pits is a strange name.

No one questioned the patrons or employees of the bar? Hutch thought with a frown, flipping through the last pages. Nothing. There was not even a list of putative witnesses. Were there any witnesses? Or had Gabriel just not bothered to take down their names?

He scribbled a note about that lack on his notepad and went on to the medical report. Peter’s injuries had been mostly superficial, yet intended to brand and humiliate him publicly.

Who would want to do this to him? Hutch thought with a sting of bitterness. Nobody deserves to be beaten and humiliated like this. Least of all Peter. What did the offender gain by branding his victim?

Louisa Hernandez’ words went through his mind. Winters dragged him into the open, giving people the opportunity to stare at him. The tabloids just loved it.

With a trembling hand, he reached out to the photos and picked up the one showing the close-up of Peter’s facial injuries. Hutch’s eyes filled as he took in the wounds and bruises described in the report. He rested his head on the steering wheel and gave into his desolation.

* * *

Starsky finally spotted the LTD on his third trip around the deserted parking lot at the beach. He had driven around the city, looking everywhere Hutch might be. Finally, he had settled for either the park or the beach, driving to and fro between the two destinations.

Starsky could see the outline of a lone figure in the LTD’s driver’s seat and even from the distance, he could feel the grief radiating off of Hutch. Parking the Torino out of Hutch’s sight, he settled to keep vigil over his partner. Just in case.

* * *

After he calmed down, Hutch drove to Damsons in Distress. It was still early afternoon and business in the bar was slow. Compared to the Green Parrot, Damsons in Distress was a quiet place anyway, no transvestites dressed up as Marilyn or Bette, no stage, no loud music. It was simply a place to meet.

A place for men to meet, men with unmistakable intentions, Hutch thought as he looked around the bar scanning the few faces in the dim room. Except for a young couple—lost tourists probably—all customers were male. They sat together in pairs, talking quietly, smiling, touching each other openly. The female tourist realized it too, since she couldn’t pull her eyes off a dark-haired man with a ponytail who was putting light kisses into the palm of his male mate. Meeting Hutch’s eyes, the woman blushed and turned abruptly to her companion.

Hutch settled at the bar and ordered a beer. Ella Fitzgerald was singing in the background. Ev’ry time we say goodbye… Nice.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” the bartender asked, setting a glass of beer down in front of Hutch.

He was in his early twenties, an earring in his left earlobe, a blond, blue-eyed sunny boy, with soft hair, slightly curled, some strands bleached. He carried about him a vivid impression of a day spent on the beach. Hutch thought he could even smell the salty breeze along with sun-oil and sun-warmed skin.

He knew he had been drifting when the bartender’s twinkling eyes met his again and he said, “Never seen you here before,” clearly implying he would remember a customer like Hutch.

“No, you’re right,” Hutch said. “I’ve never been here. But a friend of mine has… ”

The bartender’s smile didn’t falter. “A regular?”

“Regular friend or regular patron?” Hutch asked, matching the flirting tone perfectly. Like I’d made passes at boys every day…

“So, you’re still seeing that…friend?”

“No.” Hutch took a deep breath, then leaned over the counter and whispered, “Why don’t we take this outside?”

The kid’s head jerked back, he glanced around and gave a hand sign to another young man who lingered at the end of the bar.

“Can you take over for coupla minutes, Jack? I’m going outside for a smoke,” he said, barely covering his eagerness.

Gesturing at Hutch to follow him, the kid went through the small kitchen into the back alley. Two cats were trying to topple over the garbage bins and the blond shooed them away before he turned to Hutch.

“So what now? You do me or I do you?” he purred, game for anything, as if both alternatives were equally pleasant to him. He stepped closer, invading Hutch’s personal space without hesitation, running his fingers through Hutch’s hair. “I like experienced men… ”

A shiver, not all unpleasant, ran down Hutch’s spine. Yet, he caught the bartender’s wrist and said, “I want to talk to you.”

The young man’s hand fell away from Hutch’s face and the boy looked disappointed. “You wanna talk?”

Hutch flashed his badge, took in the shocked expression of the boy and said, “I want to talk to you about my friend. And I want some answers. What’s your name? How long have you worked here?”

“My name is Dick. Don’t bother with any stupid jokes. I know them all.” He looked at Hutch. “And I’ve worked here for almost two years.”

“Last year, there was a beating. A man was assaulted right here. Do you remember?”

Dick snorted a humorless laugh. “Which one do you mean? We have bashings almost every week. Seems to be a new kind of national hobby among Bay City’s male het population.”

Hutch pulled Peter’s photo out of his pocket and held it out to Dick.

A shocked expression crept over Dick’s face, as he said, “Oh, God, you mean Peter.”

Hutch swallowed convulsively. “You’ve been…did you…?” he stammered.

“Did I do the deed with him? That what you wanna know?” Dick shot Hutch a curious look. Then his features softened and a dreamy tone tinged his voice. “Boy, he was something. But not for me. Not that I didn’t do my best…but he wasn’t one of those guys. Not Peter.”

Dick’s words were like balm on Hutch’s soul—even though he’d known that Peter hadn’t been the promiscuous man Winters had described during his questioning.

“So, do you remember the beating?”

“Yeah, sure. That was bad. Nobody who saw Peter that night will ever forget what happened to him. But if the tabloids are anything to go by, it’s gone even worse for him lately.” Dick shook his head sadly. “It’s just not fair.”

“The beating…” Hutch probed.

“It was late in November, a quiet shift, like today. Peter came early and sat with me at the bar, talked to me, you know, banter, jokes, a bit of gossip. We had fun until Chris walked in. Chris Winters, his manager and lover at that time. Chris was mad, and started arguing with Peter immediately, dragged him away from the bar, shouting at him. The other patrons were staring at them, obviously as embarrassed as I was, listening to Chris’ tirade about how Peter had been cheating on him with me, knowing that was the last thing that would ever happen. Peter was well known and well liked and yes, almost every gay man in town would have given their right arm for a night with him. But Peter…he wasn’t like that. Peter tried to calm Winters down, tried to explain, but Chris stormed out of the bar with Peter on his heels. Half an hour later Chris returned alone, rushing to the john. He had worked up a sweat and his clothes were messed up. I didn’t think anything about it. I thought they might’ve had a quickie to make up. They did that sometimes, you know.” Dick looked truly miserable for not realizing what had actually happened.

“They made up sometimes? Does that mean they were fighting often?”

“Yeah, Chris is a jealous asshole, a real sicko when it comes…when it came to Peter. And with Peter being the handsome man that he is—uhm, was—there were always men gathering around him…and any time Peter even talked to another man, Chris got furious. But he had never hurt him like that before. A bruise, yes, a split lip or hickeys the size of coasters, but nothing like this.” Dick turned his gaze back to Hutch and distress was written all over his face. “When I later went outside…for a smoke…there he was. I never thought Chris would do something like that. You must believe me—” Dick looked at him, his eyes pleading. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Ken,” Hutch answered.

“Ken, if I’d only known…”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Hutch whispered hoarsely. All he wanted was a few minutes alone with Winters in a dark alley. That would be enough…“But why didn’t you tell the police?”

Dick looked at him, surprise and suspicion in his eyes. “What police? You think there was an investigation?” He snorted. “Oh, c’mon. You must be pretty naïve, thinking your fellow cops would waste their precious time on a gay bashing.” He gave Hutch another look, then added, “Sometimes they’re the ones who do the beating—just to pound some sense into one of us.”

Hutch stared at him, breathless, disbelieving. “I’ll get Winters, Dick. If I’ve to nail his ass all on my own, I’ll get Winters for doing that to Peter.”

“You were Peter’s friend?” Dick asked.

“More than that,” Hutch replied just as quietly and closed his eyes, willing away the tears threatening to fall. “So much more than that.”

Dick looked at Hutch with an unreadable expression on his face. “You got a notepad and a pen?”

“Yes, why?” Hutch asked, giving both objects to him.

“Just in case you have further questions.” Dick scribbled a few numbers down. “Gotta go back inside. Get Chris, will ya? And hey—be careful, you seem to be a decent fellow…”

Hutch watched Dick sneak back into the small kitchen and leaned heavily against the wall, hanging his head.

…sometimes they’re the ones who do the beating…just to pound some sense into one of us…

Dick’s words went through his mind. And as outrageous as this statement seemed to him, those facts had become a normal part of people’s lives, like smog or disco. Into the everyday life of people like Dick, of gay people, he mentally corrected himself.

* * *

Hutch didn’t notice Starsky until he was right in front of him, grabbing his arms almost roughly, pulling him forward into a hug. After a moment of frozen shock, Hutch leaned tiredly into the well-known embrace.

“Hey, what are you doing here all alone?” Starsky murmured, holding Hutch against him with one strong arm, kneading his tense neck muscles with the other hand. “Figgerin’ out the case all by yourself?”

“They didn’t even question the man who found Peter that night, Starsk,” he breathed into Starsky’s collar. “Like it didn’t matter. Like Peter didn’t matter.” Hutch struggled weakly out of Starsky’s embrace and looked at his partner. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve read the file, too, remember? Thought I’d give the bartender a shot. Like, hear what he has to say. But you were faster. When I saw the two of you leave through the back door, I came the other way round and…”

His eyes dropped away from Hutch’s face and for a moment Hutch wondered if Starsky had been irritated when he and Dick left the bar together. Yes, Starsky’s stance said he was.

“I came…” Starsky said hesitantly, “I just want you to know…we’re in this together.” Starsky grabbed Hutch’s sleeve and looked at him almost shyly. “It’s still Me and Thee, right?”

“Sure thing, partner.” What would I be without you?

He watched Starsky’s expression change from worried to business-like. “So, what’s next?”

“I’d like to talk to one of our fellow officers…actually I’d like to rip his head off,” Hutch choked out, thinking about the assault report.

“I can dig that, buddy.” Starsky patted Hutch’s shoulder. “Why don’t you check out the roster and we can, say, meet him after his shift ends.”

* * *

“What the hell were you thinking?” Hutch demanded. “Is that the way you usually run investigations? Where’s the list of witnesses? Didn’t you talk to material witnesses at the scene? Last time I looked that was standard operating procedure.”

Gabriel, a tired man in his late forties, sat in the back of the LTD, letting Hutch’s angry accusations wash over him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t budge.

Starsky had waited for Gabriel in front of Parker center and convinced the man that the conversation they were about to have was best done in the seclusion of Hutch’s car. “You don’t want every brother cop to know how badly you handle your reports, do you?”

Starsky leaned back against the door of the LTD, and kept a close eye on the combatants. Hutch talked to Gabriel the way he reserved for the worst perps and Starsky wondered briefly whether Hutch was still aware that Gabriel was one of them. A fellow cop. One of the good guys by definition.

“Are you done?” Gabriel asked finally, calm and outwardly unimpressed by Hutch’s fierce attitude.

To Starsky, Gabriel’s stance communicated indifference. God, never let me become that apathetic.

“Hutchinson, everyone knows how you deal with crimes. We all know you’re two of Bay City’s finest.” Gabriel twisted the words into an insult. “And the word all over the precinct is that, for you, Hutchinson, this thing is personal.” His tone was tired as if all of this was too much hassle over nothing.

Starsky watched the anger building in his partner, and was ready to jump in if necessary.

“But—to us,” Gabriel continued, “that mugging—”

“Interesting term for a brutal beating, Gabriel,” Hutch interrupted. “You saw the victim, saw the injuries the man suffered, didn’t you?”

Gabriel went on, unabashed. “It was just another fag-bashing; something we deal with every night. What are we supposed to do? Get every cop on duty over there to nail some guy who tried to beat some sense into one of them? Come on, Hutchinson; after all, he was just another faggot.”

Hutch lurched forward, grabbing Gabriel by his uniform, pulling him towards the front seat until they were nose to nose.

Starsky interfered immediately, trying to break the death grip Hutch had on the other cop. “Hutch, stop it; he’s not the enemy. He might be stupid as they come, but he’s not worth the report you’ll have to write when you break his nose.” Jerking his arm down on Hutch’s, he added softly, “Let go, Hutch. Let him go.”

Breathing out, Hutch eased his grip on Gabriel’s collar, if reluctantly.

“Get out of here, you sonofabitch,” Starsky snarled at Gabriel. “Get lost before I decide that he deserves some time alone with you while I get some peanuts and watch.”

Gabriel didn’t hurry to leave the car.

Hutch sat in the driver’s seat, visibly shaking with barely controlled anger. Starsky’s hand reached out to Hutch’s neck, massaging the tense muscles lightly.

Gabriel had it coming, Starsky thought. Hutch was reasonably composed until Gabriel’s ‘just another faggot’ remark.

“Dammit, Starsky, where have we been all these years? Big herrings in our safe little pond?”

The quiet desperation in Hutch’s voice hurt. Where had they been? Had there been incidents they had ignored? Deliberately ignored? Even after John’s death? Starsky thought.

“Our own people beat up gay men, just for the fun of it. Everybody knows and nobody cares. It could happen to us next time… ”

Starsky’s breath caught in his throat. Did he just say what I think I heard? He turned Hutch ’til he faced him. “That what you fear? That it could happen to us?” he asked, seriously.

“No,” Hutch replied hastily. “No, it can’t happen to us, because there’s no reason. No, that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry. I meant…”

“Hey, it’s okay.”

Starsky deliberately moved away from Hutch and an uncomfortable silence spread. Shuffling through the open file on his lap, Starsky asked, “What are we going to do next? We know that—”

Both men jumped when someone tapped Hutch’s side window.

* * *

“Hey, is this a private meeting?” On Starsky’s side of the car, Robson looked in through the window, winking at him.

Starsky rolled down the window and Robson said, “Hi. Mind if we join you?”

They opened the rear doors of the LTD simultaneously and slipped into the backseat.

“You took Gabriel to task?” Hendricks made eye contact with Hutch in the rear-view mirror. “We just saw him down the street, muttering pet names for you. He didn’t look too happy.”

“Did you see the sloppy thing he called a report?” Hutch fumed, gesturing at the folder in Starsky’s lap.

“We barely had a chance to take a look,” Robson said, tapping Starsky’s shoulder to get his attention. “But you did, didn’t you? You should be a little more cautious with your actions. You were anything but subtle. Williams called me and asked about the legitimacy of your actions concerning a cold case file, since you’re officially suspended. It might give some people the wrong impression that you looked at this file just before Byatt was murdered.”

Starsky and Hutch made eye contact. Starsky looked away first.

“We were talking about the next step in the investigation,” Hutch stated calmly.

“You nuts?” Hendricks snapped. “You can’t make Starsky a part of the investigation, Hutch. You remember that he’s the prime suspect?”

Robson’s hand came to rest on Hendricks’ arm. “Calm down, Steve. I think everybody in here is well aware of the situation.” He waited for a reluctant nod from his partner, then said, “We’re on our way to meet Byatt’s lawyer, Hugh Tennant.”

“No, you can’t go there,” Hutch said hastily, his tone brooking no argument. “Please, he’s not only his lawyer, he was also his father. His guardian,” he corrected. “Let me talk to him. Please.”

Robson and Hendricks exchanged a glance, before Robson said, “The appointment is at four o’clock. I’ll call the secretary to let them know that you’ll come instead of us. Okay?”

Hutch looked at his watch. Half an hour to go. Thirty minutes to find the right words to say to a father grieving for his murdered son. “Okay.”

“What was the name of the lawyer? Tennant?” Starsky asked, watching Robson and Hendricks’ retreating forms.

“Yeah, Hugh Tennant. Do you know him?”

“No.” Starsky shifted in his seat as if uncomfortable. “No, I don’t know him.” Frowning, he said, “I think Robson was right. I should be more cautious.” He opened the door, “I’m heading home. You’ll keep me informed?”

“Of course. Starsky?”

But Starsky was already out of the car and didn’t seem to hear Hutch calling his name.

 

Chapter XXV

When Hutch stepped into the secretary’s office twenty-five minutes later, a penetrating, repeating buzz from an intercom system intermingled with a man’s yell. “Suzan, dammit, where are you?”

The door to the adjacent, much larger office, had been left ajar; through the crack, Hutch could see Hugh Tennant, a man in his late fifties, gray-haired, dressed in a stone-gray three-piece suit, shuffling through a stack of papers.

Hutch knocked on the doorframe, then opened the door further and said, “Mister Tennant, I’m Detective Hutchinson.” Hutch flashed his badge. “We have an appointment.”

Tennant looked up and recognized Hutch. “Ken, dear God, please come in.”

The transformation from the man Hutch had been introduced to two weeks ago into the man he was facing now was shocking. There was nothing left of the father, beaming with pride about Peter. The man in front of Hutch looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. His skin was as gray as his hair and suit and deep lines ran from the sides of his nose towards his jaw, giving his face an expression of bitterness.

Hugh Tennant came around his desk, pulling Hutch into an embrace. Being not quite as tall as Hutch, the side of Tennant’s face rested for an awkward moment against Hutch’s upper chest. Stiffening, face turned away, Tennant patted Hutch’s arm, then stepped back.

“Please, take a seat,” he mumbled, pointing towards two comfortable-looking leather armchairs. “I had no idea that Detective Hutchinson was you. What can I do for you?”

On the table between the chairs was a small collection of items Hutch recognized as the parts of one of Peter’s still lives: a stone vaguely resembling the silhouette of a curvy woman lying on her side, without a head, two tiny bright blue feathers, a headline ripped from a newspaper saying ‘Spring’s Over’ and a peach pit.

Following Hutch’s gaze, Tennant said, “Early summer.” He sighed deeply. “Peter used to bring me things he had found on his way. Anything that seemed interesting or might be interesting in special lighting or when put together with other pieces.”

Hutch looked around the office and saw other combinations of small everyday things he had seen in Peter’s photos.

“Every time he came for an appointment—and most of the time it wasn’t about legal things but for a cup of coffee, a chat or lunch—every time he brought things he had found on his way. A foreign coin, an oddly colored rock, anything that had somehow attracted his attention. For a while he used to collect discarded tickets from San Francisco cable cars. He mounted them as a calendar. One ticket for every day of the year.”

Hutch remembered the resulting photo. “Yeah. Must’ve taken him a while.”

“Almost four years.” Tennant smiled absently, drifting in fond memories. “It didn’t matter to him how long it would take until he had everything together for the final photo. ‘Hugh, Hugh,’ he used to say to me when I complained about the amount of stuff he kept in my desk, ‘it’s good that you’re a man of the law because you’re too impatient to be a man of the arts.'”

Both men laughed, then fell silent again.

“I miss him so much,” Hutch said.

“Yeah, me too,” Tennant admitted. “Although Peter wasn’t really my son, not in the biological way…” Tennant shook his head, momentarily unable to go on with whatever he had wanted to say.

Hutch knew that nothing he could say would ease this pain; nevertheless he said, “Peter didn’t care about biology. He cared about feelings.” Hutch leaned forward to meet Tennant’s eyes. “He said you were the best father he could have wished for.”

Tears welled up in the gray eyes, but Tennant was obviously used to getting his emotions under control. Brushing an impatient hand over his eyes, he cleared his throat and smiled wryly at Hutch. “You know, when he told me about you… I feared you might be another Winters. Somebody who only cared for what Peter could buy. But when he introduced us,” Tennant nodded, “I knew I had worried for nothing this time. I always wanted him to find what he had been looking for for so long. At the vernissage, Peter looked so…so happy at your side. I couldn’t recall when I had ever seen him that carefree. You two—I could see that it was something special for him.”

Hutch opened his mouth, but Tennant held out his hand, silencing him. “I know it came as a surprise to both of you, but that’s what falling in love usually is, Ken.”

His eyes fell away from Hutch’s face and he picked at an invisible bit of fluff on his pant leg. “The man you are working with on the force, your partner, is the main suspect, isn’t he?”

Hutch’s head shot up. “Starsky did not kill Peter,” he said firmly.

“But there’s evidence against him?”

“Mister Tennant—”

“Hugh. Please.”

“Hugh. Starsky isn’t only my partner at work, but also my friend. He was at Peter’s apartment, but I’m sure he didn’t hurt Peter.”

Hugh Tennant got up and took a manila folder from his desk. When he opened it, Hutch realized it contained folded newspapers. On top was the front page of the Bay City Dispatch from the day of Starsky’s arrest. Shuffling through the clippings, Hugh Tennant finally found what he was looking for and read aloud, “…A detective from the Bay City Police department is being questioned concerning his alleged involvement in the death of celebrity photographer Peter Byatt. The manager of the murdered photographer said, ‘Yes, they knew each other. The man was at Peter’s last vernissage and didn’t even try to hide his homophobic attitude towards Peter.'”

“That’s not—” Hutch cut in.

But Tennant read on, “‘From what I heard,’ Byatt’s manager said, ‘the murder weapon belongs to that detective.'”

Hutch couldn’t believe his ears. “Wait, wait. Can you please repeat that last part?”

Tennant read the sentence again.

“He can’t know that. That information wasn’t released to anyone,” Hutch said, pulse quickening.

“It’s true?” Hugh Tennant’s dumbfounded expression turned into anger in a flash. His voice dripped venom when he said, “You came here to talk to me about Peter while knowing there’s hard evidence that your partner, your friend, murdered him?”

“Hugh, please, listen to me. Yes, it’s true, the gun belongs to my partner. It’s his late father’s service revolver. But nobody except me, my partner, and the officers involved in the investigation know about the gun.” Hutch was desperate to convince Peter’s father of Starsky’s innocence, although he wasn’t sure why this was so important to him. “Please, Hugh, believe me, Starsky didn’t kill Peter.”

“Do you…” Hugh Tennant hesitated, cleared his throat and continued, “Do you think it was Winters?”

“There’s no evidence against him,” Hutch said slowly, “but it’s odd that he mentions the gun in the interview.”

“Could he…could the killer get away with it?”

Hutch shrugged. “Maybe.”

Tennant shifted uncomfortably in his armchair. “Did Peter tell you anything about the reason why his physical relationship with Winters ended?”

Hutch shook his head. “He said things got out of hand.” Peter hadn’t confided in me enough to tell me about the beating. But Tennant’s question brought the images from the medical report back to Hutch’s mind, unbidden. Had Hugh seen the scratching? Or had the humiliation been too much for Peter to share even with his father?

Tennant nodded solemnly. “That’s what I thought.”

“But I know about the beating,” Hutch said. “And I’ve got two witnesses who indicated Winters was responsible.”

Tennant’s eyes grew wide.

“My partner pulled the file from the cold case section of our archive…”

“Why would he do that?” Tennant asked with a suspicious look.

“Believe me, Mister Tennant, Starsky had his reasons,” Hutch said and added firmly, “And I’m sure he didn’t kill Peter.”

“So you know what happened to Peter behind that bar last year?” Tennant waited for Hutch’s nod, before he continued. “It wasn’t the first time Winters got violent with Peter. Before that, the injuries had been minor, a blackened eye or a cracked lip. Nevertheless, I tried to talk Peter into splitting up with Winters then, but he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘He’s my friend,’ Peter told me, ‘I won’t throw him away.’ Maybe it was an act of defiance against me when he put Winters in his will. We loved each other and fought with each other just like other fathers and sons do. He was an angry child and an even angrier adolescent. He was always,” Tennant paused and made an eloquent gesture with his balled fists, “testing his limits. I told him he had to make decisions on his own and live with the consequences, but I’d always be there for him.”

Not all fathers love their sons enough to let them go their own way, Hutch thought miserably, but remained silent.

“After the beating, when he was released from the hospital,” Tennant ran a hand over his eyes briefly, “I picked him up and believe me, I was shocked. What Winters had done to him…was so outrageous…”

Hutch shuddered.

The night after Starsky had confronted him with the file, Hutch had been at Peter’s apartment. He had spent all afternoon brooding over a way to bring up the subject of the beating. He had been determined to bring it up. But when he was face to face with Peter, he couldn’t go through with it. Instead, while they were making love, Hutch had kissed and stroked the pale skin of Peter’s chest to take a close look. Was there a scar like the back of an ‘h’, a minor mark shaped like the curve of an ‘e’? The images from the file had replayed themselves in his mind endlessly while he had been desperately trying to forget or at least repress them.

Fighting the turmoil of his feelings, Hutch had been a rough lover that night. Their lovemaking had been intense, and Hutch’s almost violent behavior had been his way of punishing Peter for keeping the beating a secret from him.

Why didn’t he tell me? Doesn’t he trust me that much?

Usually they had been playfully fighting for dominance while making love, but Hutch’s rough attitude that night had forced Peter into submission without resistance.

“Whatever you need,” he had hissed at Peter, grabbing his wrists hard enough to leave marks.

“No, whatever you need,” Peter had replied and to Hutch’s amazement he had relished the aggressive sex, had even encouraged Hutch to ride him harder. And Hutch had complied, frustration and anger burning inside him.

“Kenneth, are you all right?” Hugh Tennant gave him a worried look.

Hutch started. “Huh? Yes,” he stammered. “Sorry, I was drifting. What did you say?”

“I said I wanted Peter to be happy, to have a good life. You know, a future…”

A future. Peter and he had talked about the future. Their future.

“Do you think it could be like this—always?” Peter had asked, chest heaving, skin shining with perspiration.

“I sure hope it will be just like this, always,” Hutch had answered, out of breath.

That night they had spent the afterglow weaving plans and dreams, castles in the sky, but in the end one plan had been made: They would build a future. Together.

A dream that had gone up in smoke not even 48 hours later in a puddle of blood on the floor of Peter’s bedroom. Had Peter been killed because their future interfered with the plans somebody else had made for his own future? Had those alternative plans involved Peter or had he been an obstacle to overcome to achieve that future?

Peter’s murder hadn’t been about money. Nothing was missing from the apartment as far as they knew, and the price of his art photos had only increased. Had the murder been about hate? Jealousy? Had it been about love?

Hutch’s heart sank. It all came down to two people: Chris Winters, violent ex-lover and, as much as he hated to even think it, Starsky.

Winters’ worst fear was obvious; his influence on Peter’s life dwindled with each passing day and he couldn’t help it. With Hutch becoming a constant in Peter’s life it would probably have been only a matter of time until Winters’ influence was next to none.

What had Starsky’s fear been? The end of their partnership? Maybe. The BCPD wasn’t known for a tolerant attitude towards homosexuals. Not among their own ranks, or on the streets. The end of their friendship?

Hutch frowned. No. I could never be less than Starsky’s friend. Starsky’s best friend, Hutch corrected himself. And it wasn’t as if Starsky had made plans for their future, had he? No, not after I fucked up—whatever future we might have had—so perfectly.

Hutch jerked when Tennant touched his arm.

Hugh Tennant gave him a long look, worry and grief still on his face. Then he patted Hutch’s arm twice, got up and went over to a dark, antique cupboard. When he returned to Hutch’s armchair, he held two cut glass tumblers filled with a generous amount of amber liquid. Handing one tumbler to Hutch, he said encouragingly, “Single malt scotch, older than you are, Kenneth. I think we could both use some.”

Tennant dropped heavily into his seat. Raising his glass in salute, he looked at Hutch and said softly, “To Peter.”

“To Peter,” Hutch echoed.

They drank in silence, until a shrill beeping sound from the intercom system startled them both.

Tennant went over to his desk, pressed a button and said, “Yes, Suzan?”

“There’s another call from Chris Winters, Mister Tennant.”

“Tell him I’m busy. I will talk to him tomorrow.”

Returning to his armchair, he sighed. “That’s his third call today.”

“What does he want?”

“His share of the carcass.”

Hutch stared at Tennant. “He wants what?”

“He wants his share of Peter’s fortune. He started asking me about Peter’s will at the funeral.”

Hutch felt a nervous tick start under his right eye.

“The next day he started calling me here. I thought it might be easier to go through Peter’s estate documentation instead of sitting at home, alone, brooding. He called me in the afternoon. I told him not to call me again, that I would contact him when it was time to read the will.”

“Peter didn’t put him in his will? Tell me he didn’t—” Hutch was alarmed.

“Oh yes, he did,” Tennant interrupted him. “But after the beating, he made a new will and cut Winters from it. Completely.”

“But Winters doesn’t know.”

“No, obviously he thinks he’s still going to get it all. As it was in the original will,” Tennant said darkly. He got up and took a double frame from his desk. He looked at the photos for a moment, before he gave the frame to Hutch.

It contained two pictures of Peter. The left one showed Peter as a child, maybe seven or eight years old, his face framed by Mickey Mouse ears, his wide smile showing both missing upper incisors. A small piece of paper at the bottom, ripped from an exercise book, said, ‘To my Daddy. Disney Land was fun’. The other picture showed Peter not too long ago, and obviously he had liked the idea of reprise, because again he had the Mickey Mouse ears on, he was grinning and had painted his upper incisors black, as if they were still missing. A piece of paper, meticulously torn to be the same size and shape as the other one said, “To my Daddy. When can we go to Disney Land again?”

Despite the sharp stab of pain, Hutch had to grin. Peter… he had been what Hutch had been looking for in a lover unconsciously; he had been bright, funny, and beautiful. It—they—could have lasted for the rest of their lives…he thought wryly.

“I want you to get the man who killed my son.” Hugh Tennant’s voice was harsh and cold. “I want to see whoever it was behind bars. The longer the better.”

“We’re talking premeditated murder here, Hugh,” Hutch said quietly. “It’s possible that the murderer will get the death penalty.”

“All the better,” Tennant said coldly. “I am a very old-fashioned man and the fairness of ‘an eye for an eye’ appeals to me.”

“Would you mind giving me that clipping?” Hutch said. “It might be an important piece of evidence.”

Tennant nodded and handed him the piece of paper, folded and neatly labeled with the name of the newspaper and the publication date.

Hutch stood, ready to go, when Hugh Tennant spoke again.

“What…what if it turns out that your partner, despite our suspicions concerning Winters…what if he killed Peter?” He looked at Hutch, expecting an answer.

“I will find Peter’s murderer, Hugh, and I will see him in a court of law.” He took a deep breath. “Whoever it is.”

* * *

Hutch closed the door and leaned back against the dark wood, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

“Ken, is that you?”

Hutch started and, opening his eyes, he found himself face to face with Suzy, the latest of Starsky’s casual chicks.

Suzy beamed at him. “I had no idea that ‘Detective Hutchinson’ was you.”

“Yeah, well, that’s me.” How eloquent, Hutchinson.

“So you’re here to see Mr. Tennant? Is Dave with you?”

“No, sometimes we split up to speed things along.”

She gave a small nod, and, looking at her watch, said cheerily, “Hey, it’s almost four. Would you like to go for a drink?”

“Why not?” he said without hesitation. Damn, what am I doing? Going out with one of Starsky’s girls for a drink?

“Great,” Suzy said. She grabbed her purse and dragged Hutch out of the office.

Tennant’s voice followed them to the elevators. “Suzan? SUZAN, dammit! Every time I need her… SUZAN!”

* * *

They sat in a back booth of a bar, Hutch sipping on a beer, Suzy toying with the decoration of a strawberry margarita. The bar was as quiet as could be expected at 4:15 p.m.

“So, how come Starsky and you broke up?” Hutch asked after a while.

Suzy looked at him. “That what he told you?”

“He didn’t tell me anything, but…” he said.

“Oh, you thought we broke up because he’s been seeing those other girls…” she said matter-of-factly. “Why should I mind them? Dave doesn’t sleep with them, either.”

Either? “Either?” he blurted out.

“So you don’t know about that? I thought you were close as Siamese twins.”

“I don’t know about what?” he asked with a sense of foreboding.

“His dreams…”

Oh, it’s about Gunther… Relief washed through Hutch.

“You lived with him for a while and I thought…”

“Yeah, during his recovery, he had bad nightmares back then. But I thought they’d stopped.”

Suzy looked at him, no, she was staring at him, her green eyes drilling right down to his core. “I’m not talking about the hit,” she said finally. “What happened to you two? How come you don’t know that he hasn’t…” she looked at him as if she was hoping he would understand without her actually saying it.

“Hasn’t what?” Hutch asked.

“Gotten laid. For months…”

“But… he’s been dating women like there’s no tomorrow…” Oops, Hutchinson, she’ll really appreciate that piece of information.

But Suzy didn’t seem fazed. “Yeah, Dave’s very generous,” she said, “He takes us out to dinner, or dancing, or to the movies, and finally to The Pits to show off for you—he makes sure you’re there—and then he takes us home. Not to his place, that is, and he never stays for the night. At first, I thought it was only me. You know, I don’t like to be one among many. I like to be the one.” She looked at him and shrugged.

“So, finally, I talked to Donna and Lucy, two of his other girls I know. He dated them, but never laid a hand on them. Next, I snatched his phone book—you know the little red one—I actually thought about calling some of the other women. Would have made quite a fool outta myself, don’t you think?”

Hutch sat there trying to compute this information. Starsky hasn’t been sleeping with her? Hasn’t been sleeping with women at all? Images of Starsky with various girls—most of the time Hutch had never even caught their names—whirled through his mind. He brought them to The Pits to show me? Show me—what?

Suzy took a sip of her margarita, then added, “By the way, Donna asked about you, too.”

Hutch felt his cheeks color, but didn’t rise to her bait. Instead, he said, “Why did he take you to The Pits?”

“As I said, to show off for you.”

“But—why?”

“Maybe he fears…maybe he fears it could happen again.”

“What could happen again?”

Images of Starsky’s scars went through his mind, of Starsky’s frustration during the first months of recovery when he was on medications that took away any chance of getting an erection, of his joy when he could toss the last of the pills.

Suzy looked at him as if trying to figure out whether Hutch was faking innocence, then she lowered her gaze and her voice dropped down to a murmur. “The only time he had me stay overnight at his place, I woke from his moans. It was a hot night. His bedroom was sticky though all the windows were open. It was too hot for a blanket and he slept in T-shirt and briefs.” Suzy was talking in a hushed voice, like she was speaking more to herself than to Hutch, while her fingertips traced the drops of water trickling down her glass. “He moaned, his eyes were moving rapidly under his closed lids, and he was hard. We had just gotten to know each other and hadn’t… you know… it was the first time he was actually hard. He made small noises in his sleep, like he was in pain, you know?”

God, yes, Hutch thought, I know…He felt his cock rise and a wave of embarrassment washed over him. I know what he looks like when he’s like that. I know too well how tempting the look is, how your hand suddenly exercises its own will, doesn’t respond to any of your urgent brain commands anymore. I know how it feels to hold him…to love him…

“I thought I might somehow help him…get off. So I…I wrapped my hand around his dick and started pumping,” she added hastily.

Hutch could almost feel the hot, velvety flesh against his sweaty palm as Suzy suddenly made direct eye contact with him and said, “He came with your name on his lips.”

This time Hutch blushed furiously, sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip, his cock pulsing against its cotton prison. “He—what?” With my name on his lips? He must have had a nightmare about what I did to him. Does he have to live through it night after night?

“Since then, no woman I know has spent the night with him,” Suzy said, interrupting his dark reverie. “Your friend, Ken, lives the life of a monk disguised as Casanova. What?” she asked when she became aware of the way he was staring at her.

“That can’t be true,” Hutch said. Clearing his throat, he tried to find the right words for what he was about to say next. Deciding it was way too late to play coy, he said, “I was on the phone when you…the day after we met at The Pits, remember? He called me and I was on the phone with Starsky…when you went down on him,” he finished.

Suzy looked him straight in the eye. If she was embarrassed by his words, she didn’t show it.

“Well,” she said, cocking her head to one side, regarding Hutch with interest, “you can’t exactly blame me for trying, can you? I thought, maybe the other night had been a misunderstanding…” Looking at her watch, she stood abruptly. “I’m late and I guess I’ve said too much. But I’ve felt for a while that you ought to know… ”

She held out her hand and when he finally shook it, all he could think of was, This hand has held him, too.

Hutch watched Suzan leave, speechless.

Starsky dated women en masse but didn’t sleep with them? The man who’s never been reluctant about getting laid…living a life of chastity? And why would he keep pretending he was having sex more often than he changed clothes?

Hutch put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. Maybe…after all…

Shaking his head as if to dismiss the thought, he threw a few bills on the table and left. His car was parked two blocks away and he was glad, hoping the walk would calm his body and mind.

 

Chapter XXVI

From his car, Hutch radioed Dobey’s office. “Cap, I think we might’ve got something. A lead on Winters.”

After he filled his superior in on his talk with Hugh Tennant and on the information Winters had given to the papers concerning the murder weapon, Dobey agreed to talk to the DA to get a search warrant for Winters’ apartment.

“The address is…” Dobey hesitated. “Apartment 201, Park Towers.”

A shudder ran down Hutch’s spine. Gunther’s really a never-ending nightmare.

“Wait there for Robson and Hendricks. No private parties, Hutchinson, you get me? You will wait in front of the building until they meet you with the warrant,” Dobey barked, but Hutch was sure he had heard relief in his captain’s voice about a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel.

“Cap, what about Starsky?”

“You know that he can’t be a part of this officially,” Dobey said. “When you’re done searching Winters’ place, come back to your apartment; we’ll be there. Is the spare key still on the doorframe?”

Hutch had no idea how Dobey knew about the key, but it didn’t matter now. “Understood, Cap. Zebra Three over and out.”

* * *

Chris Winters’ apartment turned out to be one of the four penthouses in Park Towers. When Winters let them in Hutch got a first glimpse of a flashy interior that was the latest rage. Orange, yellow, and chocolate-brown dominated the place. Psychedelically patterned wallpaper competed with fluffy carpets for the most irritating effect on the human eye. Hutch felt a pounding deep in his skull from the visual onslaught.

What a contrast to Peter’s apartment, Hutch thought. Money wasted big time for a huge lapse in taste.

“Oh, please, put that down carefully,” Winters groaned, looking worriedly at some unidentified object in Hendricks’ hand. “That was expensive.”

Hendricks looked unimpressed and coolly threw the piece over to Robson, who brought his hands out of his pockets just in time to catch it.

“Ooops,” Robson uttered with a false apologetic grin towards Winters, and threw the object to Hutch.

“Please, that’s a Hundertwasser. An original. Priceless,” he added beseechingly, when Hutch didn’t seem impressed enough to put it down carefully.

Hutch took a moment to look at the wildly colored ceramic, then dropped it into Winters’ hands. “Here you are, Winters.”

Clutching the piece to his chest, Winters sank down into a chair, watching them with a fierce expression while they searched his apartment.

* * *

Hutch returned to Venice Place about ninety minutes later. His jaw was set and his lips formed a thin line. He nodded curtly at Dobey and plopped onto the couch next to Starsky.

“Robson and Hendricks are taking a dark leather jacket back to forensics, sir. I called Cheryl Jenkins and she promised to take care of it personally.”

Neither of the three men felt the urge to speak much until half an hour later when Robson and Hendricks joined them.

“What did Byatt’s father say about Winters?” Hendricks asked, looking at Hutch.

“He confirmed the fact that Winters was responsible for the beating Byatt took behind Damsons in Distress. He’d tried to talk Peter out of that relationship even before the beating. There had been other violent incidents. Winters was notorious for his temper tantrums when he felt his relationship to Byatt was being threatened.”

“Not the worst possible motive, huh?” Robson said. “But how did he get your father’s gun?” he asked, turning to Starsky.

Before Starsky could answer, Hutch said, “Winters confronted me once, after…after I’d visited with Peter. He made a comment that my partner wouldn’t approve of me being late again. He knew about Starsky, knew that we were partners, that we were close. Maybe he went to check out Starsky’s apartment.”

“What for?” Starsky looked at Hutch.

“Winters is no fool. It’s quite likely that a cop has more than one gun, isn’t it?”

Everyone in the room nodded.

“Maybe he wanted a gun, just in case,” Hendricks picked up the idea. “And obviously he was careful enough not to mess up your apartment, Starsky. How often did you take out that gun?”

“I don’t know, maybe once or twice each year.”

Exactly twice a year, Hutch thought. Father’s day and on your father’s birthday.

“So it might have been a while before you would have realized that it was gone,” Dobey cut in.

Starsky nodded.

“And of course it was a great way to pin the murder on Starsky,” Robson said. All eyes in the room turned to him. “Winters knew about the…friendship between Hutch and Peter Byatt, and he probably found out how close you two have always been, especially during your recovery, Starsky.” When Starsky frowned at him, Robson hurried to add, “Well, it’s not as if it’s a secret. Everybody at the precinct knows that.”

“Yeah, maybe he wanted to have something up his sleeve, just in case,” Hendricks said.

“We had your place dusted down.” Dobey turned back to Starsky. “No prints except yours and Hutch’s.”

“As expected,” Hutch said. “Winters wears driving gloves all the time. I don’t think he’d take them off to search Starsky’s apartment.”

They all fell silent, lost in thought.

“Tennant thinks Winters might lose his cool when provoked,” Hutch said after a while.

“Provoked—how?” Dobey said gruffly.

“Well, from what Hutch said, Winters thinks he’s about to get Byatt’s money…” Starsky looked at Dobey. “And he doesn’t know he’ll be left out in the cold.” Starsky’s eyes shifted to Hutch. “Can we count on Tennant’s cooperation?”

“Yes, he wants the murderer nailed,” Hutch said. Dead, he thought. Hugh Tennant wants Peter’s murderer dead and roasting in hell.

“You’re thinking of having a fake reading of Byatt’s will?” Dobey suggested.

“Yup,” Starsky replied, and Robson and Hendricks nodded in unison.

And then five men started talking all at once, as if they had been woken from a deep sleep, as they tossed around ideas about how to set Winters up.

* * *

Two hours later a knock on Hutch’s door brought their heads up. Hutch went to the door and let Cheryl Jenkins in. As usual, her ashen-colored hair was pulled back in a tidy bun, but she looked as if she hadn’t slept for days, strained and tired.

“We found a fine spray of blood type 0 on the jacket,” she said, getting directly to the point. Then she took off her glasses to massage the bridge of her nose.

“Like about 45 percent of all white Americans,” Hutch said, frustration thick in his voice.

“Like me,” Starsky added.

Cheryl put her glasses back on and laid a gentle hand on Starsky’s shoulder. A smile eased her strained expression. “But it’s also Rh-negative. Like only 7.7 percent of all white Americans. Not like you, Dave.” She looked right into Hutch’s eyes and squeezed Starsky’s shoulder, as she said, “Like Peter Byatt.”

 

Chapter XXVII

“Mister Winters is here, Mister Tennant.” Suzy’s voice came out of the intercom’s speaker, slightly distorted.

“Show him in, please.”

Tennant rose from his seat and pulled down his dove gray vest sharply. “Time to get this show on the road, then,” he muttered under his breath. Once the door closed behind Winters, Ken Hutchinson, and his two fellow detectives would take their positions in Suzan’s office, listening and taping the conversation he was about to have with Winters.

Still, he didn’t like it. The thought that he would be talking to Peter’s murderer made his stomach churn.

Innocent until proven guilty, he silently admonished himself. I will be talking to the man who is most likely Peter’s murderer.

Looking at Peter’s photo on his desk, Tennant said in a low voice, “What did you see in him? Huh?”

He heard Suzan’s knock, then the door opened. “Mister Winters,” she announced, for once behaving like a secretary.

Winters went past her and past Tennant’s outstretched hand and flopped unceremoniously down onto one of the broad leather chairs, sprawling.

“Thank you, Suzan,” Tennant said, dismissing her with a nod.

Relieved that Winters hadn’t taken his hand, Tennant withdrew behind his desk, and, sitting down, pointed at the client’s chair opposite him. “Would you mind?” he suggested.

“Is that really necessary?”

“This is a formal reading, Mister Winters,” Tennant said in a business-like tone. “The reading of a will is a serious matter, and everyone involved should treat the final wishes of a deceased with respect.”

With a theatrical sigh, Winters stood, came over to the desk and sat down facing Tennant.

“You want some coffee or tea, Mister Winters?”

“I think champagne would be more appropriate.” Winters grinned. “Drop the stiff-lipped act, Tennant. ‘Mister Winters’ here, ‘Mister Winters’ there,” he mimicked the lawyer. “You’ve known me long enough to call me Chris even if you do despise me. You know Peter did love me.”

“Though I never understood why, yes, I know he did.” Tennant gave a thin smile and his knuckles cracked as his fingers curled into tight fists. “Concerning the drink, it’s coffee or tea, though.”

“In that case, just let’s get this over with. I might treat you to champagne later.” Winters looked at his watch.

It hurt when Tennant recognized it as the one Peter had purchased some years ago as a Christmas present ‘for a friend.’ Tennant had suspected that it had been for Winters since the two of them had been close, too close for his taste, but Peter wouldn’t tell him who he was buying it for.

“Are we waiting for somebody?” Winters asked impatiently.

“No, it’s just you and me,” Tennant said.

“Well, all the better for me, I guess.” Winters laughed and leaned back, obviously pleased.

Tennant pressed the call button on the intercom and said, “Suzan, hold all my calls for the next 30 minutes, please. We’re not to be disturbed.” He left the intercom open, even though his office had been bugged for the recording.

Clearing his throat, Tennant opened a thick file and started to read.

Peter had left some individual photos to special people and it was a good way to start the reading, Tennant thought.

“I leave the series of photographs entitled ‘Winter Solitude,’ including all publication rights, to the Heavenbrook College, Wales, Great Britain.” While he was reading, Hugh Tennant saw the photos he was talking about in his mind. He liked the idea that those pictures would be hanging in the hall of the school he and Peter both had attended. “I leave my collection of Leica cameras to the Seattle Museum of Photography. I leave the series of photographs of Ansel Adams, including all publication rights, to the Friends of Photography, San Francisco. I leave the…”

It didn’t take long, maybe ten minutes, until Winters started squirming, shifting to and fro, crossing his legs, then uncrossing them, only to cross them again.

“I leave the series of photos entitled Gill Houses, including all publication rights, to Moira—”

“To the old crow,” Winters snorted. “What a waste…”

“Please, Mister Winters,” Tennant said, slightly irritated. “…To Moira McGuire-Gill.”

After more than twenty-five minutes of meticulously listing Peter’s photos, Winters lost his patience. “Hey, can we speed things up and get to the main event?”

“Pardon me, Mister Winters?”

“Oh, cut the sophisticated, high-horse attitude. Let’s get to the point where you tell me it’s all mine.”

“What makes you think that there might be such a point, Mister Winters?” Actually, he was starting to enjoy watching the man, who was so full of expectation and so close to complete disappointment.

“Then tell me how much I’ll get, dammit.”

“You would have gotten it all,” Tennant said calmly.

“Yippee-ey-yeah!” Winters broke out into cheers, obviously having missed the point. Then he fell silent all of a sudden when the information finally registered. “What do you mean, I would have gotten it all?” His face darkening, he leaned over the desk towards Tennant. “What do I get now?”

“Peter had left you everything he owned in his original will. But, thank God, he changed his will on November 28^th last year.”

Winters paled, but the swollen veins at his temples remained clearly visible.

“Do you have any idea why he changed his mind, Mister Winters?”

Winters dropped back into his seat. “The mugging,” he whispered breathlessly.

“It was a beating, Mister Winters. It was five days after Peter had been severely beaten. Beaten and humiliated. The man who did it wasn’t content to beat and kick Peter; no, he peed on him while he was unconscious.” Tennant had to take a deep breath, trying to get a grip on his flaring anger, before he continued. “Peter was beaten and kicked and peed on and then the man who did this scratched whore onto his chest. Why would somebody do something like that, huh? And why would Peter refuse to name the assailant? I just couldn’t understand it. But… we both know who the assailant was, don’t we, Mister Winters?”

The way Winters looked at Tennant, the lawyer suddenly understood why Peter hadn’t said anything. It hadn’t been shame or love; it had been fear. Winters’ look was pure menace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tennant, and I sure don’t like what you’re trying to imply here. I’ll ask you one last time. What am I getting?”

“Nothing, Mister Winters. You’re getting absolutely nothing,” Tennant said, feeling intense satisfaction at finally being able to say those words. “And I cannot say I’m sorry.”

“That son of a bitch. That goddamn fucking son of a bitch!” Winters exploded into action. Seeing the collections of items Peter had used for the still lives series, he whisked them off the small table, scattering them onto the office floor. The things on the bookshelves were next, followed by those on the windowsill.

Tennant watched him silently, though his blood roared in his ears.

Finally Winters stopped, panting.

“Are you done, Mister Winters?” Tennant asked, outwardly calm.

Winters returned to the desk, and, leaning over, he grabbed Tennant’s lapel. “Who?” he growled. “Huh? Who’s gonna get it? The blond cop?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” Tennant answered, freeing the fabric of his jacket out of Winters’ sweaty grip. “Client confidentiality, you’ll excuse me.”

“So, is it the cop? Am I right?” Winters’ fist hit the leather desk pad and left a sweaty spot. “I should have finished Peter the first time he cheated on me.”

Tennant sat tight, waiting for Winters to dig his own grave.

“I loved him,” Winters insisted. “And he loved me. Why did he start looking for other men? We had it all,” he whined, “before he started cheating on me. A bartender. Of all the men in this damn town, a bartender.” Winters laughed harshly. “A blond, sun-tanned toy. Peter needed to be reminded whom he loved and needed.” He looked at Tennant as if looking for consent. “And then that cop.” Winters’ fist hit the desk again. “Dammit, I should have killed the little slut back in November, and God knows, I was close. Should have killed the boy-toy from the bar, too. Would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

Winters shook his head slightly, then looked straight into Tennant’s eyes. “What was going on in his head over the last few weeks? You were his father. Don’t you know?” Winters gaze was intense. “Can you imagine that he told me—right to my face—that I was fired? Fired? Me? I laughed at him. I made him. He would still be taking photos of sweating bar-mitzvah-boys and pimply girls on prom nights if it wasn’t for me. And he wanted to fire me?” Winters gave a short bark that might have passed for a laugh in other circumstances. “I pulled the gun I had snatched from the other cop’s place. ‘Do you get off on guys with guns?’ I asked. He came towards me and said, ‘You wouldn’t do that, Chris. We both know that.’ Stupid sucker. Didn’t know me at all, it seems. I made him face reality. You should have seen his eyes when I pulled the trigger.”

Tennant drew a sharp breath. If I had a gun right now, I would kill him. I never thought I could feel that way…but now…

“Don’t look at me like that,” Winters snarled. “Your little boy got just what he deserved.”

Tennant watched as the door to the office opened.

“He said ‘no disturbance,’ didn’t you hear?” Winters shouted, obviously expecting Suzy.

“We’ve heard enough,” Hutch said calmly, although he was shaking with anger. Tennant could see it even from a distance.

Winters turned sharply to face Hutch, Robson, and Hendricks.

“You can’t prove a thing,” he blurted out, then bit his lip and fell silent.

* * *

For a few seconds there was nothing but loaded silence, before Hendricks made eye contact with Hutch and said in a low, almost gentle voice, “Read him his rights.”

Hutch had done it countless times over the years, yet only once before had he quoted the words with such a feeling of satisfaction—when he had said them to James Gunther in his classy office in San Francisco.

Standing behind Winters, Hutch said, “Christopher Derek Winters, you are under arrest for the premeditated murder of Peter Byatt.” Letting his cuffs tinkle loudly, he continued, “I’m going to cuff you now. Hold out your hands.” And to his amazement, Winters did.

“You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Do you understand?” Hutch began with a steady voice, accentuating his question with the click of the first cuff around Winters’ wrist. “Do you understand?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Winters forced out through gritted teeth.

“Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?” Again, Hutch waited for a grunt from Winters before he continued. “You have the right to consult with an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning, if you wish. Do you understand?”

“Yes, dammit, I’m neither deaf nor stupid,” Winters barked.

Robson grabbed Winters’ arm to take him to the precinct, while Hutch picked up the phone to call Dobey and Starsky, who was waiting with him.

When Winters was led past Hutch, the handcuffed man spat, “You were nothing more to him than another cock, pig. Nothing more.”

Robson drove his fingers deep into Winters’ biceps and said over his pained yelp, “And you’re just another perp to be put away. Come on, you’ve said more than enough for now.”

* * *

Since Robson had taken Winters in their car to the holding cells, Hendricks and Hutch rode back together in Hutch’s LTD.

“Like old times,” Hendricks said in a false cheery tone.

Hutch glanced sideways at him and answered, “No, it’s not. Too many things have happened since we last rode together.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Hendricks sounded like a child being scolded by a parent.

Hutch had to smile at the thought. “So, what did you really want to say?”

Hendricks shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Am I that easy to read?”

“Well, after all, we go back together a little while, don’t we?”

“Yeah.” Hendricks looked at him, relief written all over his face. “Yeah, we do.”

“And?” Hutch probed.

“I want you to know that I don’t believe the things Winters said during the interrogation. Nor what he said in Tennant’s office.” Hendricks spoke fast as if talking about this got easier if he rushed through it.

Or maybe he just wanted to get it over with.

Hutch let the words sink in for a moment, not answering right away. But as much as Hutch wanted to postpone it, this was definitely a moment for truth.

“What Winters said,” Hendricks continued awkwardly, “about you and…”

“Yeah, I understand what you mean.”

“I never told you this before, but Mark thought I was…you know, when we met.”

Hutch looked at him. “That why he broke your nose?” he asked, vaguely remembering the story involving a door, a built-in closet, Hendricks’ nose, and Robson’s momentum. Looking at Robson now, nobody would suspect he had once been a carefree, cheerful man. That’s what the death of a loved one can do to you, Hutch thought.

“No.” Hendricks laughed. “That was really an accident. But all through the academy, I had never had a girlfriend and he thought…”

“What about—” What was Hendrick’s wife’s name… Miranda, no— “Melissa?”

“Melissa is,” Hendricks corrected himself, “was Philippa’s older sister. When Mark got to know Philippa, he told me he felt bad because I had nobody to keep me warm. And then he asked me quite blandly whether I was gay.”

“And?”

“I said the problem was worse.” Hendricks grinned. “I was a virgin.”

Hutch suppressed a laugh. A virgin in Bay City? With Hendricks’ looks? Must’ve beaten them away with a stick.

“Anyway,” Hendricks said, shifting in his seat, “those times are long gone. We just wanted you to know that we don’t believe in gossip spread from one idiot to another…”

The traffic light ahead of them turned red and Hutch stopped. Damn, is this it? Truth-or-dare time? He could still lie. Maybe he didn’t even need to lie; he could just leave the remarks without commenting on them. Just let it pass.

Turning to Hendricks, Hutch said calmly, “It’s true. Winters didn’t lie about that. Peter Byatt and I were lovers.”

“Oh shit.” Hendricks looked truly stunned.

Not disgusted, not even shocked somehow. Hutch stared at him, not really sure whether he was supposed to say more.

“I mean, ‘oh-Mark-was-right shit,’ not ‘oh-that’s-disgusting shit.'” Hendricks stammered. Then he got a grip and said more calmly, “Mark implied something like this the night we met you at the crime scene.”

Yeah, Hutch remembered the words that had not been meant for his ears.

“I didn’t say weird, I said he’s acting like a grieving man.”

“What do you mean, grieving? Grieving for whom?”

“Just look at him. This victim is more than just a dead friend.”

“Somehow it never occurred to me he’d be the perceptive type,” Hutch said, glancing sideways at Hendricks.

“Well, yes, he is. Obviously. Shit, I called him overprotective. And worse.” The younger blond sighed. “Guess I was irritated because it wasn’t about me.”

There was a moment of silence before Hutch said, “I wanted you to know just in case there will be fall-out, which there might be. I don’t want you or Robson to think I lied to you.”

“What about Starsky?”

“What do you mean, ‘what about Starsky?'” Hutch replied and heard the sudden sharp edge of anger in his own voice.

“Did Starsky know?”

Hutch swallowed. His thoughts had been galloping back to that night and to all the days and nights ever since. But Hendricks was asking something else. “Not right away.” When he realized that Hendricks was waiting for him to go on, he added, “I told him after I was sure what I wanted.”

“How did Starsky feel about it? Was that when things got rough between the two of you?” Hutch’s frown earned a hastily added, “I mean, we all had the opportunity to witness your odd behavior in the squad room, the long silent hours at opposite sides of your desks…”

Hutch hadn’t realized it had been so obvious.

“So what did you make of it?” he asked warily.

“You really wanna know?” Hendricks asked, his face giving away his amazement.

Hutch shrugged. “Right now it feels as if it can’t get worse.”

“Okay, you asked.” Hendricks drew a deep breath, before he said, “We thought it was a fight between lovers.”

“Lovers?”

“You and Starsky. We thought, don’t get me wrong, but since I’ve known you…there’s never been a woman in your life. And after the shooting…there was no room for anyone but Starsky in your off time, was there?”

“No,” Hutch breathed. “You are right. No significant females, just my partner since…I lost track since when.” He shook his head, then looked Hendricks right in the eye. “Do you have a problem with me now?”

“No,” Hendricks replied firmly. “No, I don’t have a problem with you. Neither will Mark. He kinda made sure of that beforehand, I guess.”

“That’s good to know,” Hutch said with a small smile, pulling the car back into traffic when the light turned green.

 

Chapter XXVIII

With Peter’s blood on the front of Winters’ leather jacket and the taped confession from Tennant’s office, it wasn’t hard to build a case against Winters. Simonetti had no choice but to drop the charges against Starsky and fully exonerate him.

This time there was no meeting with the mayor, no publicity; Dobey simply called Starsky and Hutch, as well as Robson and Hendricks, into his office.

“I want all of you to know that nailing Byatt’s real killer was good work. I liked seeing two teams work hand-in-hand in times of trouble.” He nodded towards the younger duo and said, “Dismissed.”

Robson and Hendricks left, nudging each other on the way out, while Starsky and Hutch sat still, unsure of what to expect.

Dobey opened a drawer in his desk and took out Starsky’s badge and gun. “Welcome back, son. I’m glad that, in the end, it was just a tragic chain of events that made you the prime suspect in a murder case.”

Hutch looked down at his folded hands. That’s all it is to the others, a case. A tragic chain of events. A cop falsely accused of a premeditated killing. A dead faggot. Who cares?

“I’ll see you later, Starsky,” Dobey said, and both detectives stood. “Hutchinson, I want to talk to you.”

Hutch’s head shot up and he met his superior’s eyes.

“Starsky,” Dobey barked, making a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“We don’t have secrets, sir,” Starsky said tersely.

“Hutch?” Dobey asked.

Hutch nodded, agreeing with his partner.

“I…” Dobey scratched his head with a pen. “I want you to know that it doesn’t matter to me who you spend your off time with.”

Hutch nodded again. “Thank—”

“I wasn’t done yet,” Dobey cut in and looked at Hutch, his gaze unyielding, “but I don’t like the fact that you lied to me about your relationship with Byatt.”

Hutch wanted to contradict him, but Dobey’s broad hand silenced him.

“I understand why you thought you had to do it at the time. Just don’t make a habit out of it.” His expression softened as he added, “And now get out of my office. Both of you.”

Starsky held the door open for Hutch and patted his back lightly as he went past, nodding at their superior.

* * *

Two weeks later

Dobey called them in his office for a briefing on a case of dirty cocaine shipments they had been working on with vice. Starsky leaned against the filing cabinet next to the door, while Hutch sat opposite his superior. Dobey was in the middle of one of his usual speeches about cooperation and success, when a firm knock on the door interrupted him.

“Who’s that?” he shouted.

The district attorney entered, Simonetti hot on his heels.

“Have you heard the news already?” The DA was obviously angry.

“Heard what?” Dobey asked impatiently.

“The Byatt case is over,” the DA said darkly.

Dobey exchanged a look with Hutch. “What do you mean over?”

“Winters killed himself last night. A prison guard found him at 6:00 a.m. hanging from the bars over his window. He used his shoelaces.”

The silence in the office was loaded.

“Well, gentlemen,” the DA said finally, putting his hand on Hutch’s shoulder, “even if this is not the result we all hoped for, let’s not forget that the case was solved, the murderer was caught and arrested, and a falsely accused cop was exonerated. Starsky, I’m sorry for all the trouble you had to go through. But your fellow officers never rested, never…”

“Sir,” Hutch interrupted, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, “he’s Starsky, I’m Hutchinson.”

“Oh,” the DA said, turning to Starsky. Looking back with a slight twitch of his lips at Hutch, he added, “Well, yes.”

Starsky left his place at the cabinet and sat down next to Hutch.

Dobey broke the awkward moment. “Detective Starsky would appreciate having his father’s service revolver returned now that the case is over. Is there any reason to keep it?”

“From my point…no. Simonetti?” He turned to the IA officer. “Any problems with returning Detective Starsky’s property?”

Simonetti muttered something unintelligible.

“What was that, Lieutenant?” the DA asked impatiently.

“I don’t think there’s a reason to keep the gun any longer,” Simonetti said in a low, tense voice.

“Good,” the DA said, turning back to Dobey. “Captain, I never believed that one of your men…”

“Neither did I,” Dobey interrupted. “We all should return to our respective duties and, in the future, keep in mind that every man is innocent until proven otherwise. Don’t you think so, Lieutenant?”

Simonetti left the small room without a word, and the DA excused himself and left, too.

Dobey opened a drawer of his desk and took out Samuel Starsky’s service revolver. Placing it on top of his desk in front of his detectives, he said, “There you are, Dave.”

“First name basis?” Starsky said, turning to Hutch. “Am I sick?”

“No more than usual,” Hutch answered, taking the gun from Starsky’s hands. Looking at the weapon, he thought, This was the last thing Peter saw.

He had expected to feel— What? More grief? Fresh anger? But he felt nothing but the weight of the gun in his hands. A gun that had belonged to his partner’s father, one of the few things Starsky had left to remember him by. It had been stolen from Starsky’s apartment and used to kill a man. A man Hutch had loved. Peter.

Hutch gave the gun back to Starsky and left the room without another word.

* * *

Bringing Starsky his third beer in less than half an hour, Huggy slid into the seat opposite the dark-haired detective, watching him quietly.

“What?” Starsky spat as he became aware of Huggy’s pointed stare.

“That’s what I’d like to hear from you, bro,” Huggy said. “You’re here on your own, drinking as if there’ll be no more beer tomorrow.”

“If you’ve got a problem with that, I can get a beer at some other place. There’re enough shabby joints in the neighborhood.”

Ignoring Starsky’s harsh words, Huggy said, “You ain’t been like this since you dumped the wicked witch by the name of Kira… Is it that bad?”

Starsky stared into his beer glass, twirling the golden liquid around as if it held the answer to Huggy’s question.

“It’s not that,” he finally muttered, then fell silent again.

“C’mon, Starsky,” Huggy said, looking around his empty bar. “There’s no one near enough to overhear. Tell the Bear.”

Starsky opened his mouth as if to say something, then hiccupped and closed it again with a resigned shake of his head.

“Is it about another woman? One of those you’d been dating—?” Huggy stopped. He had been about to say ‘lately,’ but honestly, he couldn’t recall the last time he had seen Starsky with one of his interchangeable chicks, let alone any specific girl’s name or face. Must be weeks… or months…?

Starsky looked at Huggy briefly then back at his glass, letting the remnants of his beer rotate. He shook his head. “It’s not that,” he said.

“Then what?” Huggy insisted.

Another shake of the dark head was the only answer.

So this is something just between the two of them? Odd.

Huggy had long since accepted Hutch’s supremacy in Starsky’s life. At first, it had stung to see them together. He hadn’t been explicitly excluded, but it had been obvious those two didn’t need a third brother. John Colby, fraud that he turned out to be, had tried, and so had Huggy. Neither of them had succeeded for long.

Over the years the dynamic duo had become a constant in Huggy’s life, and he had finally reached a state of mind where he could think of Hutch as a brother gained instead of Starsky as a brother lost.

“Is it,” Huggy licked his lips nervously, unsure how dangerous the grounds he was about to enter were, “is it still about Peter Byatt?”

Starsky’s head jerked up and he shot Huggy a look that could have frozen bourbon. “What do you know?”

Bull’s eye, Huggy thought, shifting in his seat. “I hear things people say, people that know people, you know,” he said evasively. “So what’s the problem? The man’s been dead and buried for weeks now. A shame, but true.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Starsky snorted. “I thought we’d be…” he hiccupped, “friends again by now. It’s been two days since Winters killed himself. I thought, once I was proven innocent, and we are partners again, why shouldn’t it be like old times?”

Huggy knew from years of friendship with Starsky that it was best not to push issues, but to wait. Starsky had come to Huggy for a reason. Starsky wanted to talk, and he would tell Huggy sooner or later. If he couldn’t tell Hutch—obviously the last thing he could do at the moment—he would eventually open up to Huggy.

“Maybe, for Hutch, there was more to it…” Huggy suggested and watched Starsky pale instantly. “Huh?” he nudged.

“Hug, I’m guilty.”

“Of what?” Huggy felt confused. Yes, he had heard about Starsky’s involvement in the murder investigation, but the killer had been an ex-lover of Byatt, and Starsky had been exonerated.

“Byatt is dead because of me.” Looking Huggy straight in the eye, Starsky continued, “After I blew up every chance of talking to Hutch, I thought it was safer to talk to Byatt alone. I was ready to threaten, beat, or beg him to get out of Hutch’s life, but… You know, I never thought he loved Hutch. But he really did.”

“And?” Huggy still didn’t get it.

“I set Hutch up, Hug. I set him up so I could talk to Byatt alone. If I hadn’t done it, Hutch would have been there as he’d planned.” Starsky swallowed compulsively. “Byatt would still be alive.” Starsky’s voice was so low, Huggy had to lean forward to hear the words.

“Or Hutch would be dead, too,” Huggy said reasonably.

Starsky suddenly looked shocked.

He never thought about that.

“I can’t believe that Hutch would hold it against you. He knows you love him and only wanted to protect him.” Starsky’s reaction when Huggy said you love him hadn’t escaped him. He thought, confused, That’s not all? “Starsky?”

“Huh?” Starsky muttered, without looking up.

Huggy said insistently, “What else?”

“Nothin’,” Starsky said, drawing invisible patterns on the table.

“Come on, my man, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out there’s more.”

“I love him,” Starsky whispered.

“Don’t we all?”

“…that way?”

“The way Peter Byatt loved him?”

Starsky swallowed thickly, but didn’t say anything.

“That your problem, bro? That Hutch had somebody love him? Soul and body?” Huggy leaned forward and watched the play of muscles under the heavy five o’clock shadow on Starsky’s jaw. “That it was a man?”

Huggy hadn’t consciously kept track, but he was sure neither of his two friends had been at his bar with the same woman more than twice over the last year. And even before the shooting, he couldn’t remember a serious relationship. The last woman they had dated had been Kira. After her…things had changed. Maybe it had been the shock of realizing that if they didn’t try hard enough, their friendship wouldn’t survive, their partnership would fall apart, and they might lose each other for good.

“He surely didn’t love me that way,” Starsky said darkly, interrupting Huggy’s train of thought.

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I tried, and then had to watch him offer it to Byatt on a tray. Everything.”

Huggy’s mouth was suddenly dry, and his tongue made a funny sound when he opened his mouth. “You tried what?” he managed.

“I tried to take something that wasn’t meant to be mine…I guess,” Starsky began hesitantly.

“You guess?” Huggy probed. What was Starsky trying to tell him here? That he had sexually assaulted Hutch? Nonsense. Huggy would never believe that.

“You remember the night of my reinstatement?”

“Oh bro, the night of the walking drunk? How could I forget?” Huggy said with a grin.

“I did.”

“Did what?”

“Forget most of the night. I remember that you seized the car keys and drove us to my place. I remember that Hutch and I had another round of beer on the floor and then—nothing.”

“Wasn’t the first time that’s happened to you, huh?”

“No,” Starsky said, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “But it was the first time I woke up next morning, naked, glued to my partner, my male partner, my best friend, by come.”

Huggy reached across the table and covered Starsky’s hand with his. “That’s it? That’s all you remember?”

A nod was Starsky’s only answer.

“So, you made love to your partner, for whom you’ve put your life on the line every day. And then what?”

“Two things.” Starsky stopped toying with his beer glass. His index finger came up, “I don’t remember anything about making love as you call it, but,” his middle finger joined the index finger, “what I did obviously ruined everything we had.”

“What did he say…? I mean, you know the day after…”

“Nothing.” Starsky snorted. “If his expression was anything to go by, no words were needed. His eyes said it all.”

“Said what?”

“Shock. Disgust. He would’ve run if he’d had the chance. Didn’t want to hurt me like that, I guess.”

“So what did you do?”

“He looked so… confused. I fell off the couch trying to get up and scrambled away from him. He looked so hurt. He got up and came after me as I retreated into the bathroom. I could hear him outside the door. He said my name. He waited. I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My gaze traveled back to the…dried mess on my belly and thigh…” Starsky swallowed convulsively. He had paled visibly over the last few minutes. “I took a shower. A long shower.”

“How long?”

“I think about an hour,” Starsky said, looking sheepish. “A cold shower, mostly. When I came out of the bathroom, he was gone. I felt…relieved. I couldn’t talk, couldn’t stand him looking at me. Not with that hurt in his eyes. I took the phone off the hook and spent the whole Sunday outside…. Monday morning I went to the station and he was already there, sitting on his side of the desk, typing a report. Everything looked normal, but it felt odd, all wrong. Awkward, that’s what it was. We didn’t look at each other, but I found my eyes drawn to him, to the pale skin on the underside of his forearm, to the little frown line between his eyes, his lips as his tongue slipped out to moisten them, and all I could think was, ‘Did I touch him there?'”

Huggy remembered the frequent touches the two had exchanged publicly over the years. They did it unconsciously, but every time it had struck him as something deeply intimate, as if he were witnessing special moments between those two. Even a pat in passing had a meaning. And he remembered that he had envied them—a little.

“Did you ever think it might have been Hutch’s—” Huggy didn’t want to call it ‘fault,’ “initiative?”

“Hutch would never do that,” Starsky exploded.

Huggy looked at him silently, until Starsky calmed down some.

“You’re right,” Starsky said, his voice low. “I never thought…I thought he was disgusted at having had sex with a man. But then there was Byatt and suddenly I realized Hutch wasn’t disgusted at having had sex with a man. He was disgusted at having had sex with me. Because of me.” Starsky put his face in his hands and drew in a shaky breath.

“I don’t think you’re right,” Huggy said slowly. “Hutch couldn’t be disgusted by anything that was connected to you, Starsky. You know better than that.”

“I know I’m not supposed to react like this. I’m a cop, a street-wise, hard-boiled, knows-all-the-tricks cop. I’m supposed to stay cool, to assess every situation and keep my emotions at bay…” Starsky shook his head. “I’m supposed to handle any crime, any smell, any image as a cop,” his voice got a little shrill, “but Huggy, seeing that expression on his face, that really got me down.”

“They way you put it, ‘cop’ sounds like the opposite of ‘human being.'” Huggy reached out again and touched Starsky’s arm. “You’ve got to talk to him. Soon.”

Starsky nodded. “I just don’t know how.”

“You will once you get started,” Huggy said and got up, Starsky’s empty glass in hand. “Coffee?”

“Nah, I think I better head home.” Starsky stood. “Thanks, Hug,” he added.

Huggy shook his head. “That’s what friends are for.”

“Hug,” Starsky started in a quiet voice, but Huggy cut in immediately.

“Of course I won’t,” he reassured his friend, “to no one.”

 

Chapter XXIX

The Pits was crowded and jumping, just like every Saturday night.

Huggy was busy behind the bar, but not busy enough to miss the arrival of his two friends. “What a rare shaft of sunshine.” Huggy grinned and shook their hands. “Beer?” he asked.

“Yeah, we’ll be over there,” Starsky replied, spotting a table and taking off to occupy it, while Hutch followed at a slower pace.

Huggy couldn’t stop staring at the blond half of the duo. Since their last visit to his establishment, Hutch had not only lost his moustache, but also a considerable amount of weight; the sand-colored corduroys that had been hugging butt and thighs tightly, now hung loosely around his form. The lines of worry and fatigue that had progressively eased during Starsky’s recovery were back with a vengeance. The man looked gaunt. It had been almost a week since Huggy’s talk with Starsky and obviously things hadn’t changed for the better.

From the other side of the room, Starsky waved at him, making the desperate gestures of a man dying of thirst.

Huggy poured two beers and took them to their table.

“Well, well, well, the dynamic duo rides again?” Huggy said, putting the beers down.

Starsky grabbed his glass and took a long swig. Setting the glass down, he sighed, “Oh Huggy, I really needed that.”

Huggy smiled at him, but noticed that Hutch hadn’t touched his beer so far.

“Not thirsty?” Starsky asked with a worried look at his partner.

“Oh, yes,” Hutch replied unenthusiastically and took a small sip.

Starsky seemed content and turned back to Huggy. “So, what’s on the menu tonight?”

“Meatloaf with mashed potatoes, chili burger deluxe, and a mixed salad with grilled chicken.”

“I’ll have the meatloaf,” Starsky announced with a small sound of anticipation.

When Hutch remained silent, Huggy said, “How about the salad for you, Hutch?”

“Huh?” Hutch stopped toying with his glass and looked at Huggy.

“The salad, Blondie. You like?”

Hutch shook his head.

“You gotta eat something,” Starsky admonished in a gentle tone, which reminded Huggy of the way Hutch had coaxed Starsky into eating during his recovery from the shooting. “You haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

Hutch took another small sip from his beer. “Really, Starsk, I’m not hungry.”

“But—”

The look Hutch shot Starsky silenced any further comment immediately.

Huggy put a hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “In case you have a change of heart… let the Bear know.”

When Huggy returned with Starsky’s meatloaf, the two cops were deeply involved in conversation. They both leaned over the table, their foreheads almost touching. Both had their notepads open on the table, comparing notes. Huggy watched them for a moment, relieved to see them together again, but worried about the deep marks grieving for Peter Byatt had left on Hutch. Looking at their bent heads, Huggy silently prayed that Starsky would do an equally good job to help his partner through his rough time now as Hutch had done with Starsky after Terri’s death.

* * *

“Your meatloaf, Starsk,” Hutch said, as Huggy put the plate in front of Starsky. “You got any idea what this stuff does to your arteries?”

Starsky chuckled and dug into the food with obvious gusto, making delighted sounds while he chewed.

“With the way you ignore cholesterol and nutritional values, I wonder how you manage to keep in shape.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Starsky said, washing the last of the mashed potatoes down with Hutch’s beer. “This is good for me, as anybody who cares to look can see.” He patted his belly fondly and gave a resounding belch. “Boy, that was delicious.”

Starsky shifted uncomfortably on his chair.

“Starsk, the john,” Hutch said in a low voice, pointing with his thumb.

“You really know me inside out, don’t cha?” Starsky replied, already up and two steps away from the table as he left for the men’s room.

* * *

Hutch’s gaze followed Starsky until he vanished into the john, before he returned his attention to the open notepad in front of him. Moments later a fresh glass of beer was pushed into his field of vision.

“Nah, thanks, Huggy,” Hutch said without looking up. But then his gaze fell on the hand that had shoved the glass over the table. That’s not Huggy, he thought, looking at the sun-tanned hand with the slightest down of golden hair; his eyes slid from the hand up to the face of the man who now sat in Starsky’s chair.

“Mind if I sit?”

“It’s a free country,” Hutch replied with a smile. “It’s good to see you.”

* * *

When Starsky came back from the john, the first thing he noticed was Huggy’s expression. Huggy stood behind the counter, wiping a glass absently, staring over at the table where Starsky had left Hutch. Letting his gaze wander back to Hutch, Starsky saw Hutch talking to a vaguely familiar man. Twenty to twenty-five years old, Caucasian, sun and salt-water-bleached hair. The bartender from the gay…from that bar, he remembered. Dick. Beaming at Hutch.

Starsky immediately realized that the kid was not the reason why Huggy was staring at them. The reason was Hutch. Hutch was smiling. He looked…less tense than five minutes ago. Less tense than during the past weeks.

Starsky felt stung in a way he couldn’t quite define. But he was sure that standing there staring would give the wrong impression in case Hutch happened to turn his gaze towards him. He could either go back to the john, or walk over to the table and say something. Taking a deep breath, he strolled over and, since his chair was occupied, pulled up a chair from another table and put it down right next to Hutch’s.

It had been one swift motion and Starsky knew it had looked cool. The kid had noticed it, too.

“Hi,” Starsky said to Dick, giving him a wide, charming grin. “Good to see you again. Coincidence?”

“No, not exactly.” Dick turned his attention back to Hutch. “Where were we?”

“Yeah, Hutch, where were you?” Starsky asked innocently and took a swig from Hutch’s fresh beer, holding his partner’s astonished gaze over the rim of the glass.

“We were talking about going out some time,” Dick answered.

“Yeah, that would be nice,” Starsky said, enthused, and, turning to Hutch, Starsky covered Hutch’s larger hand in an unmistakable gesture. “Wouldn’t it, Hutch?”

Dick’s smile faded slowly, looking from their joined hands to Hutch’s face.

“I see,” he said getting up. “‘T was good to see you, Ken. Good to see you’re doing okay,” he added, smiling at Hutch with a sideways glance at Starsky. “Maybe…maybe another time.”

“Yes, maybe another time,” Hutch replied.

* * *

The moment Dick turned his back to leave, Starsky pulled his hand away. When he reached again for the beer, Hutch noticed the moist spot Starsky’s hand had left on the tabletop.

He’s sweating. Hutch’s gaze shot up to Starsky’s face. He looks flushed, too.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure. Why?” Starsky asked, his tone all innocence, as he sipped from Hutch’s beer.

“You look hot.”

“Uh,” Starsky blushed even further, “I’m fine.”

“Then what was that about?” Hutch asked when the door had closed behind Dick.

Starsky’s gaze crept over Hutch’s chest, over his throat, to finally meet his blue eyes.

“Where did he come from?” Starsky asked, looking at the closed front door of the Pits.

“Dick came by to say how grateful he was that we nailed Winters for Peter’s murder.” Hutch looked at Starsky intensely, then patted his hand. “Nothing more, Starsk. Just talk.”

“I know,” Starsky said meekly. He looked down at where Hutch’s hand rested on his and then his eyes made a shy contact with Hutch’s again. “I know.”

Hutch held his gaze for the briefest of moments, before he said, “Come on, partner, the pool table waits for us.”

They flipped a coin, since neither of them remembered who had lost their last game. Too long ago.

Starsky won the break shot and took a lot of time to set up the balls in the rack and place them on the table.

“Starsk, this isn’t exactly rocket science, is it?” Hutch said impatiently, resting his hip against the table. “Just break.”

“Don’t hurry an artist,” Starsky replied, generously applying chalk to the leather tip of his cue.

“I almost forgot to tell you, Hugh Tennant called me today. He wants to speak to us. Monday morning, ten o’clock sharp, in his office.”

“Monday, ten, office,” Starsky repeated. “Got it.”

During the game, Hutch found it difficult to focus on the pool table. Something was odd about Starsky, as if he were trying to divert Hutch’s attention away from the game. After the first few shots, Hutch seemed to notice a pattern. Starsky was bending a lot, displaying his butt in one of his tightest jeans, preferably on Hutch’s side of the table. Applying chalk suddenly looked like a caress.

Is he flirting with me?

As a test, Hutch strolled over to the opposite side of the table and although the shot was impossible from that position, Starsky followed a moment later. Letting the shaft of the cue slide through his fingers over and over, Starsky aimed. When he finally realized the angle made the shot impossible, he brushed past Hutch, blowing on the hairs at his neck almost imperceptibly.

Almost. But Hutch noticed the fleeting sensation. I just don’t have the slightest clue what to think of it.

“Seven in the corner pocket,” Starsky announced, already aiming.

Just before the leather tip impacted with the cue ball, Hutch whispered huskily, “Starsk?”

The dark-blue eyes shot up to Hutch’s face, but the forward movement of the cue didn’t stop while they looked at each other. The cue tip missed the brown ball by a fraction of an inch.

“What?” Starsky managed, still not looking at the table.

“I just wanted to be a part of this game,” Hutch said grinning, aiming at the cue ball himself. “Nine into the side pocket right in front of you, Starsk,” he said, sounding satisfied.

* * *

There was an awkward moment when Starsky and Hutch entered Hugh Tennant’s office two days later and Suzy showed them in.

“Oh, Ken, Detective Starsky, please come in.” Hugh Tennant was waiting for them at the door. “Please, take a seat.”

Hutch noticed that three armchairs surrounded the conference table. The tabletop had been cleared; looking around, Hutch saw the components of ‘Early Summer’ on the windowsill.

“I moved it,” Tennant said, following Hutch’s gaze. “Just for today. Tomorrow it’ll be back at its accustomed space.” His face got serious. “From what I’ve read in the papers, Winters judged himself…”

Hutch nodded.

“You probably don’t want to hear that, Ken, but it’s good that he’s dead. He will never humiliate anyone again. Never again.”

Hutch nodded once more. I understand you better than you’ll ever know. As much as I wanted to see him on death row or get a life sentence, I feel a forbidden satisfaction that he’s dead now. Actually, Hutch had considered calling Hugh Tennant after he had heard about Winters’ suicide. He didn’t remember what had kept him from doing it. Probably what little was left of his integrity as a cop. I can never tell you how much I understand what you’re feeling, Hugh.

“Please, take a seat,” Tennant said finally.

They sat down and after a knock, Suzy entered with coffee, cream, sugar and three cups on a tray. She sat the tray down on Tennant’s desk and brought the cups with steaming coffee over to them. First, she served Hutch, then Tennant, and finally she put three spoonful’s of sugar into Starsky’s coffee and added a good splash of cream. All the time, her eyes never left Starsky’s face while his remained glued to the table. Hutch almost expected her to stir the mix and spill it over Starsky’s lap, but of course, she didn’t.

Tennant, who was talking to Hutch, looked first at Suzy then at Starsky. He put Starsky out of his misery by saying, “Thank you, Suzan, that’ll be all for the moment.”

After she left, Hutch patted Starsky’s thigh briefly and winked at him.

“Well, yeah, I should’ve known she’d have some fun at my expense… ” Starsky muttered.

“Well, gentlemen, you probably wondered why I asked both of you to come today.” Tennant opened a leather folder and took out a stack of papers. “Peter’s last will and testament,” he said, flipping through the pages. “After the assault outside Damsons in Distress, Peter finally got reasonable about his relationship with Chris Winters. He changed his will, as you know, and left everything… ” Tennant made a pause and looked at Hutch, “to me. He said he could easily make another will one day in case he’d ever find a worthier heir.”

Hutch breathed a small sigh of relief. There had been a few moments since he had learned about the new will when he had feared Peter might have made it in his favor.

“Everything means the house where his apartment is, the photos that haven’t been otherwise bequeathed, equipment, and money.” He put the papers between them on the table. “Do you think Peter would like his own wing in the Bay City Museum of Contemporary Art, Ken?”

At first, Hutch was speechless. “That…that’s a wonderful idea, Hugh. The Peter Byatt Wing. Peter would love it.”

“I hoped you would like the idea, too,” Hugh Tennant said. “And now your part, Mister Starsky.”

Starsky’s head shot up.

“Peter talked about you after he met you at his vernissage. He was quite impressed about the things you said about his photos. I think Peter would have liked you to choose the photos for his first exhibition at the museum.”

Starsky opened his mouth to say something, but Tennant held up his hand. “I know it would take a lot of time and, of course, you’ll be paid for your work.”

“It’s not that,” Starsky said hoarsely. “I’d be honored to put together an exhibition.”

“Then what?”

“I thought maybe somebody from the museum…” Starsky squirmed in his chair, “…would be more appropriate.”

“I thought about that, too, but what Peter said about you was quite impressive, Mr. Starsky. I think he would like the idea of you putting together his exhibition. If you’d have come to know my son better, you’d know that extraordinary perception was more important to him than appropriate behavior. Those were his words about you, Mr. Starsky, extraordinarily perceptive.”

Hutch nodded at Starsky encouragingly.

Starsky said weakly, “If you think so.”

“About the apartment…” Tennant went on. “Would you like to live there, Ken?”

“Me?” Images of Peter in his apartment flashed through Hutch’s mind. Peter on his bed, waiting for Hutch to join him there, Peter gathering photographic equipment before his trip to San Francisco, Peter in his kitchen preparing breakfast, Peter in the red glow of the darkroom, Peter…

“No,” he said hoarsely, “I couldn’t live there.”

“But maybe you’d like to have some of the interior furnishings? I’m sure Peter would like you to have some of the photos or the chairs in the living room—just name it.”

“Yeah, maybe some photos…” Hutch said hesitantly.

“Maybe we could meet there this weekend and you could take whatever you like, Ken.” Tennant turned to Starsky. “Maybe you’d like the photos in the kitchen?”

“The kitchen?” Starsky asked uncomprehendingly, looking at Hutch.

Of course, Hutch thought, he probably never was in Peter’s kitchen, he doesn’t know…

“Ansel Adams originals,” Hutch explained the generous offer. “You’ll like them.”

Starsky nodded at Tennant with an uncharacteristically shy grin. “Ansel Adams, wow.”

“Well, since we’ve agreed about the business part,” Tennant got up and pressed the intercom button on his desk. Seconds later the door opened and Suzy appeared with another tray, this time holding a bottle of champagne and four flute glasses. She put it down in front of Tennant, then headed towards the door again.

“Wait, Suzan, don’t you want to have a glass of champagne with us?”

“No, thank you, sir,” she said curtly and uncharacteristically polite.

The loud pop of the cork turned not only Hutch’s but also Starsky’s attention back to Tennant, who had started to pour out the bubbling pale yellow liquid. Starsky and Hutch both got up and joined him at his desk to receive a glass.

“To Peter,” Tennant toasted, raising his glass. “May he rest more peacefully now.”

“Hutch?”

“Huh?”

They were lying side by side on a small grassy slope in the park. It was Sunday, four weeks after their meeting with Hugh Tennant and they had the weekend off. The day had been sunny and warm; they had been shooting some hoops, had had root beer and chicken sandwiches in a picnic lunch they had brought along, and finally kicked back on the blanket Starsky kept in the trunk of the Torino.

They had spent the morning at Peter’s—now empty—apartment. The museum had sent over their expert for the photographs, and Peter’s photos, contacts, and negatives were finally packed, ready to be transported to the museum, where they would be stored and archived. The photos Starsky had chosen for the first Peter Byatt exhibition in the Bay City Museum of Contemporary Art leaned against the walls of the former living room. Hugh Tennant had stopped by earlier and had been impressed by their choice.

“Peter was right, Mister Starsky,” he said, patting Starsky’s shoulder. “You really have an eye for combinations. Well done.”

“Hutch told me that Peter talked about a project he had started,” Starsky said, glancing sideways at Hutch. “It was about the way love changes the lives and looks of people. After I saw the first photos of the series, I knew it would be easy. The images speak for themselves, and they contrast his earlier series of homeless people perfectly.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Hugh Tennant took an envelope out of his briefcase; handing it to Hutch he said, “Remember the rolls of film you found in the darkroom? The ones…” he swallowed, “Peter hadn’t developed yet? Here are the positives…”

Hutch took the stack of photos out of the envelope, almost reluctant to look at them. Flipping through the first few glossy pictures, he’d said, “They’re from the vernissage.”

Hugh Tennant nodded.

Starsky stood next to Hutch, right in time to see him turn to a picture of them. “That’s us.”

The photo in Hutch’s hand trembled as a shudder ran through his body. “Yeah, that’s us.”

Hutch had noticed the brief flashes of light at the vernissage, and had taken it for granted that somebody was taking pictures, for the newspapers maybe, but hadn’t realized Peter had been taking pictures himself.

Three pictures of Starsky and him: Starsky captured with bright eyes, enthused about the photos, talking animatedly to Hutch. And Hutch looking at him…enraptured. Something in the way they faced each other, the way they looked at each other, was achingly familiar. The silent distance they had created over weeks had been gone—for the moment. And Peter had seen it. Had understood it, if his words in bed after the vernissage had been anything to go by.

“I tell you, Ken, love changes people. It changes their attitude towards the world. They look different. If I hadn’t believed it before, today I got the proof. I saw it.”

There had been a sting of melancholy in Peter’s voice, but when Hutch had asked him about it, Peter had said he was just tired. Only too understandable after weeks of hard work preparing the exhibition, Hutch had thought, and let the topic lie.

But now, looking at his own expression while he had been regarding Starsky, Hutch knew what Peter had been talking about. Yes, there had been love pouring out of his eyes. Despite what had been going on between Starsky and him over the weeks before, Peter had seen and captured the essence of their relationship—love.

When Starsky took the photos from his hand, Hutch became acutely aware of the silence in the empty apartment and cleared his throat.

“Keep them,” Tennant cut in before Hutch could say anything. “I think Peter took them for you.”

Hutch suddenly felt he needed to justify himself; he wanted to assure Hugh Tennant that he had loved Peter, but the look in Hugh’s eyes was enough to stop him. He understood, too.

“Thanks,” Hutch muttered. “I appreciate it.”

They had finally parted with the promise to meet at the opening of the exhibition and the detectives had picked up food and soft drinks on their way to the park. It had been good to shoot some hoops, especially after they had spent almost every waking hour after work for close to three weeks sorting Peter’s stuff.

The sun had just set; the park was almost deserted. Parents with small children, young couples, and other visitors had already gone home.

* * *

“Do you ever think…do you think it would’ve been different between us…if…?” Starsky turned towards Hutch, who was dozing.

“Oh, Starsky. Please, not again,” Hutch sighed.

It had been weeks since the last time Starsky had brought up the topic and Hutch had thought that Starsky was finally over it. He had hoped they both were finally over it.

When Starsky stayed silent, Hutch opened his eyes and turned towards him with another sigh. “What makes you think of it now?”

“When I saw those pictures today…you know the ones Peter has taken at his vernissage…the ones he has taken of us…” He made eye contact. “Do you think things would have turned out differently if…?”

Starsky was far from being over it, Hutch realized. “If what, Starsky?”

“If it hadn’t been for that night.”

Hutch propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at his partner. “Why does this still trouble you so much?” he asked quietly, his tone thick with genuine worry.

Starsky avoided eye contact and didn’t answer until Hutch nudged his arm.

“Because that one night destroyed everything we had,” he finally admitted.

“Look at me, Starsk.” Hutch waited ’til the cerulean eyes met his. “Stop talking like that. We’re still partners and best friends, aren’t we?”

Starsky looked really troubled now. “But maybe…we could’ve been so much more…if I hadn’t been such an asshole,” Starsky choked out. “If I hadn’t taken advantage of you…”

Hutch bolted upright, grabbing Starsky’s arm. “Stop it.” Had Starsky just said what he thought he’d said?

“Could’ve been so much more than just friends,” Starsky repeated.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the night I practically…forced you to have sex with me.” Starsky’s voice cracked badly with shame and embarrassment.

“You—what?”

Starsky sat up, face burning red-hot. “Why do you need me to repeat it? Don’t you think it’s bad enough the way it is?” he hissed angrily.

“Starsky? Starsk?”

They stared at each other, both breathing heavily.

Hutch found his voice first. “You did nothing wrong, Starsk. I was the one who took advantage of the situation, of you. How could you think…? Oh my God. The booze.” He slapped his forehead. “You don’t remember what happened?!”

Starsky shook his head ‘no,’ turning his gaze away.

“Believe me, you did nothing wrong.” Hutch touched Starsky’s arm.

“So what happened?” Starsky asked confused.

“We were talking, drinking, actually we were both pretty plastered, and then you said you wouldn’t have made it through recovery without me—”

“That’s true, Hutch, I wouldn’t’ve made it without you,” Starsky cut in. “I still don’t see how you put up with me all those miserable months…”

Hutch’s body tingled with memories at Starsky’s words.

“Will you tell me now what really happened?” Starsky’s dark blue eyes rested on Hutch’s face. “Please.”

Hutch exhaled slowly and his gaze drifted from Starsky’s. He moved away, breaking the physical contact and stared at the sky. How do I find the guts to tell him? Even now I’m ashamed…

Starsky propped himself up on an elbow and put his other hand on Hutch’s chest. “Hey,” he said, “this is me. Talk to me, babe, huh?”

“When you kissed me, you tasted like beer, like pickles,” Hutch said suddenly. “Your lips were so unbelievably soft against mine. Your hands went over my back, then down lower, pulled me closer. You didn’t stop talking. Between kisses, you wanted—” Hutch swallowed audibly. “You took off your clothes. You showed me all your scars; you wanted me to touch them to prove they didn’t hurt anymore. ‘See, no more pain,’ you said, ‘just pleasure.’ You suggested I should take off my clothes, too. I shouldn’t have listened to you, but I did. You pulled me closer, on top of your body like a blanket. And while I was getting more and more turned on, you just…just…” Hutch felt the frantic beating of his heart, reliving the moment from so many weeks ago.

“…fell asleep?” Starsky said quietly.

Hutch nodded, feeling his face warm at his next words. “I…I rubbed off against you.”

Starsky’s hand kept its gentle, slow motions on Hutch’s chest. “That’s all?” he asked finally.

“Isn’t that bad enough?” Hutch’s voice was shrill even in his own ears. For if I’d known how, I would have fucked you that night, he thought. I would.

“No. No, that’s not bad. But it’s bad that we let it slip outta control. I don’t mean what happened between us that night, but afterwards. We let it get between us. We never talked about it. That’s bad. That’s not us. But one thing is true, Hutch.” Starsky edged closer, making sure he had Hutch attention. “I would’ve never made it without you. I never thought about a label for the feelings I had for you. Now I know. I love you. Love you. Every possible way, if you want it too. I’ve loved you since…I don’t know, feels like forever.”

Hutch felt his eyes go wide as Starsky leaned forward and kissed him. It was just a dry brush of lips against lips, but Hutch brought up his hands and pushed his partner away, breaking the kiss roughly, and shifted his body to get some space between them.

“Hm?” Starsky asked dreamily, before his eyes cleared some and he stammered, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t…”

Hutch held Starsky’s upper arms in a tight grip. “It’s not that, but this is a p-pretty public place…” Then he loosened his clasp on Starsky’s biceps and instead stroked down his arm. “C’mon, time to settle this at last.”

He stood and held his hand out to help Starsky to his feet. Starsky reached for Hutch’s hand but made no move to stand. Instead, he squeezed it and pulled Hutch down to the blanket again.

“I really didn’t do anything to you?” Starsky still sounded uncertain.

“No, you didn’t do anything except be there. I admit, I knew what I was doing to you, but I simply couldn’t stop once I got started. I fell asleep happy. But morning came and you acted like you were disgusted by my behavior.” Suddenly there was a catch in his voice, but he went on. “So disgusted with me that you couldn’t stand having me around any longer. You locked yourself in the bathroom. So I ran. You stayed silent for the rest of the day, didn’t even answer the phone, and when I saw you at the station next morning and you didn’t say anything, I thought you wanted it to play like ‘we were drunk and things got a little out of control. As far as I’m concerned, nothing happened.'”

From the corner of his eyes, Hutch saw Starsky shake his head quietly.

“I thought I could take it. I really thought I could do it your way, Starsk.”

“Wasn’t my way, Hutch,” Starsky said softly. “You cut me to the quick not talking to me, not touching me.”

“I couldn’t take it,” Hutch said as if he hadn’t heard Starsky’s words. “Not anymore. Not after having a glimpse of what could be.”

Starsky took Hutch’s face in both of his hands and stared into his eyes for long moments. Then he pulled their faces together until their foreheads touched.

“You don’t know how much I love you, blintz,” Starsky whispered.

“I do. And I love you.” Hutch felt the corners of his mouth turn upwards. Suddenly, he remembered where there were, and he whispered insistently, “And before we turn this scene into a soapy mess, we should definitely head home.”

“Your place or mine?”

“Don’t you think you owe me a better pick up line than that?” Hutch grinned, then kissed Starsky briefly. “C’mon, partner, your place.”

“Why not Venice Place? It’s closer.”

“Don’t you think we have to work some things out at your place?”

They packed their belongings into the trunk of the Torino in record speed and headed for Starsky’s apartment.

 

Chapter XXXII

After Starsky opened the front door, he let Hutch walk in first, then stepped into his place himself. Once the door had closed behind him, Hutch pressed him against the wood with his body. Crushing their mouths together they kissed, getting accustomed to the sensation, to the taste and soft noises they made.

Hutch was achingly hard and pushed his hips against Starsky’s, seeking contact, and was met by an equally eager hardness.

“You’re trying to scare me?” Starsky panted into Hutch’s ear.

The apartment was almost dark and quiet except for their low sounds of pleasure.

Hutch pulled away, sucking in a deep breath. “God, if we keep this pace, you’ll make me come in my pants…”

Starsky didn’t budge. “I hated him.” he said in a low voice. “You gave him everything you denied me. I wanted to touch you, to love you, but I thought after I’d taken it against your will you were too disgusted…and then you took everything away from me, and offered it to him on a tray.”

Hutch broke Starsky’s speech with a kiss. “I was never disgusted by anything you did, Starsk.” The things Suzy had told him went through his mind. He came with your name on his lips. “But why did you show off with all those girls?”

When Starsky avoided his gaze and remained silent, Hutch added, “Suzy told me…”

Starsky looked shattered. “Told you what?”

Hutch hesitated, searching for the right words. “That you didn’t…I mean I’m sure you could’ve done it…but Suzy said you didn’t want to…not with her,” he took a deep breath, “and not with the others.”

He looked at Starsky, but the dark-blue eyes remained downcast and instead of talking to him, Starsky was chewing his lower lip.

“Starsk.” Hutch took Starsky’s chin between his thumb and index finger and tilted his partner’s face upwards until their eyes met. “Why?” he asked.

“I didn’t want you to…” Starsky broke off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“…worry about you?”

“No. Yes…I mean no. I didn’t want you to think what happened between us made a difference. I wanted to believe that what I did to you wouldn’t make a difference.” Starsky’s teeth threatened to draw blood from his lower lip. “I thought what had happened, what I thought I had done, would only matter if we’d let it.” His eyes made a shy contact with Hutch’s. “I thought some things would be easier avoided than dealt with. And since I could never admit to myself, never mind tell you how much I wanted you…” Starsky broke off again.

“And now that you know that I was the one who took advantage of you, “Hutch said, “how do you feel about us?” Hutch wouldn’t go on before he knew the answer.

“You didn’t take anything I wouldn’t have given to you willingly. I thought about you for months—that way. I want to be with you. Every way.” Starsky’s voice was hoarse. “And even if I didn’t remember what happened between us that night—I never wanted to lose you.”

“You didn’t lose me,” Hutch said, then added on an impulse, “What about women?”

“What about women?” Starsky repeated.

“Will you continue to see women?”

“Of course. Every day. Everywhere. They make up about half the population of Bay City. Would be difficult not to—”

“You know what I mean, Starsk,” Hutch cut in, looking right into Starsky’s eyes. “Will you see women that way?”

“What would be the point?” Starsky said seriously. He leaned forward again and kissed Hutch, slowly as if he wanted to learn the shape and texture of Hutch’s mouth by heart.

When the kiss finally broke, Hutch kept his eyes firmly closed. This was the moment he had both wanted and dreaded since—he couldn’t remember. He didn’t want the moment to end, didn’t want to find out Starsky’s heart was not about to leap out of his chest from joy and lust and relief, didn’t want to know his knees didn’t go weak right then just from a kiss, that maybe he—

“Hey,” Starsky whispered, “open your eyes for me?”

A warm hand covered the side of his face, and Hutch leaned into the touch, relishing the moment.

When he was ready to face whatever Starsky was about to say, Hutch opened his eyes.

Starsky smiled at him.

Getting up, he started unbuttoning his shirt, pulling the shirttails out of his jeans, and then dropping the fabric to the floor. He toed off his sneakers and socks and stood barefoot on the carpet. Their gazes stayed locked when Starsky opened his fly and pushed the jeans, along with his underwear, down. Stepping out of the worn denim, he reached out to touch Hutch’s cheek again and said, “Come. Show me.”

Although Hutch had seen Starsky naked countless times over the years in various locker rooms and showers, or during his recovery, seeing him naked now, knowing they would be lovers soon, was a completely different matter.

Hutch got up and quickly undressed while Starsky was watching.

“Second thoughts?” Hutch inquired, his voice low.

Starsky looked at him and a small smile spread on his face. “You nuts? This is one step away from everything I’ve dreamed of…for so long.”

* * *

“Roll over,” Hutch suggested once they were on Starsky’s broad bed.

“You wanna do me?” Starsky asked and the slight note of panic in his voice didn’t escape Hutch. Starsky hurried to add, “It’s okay, if you wanna.”

Hutch looked at his partner affectionately. My partner; he would’ve really gone through with it. Just for me. “What I meant was, turn around for a back rub, Starsk. You’re all knotted up.”

Starsky looked quite relieved and rolled over onto his stomach. Resting his face onto his folded hands, he said, “Hutch—”

“Hush.”

Hutch poured some massage oil onto his palm, and warmed it in his hands, before he let them slide in one long motion from the small of Starsky’s back up to his shoulders.

So strong yet so vulnerable.

Hutch let his fingertips run over the frazzled rims of the scars the exiting bullets had left.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since it happened, but it hasn’t even been two years.

“I wish they weren’t there…” Starsky whispered.

Hutch bent low to kiss the highest scar, letting the tip of his tongue slide over the smooth skin. He heard Starsky’s sharp intake of breath as he initiated the seemingly unexpected caress.

“I wish you had never been hurt that badly,” Hutch admitted, “but I don’t mind your scars. To me they’re just another part of you… The part that tells me you made it.” He stroked the marred back tenderly. “The part that reassures me every day…you made it.”

Starsky’s head turned at Hutch’s hoarse voice. Looking over his shoulder, he nodded slowly, then rested his head back on his folded hands.

Sitting next to Starsky, having to twist his upper body at an awkward angle hurt Hutch’s back and clearly didn’t allow for the access to Starsky’s body and freedom of movement he wanted.

He repositioned himself, straddling Starsky’s thighs and let his hands roam Starsky’s well-known body. Well-known, yet completely new.

Much better.

He rubbed long strokes from the shoulders to the small of Starsky’s back, up again over his flanks, relishing the soft skin there.

Starsky made small noises of pleasure, as Hutch kneaded the muscles of his back and neck.

They look so firm, yet they’re so yielding under my hands.

The next strokes went down to Starsky’s thighs, back up to his shoulders, then all the way down the arms to his wrists. Hutch followed the routine they had established during Starsky’s long recovery, yet it felt completely new to touch Starsky now.

Working down the strong back one last time, Hutch finally allowed himself to touch Starsky’s buttocks. Goosebumps exploded all over the taut mounds at that initial contact. Massaging them just the way he had kneaded Starsky’s shoulders and neck muscles, Hutch thought, I always liked to watch them in a pair of Starsky’s worn, extra-tight jeans. But it’s so much better to actually get to touch them.

A slight pang of guilt ran through him, since he had also touched Starsky’s butt that night, and had enjoyed the feel of the warm flesh against his palms. That had been the moment he had realized there was no turning back this time. And he had deliberately ignored Starsky’s eerie quiet and passivity when Hutch had started to rub off against him.

“Wanna share?” Starsky’s low voice snapped him back to the here and now.

“Huh?”

“What’s going on in there?” Starsky had turned on his side and now touched Hutch’s temple with the tip of his index finger.

“Just…nothing.” Hutch caught a glimpse of Starsky’s heavy cock, jutting out from the dark nest of tightly curled pubic hair. “Turn back on your stomach; I wasn’t done yet.” I’m not ready yet; let’s go back to safer grounds. Grant me some more time.

Hutch put his palms flat down on Starsky’s back. The skin was shiny from the oil, and felt like fine silk.

“Cover his back” suddenly had a new, exciting meaning.

Hutch lowered his body until he was lying on top of Starsky. Squirming slightly, his cock nestled comfortably into Starsky’s cleft. Hutch heard a sharp intake of breath and felt the body under him tense. Starsky mumbled something unintelligible into the pillow.

Hutch pressed a kiss against Starsky’s neck and whispered, “What?” He enjoyed the feel of the downy skin against his erection, squirming slightly to get more of the sweet frottage.

“Do it, Hutch. I can take it.”

Hutch rolled off of Starsky and stretched out alongside him.

“You could’ve done it,” Starsky said, not meeting Hutch’s eye.

“Starsk.” Hutch waited until Starsky’s head shifted and he looked at him. “This shouldn’t be a test of courage. Let’s take it one step at a time, okay?”

“I’m ready…” Starsky whispered.

Hutch took a deep breath. “But I’m not,” he admitted. Although he had sworn a silent oath never to compare, he found himself thinking of his first time with Peter.

Starsky looked at Hutch, his expression one of disbelief and realization.

“I’m not, Starsk,” Hutch repeated. “I’m not ready for this step. Please, give me time.”

There was a moment of silence before Starsky asked hesitantly, “Can I…?” Starsky swallowed hard.

“Can you what, Starsk?”

Starsky’s eyes made an uncharacteristically shy contact with Hutch’s. “Can I touch you?” he whispered.

Hutch felt his heart miss a beat and suddenly all he wanted to do was weep. After all those messed up weeks…after all the misunderstandings…it had all been there waiting for them. And what if they hadn’t gotten back to Me and Thee?

Not trusting his voice, he simply nodded.

When Starsky reached out for Hutch’s chest, Hutch noticed that his hand was trembling. On impulse, Hutch caught it mid-way, drew it to his lips and pressed a kiss into that well-known palm, before he released it again and leaned back against the cushions.

“Whatever you want…” he whispered.

Their eyes made contact again and Starsky looked as shaky as Hutch felt.

Starsky’s fingertips made contact with Hutch’s chest, skimming over the smooth skin, first straight down to his navel, then back up, homing in on a nipple. Hutch stifled a sigh at the tentative touch. Starsky’s eyes shot up to Hutch’s face, repeating the movement across the hardening nipple, earning another small sound.

Then Starsky leaned forward slowly, eyes transfixed on his aim, licking his lips, and Hutch thought the sight alone would be enough to make him come in his pants, except that his pants were next to the bed on the floor and—

All thought fled when Starsky’s lips made contact with his sensitized bud. He felt the softness of Starsky’s lips, the wetness of his tongue and finally a heavenly, almost unbearable suction.

“Starsk,” Hutch gasped out loud, arching his back into the touch. His hand reached out to cover the back of Starsky’s head, delighted at the silken feeling of the curls against his palm. “Starsk.”

Hutch’s erection brushed against Starsky’s belly, a bubble of pre-come wetting one of the crisp curls there. He groaned, wanting—needing—more than shy touches. Hutch’s hands pulled Starsky upward, and there was a soft smacking noise as Starsky’s mouth unlatched from his nipple.

Starsky looked at him, his eyes slightly glassy, slightly unfocused. “Hutch.” He kissed him, as if he couldn’t stand not to touch or taste him. “Oh, Hutch.”

Then, Starsky deliberately lowered his body onto Hutch’s, their erections sliding against each other for the briefest of moments, before they were trapped side-to-side between their bellies.

“Like this?” Starsky whispered, and started to rub against him.

“Oh, yes,” was all Hutch could manage. I won’t last long if he keeps this up, he thought, when Starsky’s movements suddenly got faster and more frantic. Starsky’s breathing was harsh and ragged against the side of Hutch’s sweaty neck and then Starsky stiffened, throwing back his head. A sound full of wonder escaped his wide-open mouth as a new heat bathed Hutch’s belly. It took a moment for Hutch to realize that Starsky was moaning his name.

“Huuuuuutch.”

Hutch moved against the slick, fuzzy skin of Starsky’s belly, wanting to share the moment and the wonder.

“Feel me, Starsk,” he rasped, as the blaze traveled down his spine and up his legs, meeting in his balls. “Feel me,” he insisted, pressing their lower bodies together, driving his fingers deep into the tight globes of Starsky’s butt as his orgasm finally hit him.

* * *

Starsky woke, a little confused at first, to find himself in his bed, gathered in strong arms. Looking up at his mate, he relaxed, as he remembered the events of the night before. It’s Hutch.

The early morning sun seeped through the drawn blinds and a slight breeze wafted through the room, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass, sweet and summery. But there were other scents in the air. Mingled sweat and come—creating an unexpected jolt of reawakening lust.

Starsky looked at the man who held him close even in his sleep. Hutch was still slumbering, looking peaceful. He savored the opportunity to watch his friend, partner, and lover. He tried to move out of his lover’s arms, but found the hairs on his thigh and belly were glued to Hutch’s fair skin. A chuckle rose deep in his throat.

Hutch turned on his back, breaking their seal, muttering something unintelligible, but didn’t wake.

They had kicked the covers to the floor during their frantic encounter and hadn’t bothered to pull them back up, but had slept sated, warm in each other’s arms.

Starsky tiptoed to the bathroom, cleaned himself and returned to his bedroom with a warm cloth to clean Hutch.

“Whaddyadoin’?” came the sleepy question.

“I’m cleaning you. You’re sticky…”

“Sticky?”

“Yup, mixed body fluids…” Starsky threw the cloth into the general direction of his bathroom, and Hutch became more alert.

“Don’t you think getting rid of that cloth was premature?”

“You got plans?” Starsky said, pretending innocence.

Hutch pulled him down to the mattress again and rolled them over until he covered Starsky with his body. Their morning erections trapped between their bodies, they exchanged lazy kisses.

“When I woke, I had the most shocking déjà vu,” Starsky muttered between kisses.

“What would that have been?”

“I was stuck to you…literally…”

Hutch broke the kiss and looked at Starsky, suddenly serious. “Starsky what happened last night between us…”

“Was wonderful,” Starsky cut in. “It was beautiful and exciting and—” Starsky fell silent and stared at Hutch.

“Starsky? What?” Hutch asked, his voice full of worry.

“You sound like you…might regret it.”

“No.” Hutch pulled Starsky back into his arms, loving the feel of his partner-friend-lover’s warm skin against his own. “No, I don’t regret a thing. You’re right. It was…”

Starsky’s mouth claimed his in a deep, soulful kiss. When they broke apart, panting, Starsky muttered, “Don’t…there’s no word to describe what happened last night.” His lips came back to Hutch’s for another kiss. “Nothing beautiful enough for that.”

Hutch felt deeply moved by what Starsky had said. Nobody else ever sees this thoughtful and gentle side of him. Nobody but me.

“Did I ever tell you I love you?” Hutch asked, his voice rough with pent-up emotions.

“I know you do,” Starsky said, kissing Hutch’s lips as if he couldn’t get enough of the intimate touch. “Have always known. But somewhere along the way you seemed to have forgotten that you did. I’m glad you remember now.”

Starsky settled against Hutch’s body, content with the new turn their lives had taken. Sighing, completely at ease, Starsky’s breathing evened out as sleep reclaimed first him, then Hutch.

 

XXXIII Epilogue

Starsky had told Hutch for days about a new book with undeniable evidence of alien abductions that he wanted to buy.

“They kept it suppressed for years…”

“Who’s ‘they,’ Starsk?”

“The FBI, the CIA, the government,” Starsky said, voice low and conspiratorial, glancing suspiciously around for eavesdroppers.

Hutch rolled his eyes, but pulled the car into a vacant lot in the vicinity of a bookstore.

They entered it and as soon as Starsky mentioned the title he was looking for he was immediately involved in a vivid discussion with the man behind the counter, who was obviously another believer.

Hutch went around the bookstore, browsing idly, until he came to a table set up with about a dozen copies of a single title. “Requiem”—Peter’s last book, published postmortem. Slowly, he turned it and looked at the image on the back. It was the photo Peter had made the zipper-wrecking hard-on comment about. Hutch hadn’t expected the jolt of pain he felt, looking into Peter’s eyes after all those months. He stood, mesmerized and overcome by memories, listening to murmurs in his head, for—how long?

“I will never forget you,” Hutch mumbled at the photo, then returned the book gingerly to its stand.

“A lot of people will never forget him, babe.”

Hutch turned towards the hoarse voice next to him.

“Not only because of his photos, but also because he was a friend to a lot of people.” Starsky cleared his throat and took Hutch’s hand furtively, squeezing it.

“Got your book?” Hutch asked, blinking away a tear that threatened to fall.

Starsky held up a brown paper bag, flashing him a bright grin.

“Then come on, let’s head home before they get you for the possession of top-secret information,” Hutch mocked gently. Putting an arm around Starsky’s shoulder, Hutch steered him out of the bookshop.

“You wanna go home?” Hutch asked when he pulled the LTD away from the curb.

“Your place,” Starsky decided, then fell silent.

The silence lasted until the front door of Hutch’s apartment had closed behind them.

Hutch had stuck his head into the fridge to get a couple of beers, while Starsky remained standing next to the couch.

“Would you rescue me?” Starsky asked.

“What do you mean?”

“If I were gone…would you miss me?”

Hutch closed the door of his refrigerator and took a few steps towards Starsky, holding out the bottle.

Hutch was about to make a stupid joke, something like, “What, in case you got abducted by aliens?” but Starsky’s eyes were serious, resting on Hutch’s face, waiting for his reply. This was not the time for jokes, Hutch thought. He knew what Starsky was really asking and understood that Starsky needed to know the answer.

Hutch put the bottles on the table. Looking at Starsky, he knew what his answer would be. There is only one answer.

Hutch reached out and touched Starsky’s jaw with the back of his fingers. It felt warm and a little rough.

“With all my heart,” Hutch whispered. “Without you, there’d be no life for me.”

Starsky leaned into the touch, squeezed his eyes shut and a small sound like a sob escaped his throat. When he opened his eyes again, tears made the blue irises look like the ocean, deep and full of secrets.

“What?” Hutch asked, a little worried.

“I thought I’d lost it all. Lost you.”

“Me? Never again.” Hutch pulled Starsky into a tight embrace. “I love you.”

Starsky’s lips traveled over Hutch’s neck, then over his jaw, seeking his mouth. “I love you, too,” Starsky mumbled against Hutch’s lips.

Despite the warm lips caressing his mouth, some dark thoughts came to Hutch’s mind, thoughts he had tried to suppress ever since he made peace with Starsky weeks ago.

“You know, it might not be over yet,” Hutch said. “Did you see the way the DA looked at me when you got your father’s gun back? When he realized he had his hand not on your shoulder but on mine? Remember Gabriel’s comments?”

“Whatever happens, I’ll be with you.”

“Starsk, you don’t get—”

“Shhh…” Starsky’s index finger came to rest on Hutch’s lips. “Me and thee, remember?”

Hutch’s heartbeat quickened as Starsky leaned closer and used lips, tongue and teeth to communicate his love without words.

Starsky’s fingers unbuttoned Hutch’s shirt, pulled the tails out of his trousers and let the denim shirt drop to the floor. Hutch’s trousers and underwear were next. Hutch toed off his shoes and stepped out of his slacks, while Starsky undressed himself.

The touch of their naked skin against each other was still new and exciting. Hutch couldn’t get enough of the feeling of Starsky’s furry chest against his own smooth skin.

He suddenly became aware that his body was moving, as Starsky steered them both towards the bedroom without missing a caress.

Stripping off the last pieces of fabric, Starsky’s socks, they lay down on their sides next to each other on the broad bed.

Hutch’s fingertips skimmed over Starsky’s chest, down to Starsky’s hand, resting on his hip. Guiding Starsky’s hand to his groin, Hutch said, “I’m ready.”

Starsky’s eyes widened.

There was no need for Hutch to explain the statement; Starsky understood.

Starsky rolled onto his stomach, spreading his legs wide, waiting for Hutch to make a move, obviously.

Okay, he heard the words, but he didn’t get the message.

“No, Starsk, not that way round.” Hutch put a kiss onto Starsky’s temple.

Starsky twisted his head, looking over his shoulder at Hutch. Every erotic fantasy Hutch had ever had about his partner was wrapped up in this mix of lust and innocence.

He has no idea what he does to me when he looks at me like that. Or does he?

“Huh?”

Hutch took his sweet time to look his fill of Starsky’s strong back, the perfectly shaped butt, and the long, well-muscled legs. “I want you to take me,” he finally said.

Starsky swallowed audibly and turned around. He sat, mirroring Hutch’s posture on the bed, and tentatively reached out to touch Hutch’s cock; he squeezed the turgid flesh lightly before he let his fingers caress Hutch’s balls, tugging them gingerly. The fingers hesitantly went further down, exploring unknown territory. The feathery touches were driving Hutch wild with wanting more, and he made a small snorting sound, wriggling under Starsky’s probing fingers.

“What?” Starsky pulled his fingers back sharply.

“Tickles,” Hutch managed, before he took Starsky’s fingers deep into his mouth, sucking on them, wetting them thoroughly and guided them to his entrance.

“Touch me,” he said encouragingly. “I won’t break, I promise.”

“Don’t we need…?”

“Yes, we will need more, but that’s for later. Now, a little spit will do.”

He lay down on his side and Starsky mirrored his movement.

Glancing down at Starsky’s cock, Hutch thought, it looks like a rare dark tulip species, still tightly closed, but about to blossom in all its beauty and pride. The tip glistened wetly and the sheer look of it made Hutch’s mouth water. Starsky’s pre-come would be viscous and sweet like clover honey, Hutch was sure, but he wanted proof.

“Starsk,” he rasped, “turn around please?”

“What for?” Starsky asked and when he looked up finally, Hutch licked his lips slowly, voluptuously and stared at Starsky’s cock.

Starsky followed his gaze stammered, “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way round? You know, shouldn’t I blow you?”

Hutch smiled at him. “It doesn’t need to be ‘either’ ‘or,’ Starsk. Turn around.”

“That what you had in mind?” Starsky fit his body in a 69 manner next to Hutch’s.

“More like this…” Hutch licked his lips again, wetting them and took the head of Starsky’s cock into his mouth, sucking gently.

Starsky groaned. “God, Hutch, stop.”

“Mmmh.” Hutch hummed around the glans in his mouth, and felt a shiver run through Starsky’s body.

“That feels…” The words stopped abruptly when Hutch drew Starsky’s cock deeper into his mouth, rubbing his tongue against the underside.

Starsky’s hand found Hutch’s head, pushing him down on his erection, moaning as his grip on Hutch’s hair tightened painfully.

Yes, Hutch thought, although he was almost choking on the hot, hard flesh in his throat. Yes, Starsk. Take what you need. Take me.

Then, all of a sudden, the pressure on the back of his head and the grip on his scalp eased. Starsky patted Hutch’s hair lightly instead, then withdrew his weeping cock from Hutch’s mouth with a small sound of loss.

Starsky turned and laid back down next to Hutch until their faces were close enough for a kiss.

“God, Hutch,” he whispered when they broke apart, panting, “if you kept going like that…” He shook his head, looking into Hutch’s eyes. “I can’t…you know…”

“Starsk, we don’t need to do it now or tonight. We have all our life ahead of us.”

“You aren’t ready.” Starsky looked and sounded disappointed.

“I was never more ready than right now. I just thought—”

Starsky’s fingers closed Hutch’s mouth. “Then I want to start this part of our life tonight. That okay with you?”

When Hutch nodded, Starsky held out his hand, “Lube?”

“Upper drawer,” Hutch answered and lay back.

Starsky took the brand-new tube of KY, unscrewed the lid and squeezed a generous amount into his palm. Dipping his fingertips into the clear gel, he tested the consistency, the smell, and last of all the taste.

Hutch watched Starsky with an affectionate smile. My curious, ever learning partner. Friend. Lover.

Content with the result of his investigation, Starsky spread the lube over his fingers and knelt between Hutch’s legs.

Starsky gave the base of Hutch’s cock a slippery embrace, then slid his hands over the heavy balls. Easing himself down on his right elbow, he guided Hutch’s erection into his mouth.

The wet sensation, the suction, and the heat of Starsky’s mouth made Hutch’s cock jump. Starsky’s right hand held the base of his penis in a loose grip, while his left made its way down over Hutch’s perineum, and further down to his center. The touch was tentative, hesitant, and Hutch whispered, “Starsk.”

He hissed as one of the slippery digits made contact with his anus, circled it, pushing slightly inward. “Yes. Oh, Starsk.”

The finger became bolder, increasing the pressure until the tight ring of muscle yielded. Hutch drew in a sharp breath and met Starsky’s eyes. Starsky searched his face for—what? A reason not to go through with this, probably.

Starsky’s finger was still there and so was the urge in Hutch’s body to get rid of the intruder, but forcing a positive expression, Hutch mouthed, “Go on.”

But Starsky wouldn’t be rushed. Bending forward, Starsky brushed his cheek over Hutch’s inner thigh close to his groin, inhaling deeply.

“You smell so good,” he whispered hoarsely, “so…you.” Hutch felt the pressure of Starsky’s hard cock on his calf, and rubbed his leg slowly against it.

“Don’t do that.” Starsky pulled back a little. “I won’t last another second if you keep doing that.”

Starsky’s mouth moved over Hutch’s inner thigh, tasting him, mapping every inch of skin with his lips, getting closer to his cock with every lick. The sweet touch of Starsky’s tongue raised goosebumps all over his legs, and when his breath tickled the moist skin Hutch felt his balls tighten.

“Starsky,” he whispered insistently, “Starsk…”

“Shhhh.” Starsky opened him up ever so slowly, slipping his fingers in and out of Hutch with a steady rhythm.

How does he know what to do?

Hutch felt his eyes go wide as he watched the beautiful mouth open to take the head of his cock inside. Sucking leisurely, Starsky made eye contact with Hutch.

God, this is the hottest thing I ever saw. His dark lips against the fairer skin of my dick…seeing it vanish in his mouth…being sucked in…seeing Starsky taking pleasure in pleasuring me.

The discomfort Hutch had felt at the beginning eased. Starsky’s fingers moved in and out of his body, confidently now, subtly changing the angle of his entry every time.

“Ohhhhhhh,” was all Hutch could manage when Starsky’s fingertips grazed his prostate.

When Starsky released his cock, Hutch opened his eyes to look at him.

His lips look swollen from sucking my dick—God, he really looks hot.

“Now?” Starsky asked, keeping the sweet pressure on Hutch’s prostate.

Hutch suddenly realized how much Starsky was holding back. His skin was shining with sweat and his chest was heaving as if he had just finished a marathon.

“Now,” Hutch whispered back. “Make us one, now.”

Hutch moved to rest his butt on Starsky’s thighs, spreading his legs wide open, communicating a wordless invitation. Starsky’s palms, still slick from the lubricant, stroked Hutch’s thighs, massaging lightly. When Hutch was done shifting his tall frame, he made eye contact with Starsky and gave a single nod.

Only then did Starsky’s hands move away from Hutch to position the tip of his cock right at Hutch’s entrance. He entered him with a slow, steady pace, waiting for his partner to adjust. There were no words needed for what they were sharing, but their soft noises were music to Hutch’s ears.

Starsky moved slowly, still holding back.

“You’re doing it again. As always,” Hutch whispered hoarsely.

“Doing what?”

“Taking care of me.” Hutch smiled and Starsky, completely still for a few heartbeats, smiled back.

“It’s what I do best.”

Hutch shifted, flung his right leg over Starsky’s shoulder, his calf pressing against Starsky’s shoulder blade, and the movement pushed Starsky’s cock further into him. For a moment the pressure seemed more than Hutch could take and he bit his lower lip, drawing blood.

“Slowly, babe. Breathe for me,” Starsky rasped. “That’s it. You’re doing fine.”

Hutch nodded when he felt the pain ebb. “Move.”

Starsky pushed slightly, not really thrusting, watching Hutch with those incredible indigo eyes, ready to stop any moment.

“Love me,” Hutch breathed.

Starsky pulled back carefully, then penetrated Hutch deeper. Hutch grunted with pleasure when the tip of Starsky’s cock brushed his prostate, but Starsky must have read the sound wrong, because he gasped, “Slowly.”

“Not the time to go slow,” Hutch breathed and moved against Starsky. The deep penetration increased the pain level immediately, and yet, it felt wonderful. Hutch flung his other leg over Starsky’s right upper arm, trusting Starsky to hold him, spreading himself wide open, wanting Starsky to go deeper, to reach for his heart, to close every distance that had been between them for so long. For far too long.

Hutch wanted to be joined with Starsky completely, wanted to lose the ability to tell where he ended and where Starsky began. No more borders, no more limits. One, he thought. One at last.

Starsky filled him perfectly, physically and emotionally, filled every void Hutch had ever felt.

Opening his eyes to watch the miracle as it happened, he looked at Starsky’s face. His eyes almost closed, but moving rapidly under the lids, his face gave an impression of total concentration. The lips were working, too and although no sound escaped, Hutch could make out what they were saying. Mine. With every forward stroke—mine—Starsky was renewing his wordless claim. Mine. Mine.

“Yes,” Hutch hissed, “yours. Yours, Starsk.”

Starsky’s movements got frantic then; his hips shot forward, pulled away, almost to the point of slipping out of Hutch, and thrust back in, savoring every forward and backward stroke. And then he went completely still, keeping his cock buried to the hilt in Hutch’s ass, and Hutch felt the pressure on his prostate and a rapid pulsing, in sync with his own hammering heart.

He’s coming.

Starsky groaned, a sound mixed of pain and pleasure, loss and gain, and in counterpart to his heartbeat, there was a second, new pulse, triggering Hutch’s own release.

The eruption came from a place deep within him, the place Hutch had locked up and hidden ever since that night. He had tried to keep a tight lid on all his frustration, his anger and unrequited love, and now it was time to let loose.

When the spasms finally subsided, Starsky lowered himself carefully down to Hutch’s chest before he slipped out of Hutch’s body, and rolled to his side.

Lying next to Starsky, panting, Hutch tried to get a grip on his wildly seesawing emotions.

Oh God, I love him. I love him so much.

He turned his head to meet Starsky’s eyes.

“God, Hutch…” Starsky whispered, still breathless. “I had no idea I could feel like this.”

Looking into the blue depths of Starsky’s eyes, Hutch felt the years slip away. He saw the young man he had met at the academy, with the barely hidden anger of youth, he saw the man in uniform, all toothy grin and pride, the friend even in the darkest moments over their years as partners, and now the lover.

And at that moment—looking at the man who had played a key role in a vast part of Hutch’s life—he felt whole.

Starsky smiled as if reading Hutch’s mind and leaned forward to seal their new form of partnership with a kiss.