Blurred Lines

2.9K

Written for S&H Big Bang 2014: SH Present Tense.

 

Cover art by Duluthgirl.

After a well-known car dealer’s wife is raped and murdered, Starsky and Hutch go after the suspects armed with only a picture of a silver boot tip. The car dealer has an agenda of his own and nearly derails the investigation when he refuses to cooperate. Why would he try to prevent the police from charging his wife’s murderers?

A Texas Longhorn Reboot

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Blurred Lines

by Dawnwind

Tried to domesticate you
But you’re an animal
Baby, it’s in your nature
   Blurred Lines — Thicke, Williams, and T.I.

Texas Longhorn reboot

Starsky wrinkled his nose as he climbed out of his Torino. He hated to drive the classic car to a crime scene, but he and Hutch hadn’t had time to drive in to Metro to pick up their usual drab department issue-vehicle–and this dust bowl was no place for the shiny red baby his uncle had given him. The oil field on the southern end of Bay City was his least favorite part of town. There was very little to distinguish the place–nothing pretty, least of all the monstrous praying mantis-like oil derricks endlessly pumping crude from the earth. No trees to soften the landscape; mostly tumbleweed, a few cactus and lots of dirt. Telephone poles marched into the hazy distance, stringing lines to the outlying areas where cell phone service was spotty and internet was still dial-up.

The one redeeming object in view was a sleek, white ’70s convertible with a huge pair of bull horns fixed to the front hood. Totally marred the character of the old beauty, in Starsky’s opinion, but it wasn’t his car.

“A body dump. Just what I wanted first thing in the morning before coffee,” Hutch groused, sliding on his sunglasses against the glare.

Starsky glanced over at his partner, feeling his disgust, and took a quick glance at his iPhone. As he’d suspected: few bars. The little multi-colored soccer ball was spinning hopefully, trying to latch onto the closest electronic life preserver. “Reception’s crap out here; we’ll probably have to go old school and use the police band to call in.”

Hutch got out of the car and they both approached the yellow tape cordoning off the crime scene. A uniformed officer nodded them through. Watching CSI techies already sifting for clues, Starsky wondered when things had gotten so turned around that the lab geeks arrived at a scene before the lead detectives.

“I told you not to buy that thing from Huggy.” Hutch waggled his finger at Starsky’s phone.

“But it’s an iPhone,” Starsky insisted, tapping the red and white cover on his device.

“You want reliable service, go for less flash.” Hutch held out his older, but more reliable Android phone and peered at the screen. “Mine’s working.”

“Think there’re any cameras out here?” Starsky surveyed the surroundings for a single red light cam or closed circuit security video recording the derricks’ monotonous pumping.

“Doubt it. This field is a dinosaur, in more ways than one,” Hutch said cynically. “These relics extract the fossil fuel from their ancestors to make gas for your guzzler. Got to get into the twenty-first century, Starsk, buy electric.” He walked off to talk to another officer.

Starsky rolled his eyes, bypassing the sheet-covered body to get the skinny from the first responder, Sergeant Tim Meadows.

“Wife murdered, husband was hit on the head. That’s their car.” Meadows pointed to the white convertible.

Starsky nodded, shading his eyes to imagine what the place might have looked like in the dark.

“Some guy in an oil truck found them. The husband was stumbling around up on the highway, out of his head,” Meadows explained. “We sent him to the ER to get checked out an hour ago. He’s already been released from the hospital; he had a slight concussion. His name’s Tyler.”

Zack Tyler.

“I’d just seen him in his commercial last night on television,” Meadows said.

Starsky had, too. “Tyler Motors, your source for the best new and refurbished Fords in Bay City!'” Zack Tyler was a Texan in the good ol’ boy style: western clothing, slight twang, and tooled leather cowboy boots. Hutch always laughed when he caught sight of Tyler during one of Starsky’s late night movie viewings, and had claimed more than once that someday he was going to steal that persona for an undercover role.

“His wife’s name was Emmy Lou,” Tim continued, inclining his head at the corpse. “Husband said there were two assailants, a Latino, and an Anglo with tattoos. Big guys, mid-thirties.”

Starsky growled out his thanks, walking over to Hutch. He took a minute to admire his partner’s ass in blue slacks. With his shades on and his hands on his hips, Hutch looked like a blond, much handsomer version of the actor on CSI:Miami. Too bad this wasn’t some TV series where they could uncover the killers’ whereabouts in forty-eight minutes.

Hutch slipped on a pair of latex gloves and bent to examine something underneath a tumbleweed. It glinted brightly in the weak morning sun.

“Couple a’regular guys,” Starsky snarled. “What’s that?”

Hutch waited until Ning Wa from the crime lab took a photo of the find with her iPad. She pivoted slowly, sweeping the whole area to get a digital video for evidence. Hutch bent and picked up the silvery triangle. “For a boot, I think.”

“Hey, yeah.” Starsky snapped a pic of the thing with his phone. He finally had reception, and emailed the photo to Hutch, visualizing the decoration on the toe of a pair of fancy cowboy boots. “You got one just like it, on those Tony Lama boots you bought at the rodeo last year, right?”

“Well, not just like it.” Hutch frowned, tucking the item into a plastic evidence baggie. “I think this one is solid silver.”

“Sign for it, Hutch?” Ning Wa smiled, providing him with a pen so he could autograph the evidence sticker on the bag. She logged it in properly with all the other detritus that may or may not be of some importance to the case. “Beautiful detailing on the silver.”

“Think Zack Tyler wears one of those?” Starsky angled his phone so Hutch could get another view of the toe tip.

“Tyler?” Hutch swung around to stare at the body for a moment. The medical examiner had the sheet pulled back and her battered face was clearly visible. “That’s his–”

“Wife,” Starsky confirmed.

“She’s so… I thought she might be a…” Hutch clearly changed what he was going to say, “exotic dancer.” He shook his head, focusing on the M.E. “What you got, Jay?”

“From the cooling of the body, she died around 5 a.m.,” Dr. Jay Luker reported. “Raped and strangled. Lacerations around the neck from a chain or maybe a heavy necklace. There is bruising in the groin area and semen.” He checked his notes. “Dan will give you more details after the autopsy.”

“When do you think that will be, Jay?” Hutch asked wearily.

Luker raised both hands in a what-can-you-do gesture.

“Not even a ball park figure?” Starsky pretended to swing a bat. The morgue was notoriously backed up; ample reason to support why Bay City was called the murder capital of Southern California.

“Not unless I get about seven more hands,” Luker answered. “One thing I forgot, the victim had blood and skin cells under her nails. We could have some DNA from the assailant.”

“We’ll need the results ASAP.” Hutch tapped a reminder into his phone.

Starsky squatted in the dust to watch as Luker zipped the body bag over the corpse’s face. Gorgeous woman, when she’d been alive. Long blond hair, heavy eye make-up, slender face now smeared with dirt and bruises. He grimaced and looked up into Hutch’s face. Why had they gotten up this morning?

“Well, what do you think?” Starsky asked, walking away from the crime scene with Hutch. Sometimes, it helped to stand a little apart from the bustle of the lab techs, to take in the location as a whole. Maybe see something new or significant. But all he saw was desolation and the damned oil derricks turning monotonously.

“They have to be coming out of the sewer,” Hutch said sourly. “Robbery, rape and murder all in one bundle.”

“Least we don’t have to wait to learn the husband’s address.” Starsky yanked out his keys. “I know exactly where Zack Tyler works.”

~*~

Tyler’s Motors was on auto row where Toyota, Kia, Ford, and Mercedes dealerships all cozied side by side with far more detente than the countries who made the cars ever did. Hutch phoned Bay General Hospital on the drive, to ask why Tyler had been released so quickly.

“Zilch,” he griped, tucking his phone into the pocket of his blue and white plaid flannel shirt. “The ER doctor cited HIPPA, saying he couldn’t give out any detail on the patient’s chart without a court order.”

“Hutch, don’t sweat it.” Starsky parked alongside a brand new Ford Fusion Hybrid. He had to admit, the car wasn’t bad to look at, but how would it handle on the road? He’d never found anything that had the heavy durability combined with flash that his beloved Torino had. Besides, he wasn’t about to give in to Hutch on a subject like this, particularly after Hutch bought that Prius the year half of them had to be recalled.

“Can I interest you in a new eco-boost car?” A salesman trotted up with the expectant smile of a shark circling prey. “Or a Hybrid? Hardly ever have to fill up the tank–”

“BCPD,” Hutch identified, holding up his badge. “We’re here to see Zack Tyler.”

Starsky followed suit, raising his in front of the salesman’s suddenly glassy eyes.

“Oohhh, it was such a tragedy,” the man said mournfully. “When Zack arrived, he looked awful, went straight to his office.”

“Morty?” Hutch tapped Morty Sorvino’s name tag with his finger. “Where’s Tyler’s office?”

Starsky and Hutch walked through the showroom floor, where an F-150 truck and a massive Ford Expedition took up most of the space. Tyler’s office was tucked in the back, a Marlboro man’s wet dream. Apparently, like Gaston in Beauty and the Beast, which Starsky had watched on the Disney channel on the sly when Hutch was taking a Pilates class, Tyler decorated with antlers. And horseshoes.

There were several pictures of Emmy Lou on the wall, as well. She looked vibrant, full of life–nothing like the corpse Starsky had seen only a short time ago.

“Mr. Tyler?” Hutch held out a hand as a handsome man with a shock of slate gray hair raised his head. He looked dreadful. Pale, with a slight green undertone. “Detective Hutchinson, this is Detective Starsky; we’ve been assigned to your case.”

Tyler rose slowly, obviously weighed down with pain and grief. “Just call me Zack, everybody else does.”

“You left the hospital against medical orders?” Hutch asked politely.

Tyler nodded with a slight grimace. “I wasn’t hanging around there. I’ve been hit harder playing football.” He touched a framed photo of his wife with a trembling hand. “The only thing I have left is right here. I keep thinking she’s over in the showroom.” He lifted a bottle of Johnny Walker Red, silently offering a drink.

“No, thanks,” Starsky said for both of them. Drinking on the job would get IA on their backs quicker than spit. He glanced sideways at Hutch, ready to launch into the questions. Hutch nodded slightly. “Zack,” Starsky started, “first off, you have a right to know.” He paused to let the man absorb what he was about to say. “Were you aware your wife was raped, too?”

Tyler took a long drink of whiskey. “No, I didn’t know for sure. I was pretty much out of my head.”

“I also have to ask.” Starsky hated this part, but it had to be done. “Had you been drinking?” They’d get alcohol blood levels from the hospital no matter what Tyler said.

“Before we left the hotel, but that was hours earlier.” Tyler rubbed his forehead, staring at the tumbler in his hand.

“You want to tell us what happened?” Hutch asked briskly.

“We were driving on the road, me and Emmy Lou, back from a car convention in Vegas. There were some fine new 2014 models there.” He gestured in front of him as if he could still see something up ahead on a deserted road, and described a broken down truck with two men waving him over. “He put his hands on the horns on the hood, and that’s when I seen his tattoos–”

Tattoos. Now they were getting somewhere. Even though tattoos were now as common as pierced ears, they were easy to identify and very useful as descriptions.

“What did they look like?” Starsky asked.

“Rows of fishes down the inside of both arms and waves like breakers above both wrists,” Tyler recalled.

“Was this the Caucasian or the Latino?” Hutch spoke up.

“Guy was blond, darker than your hair,” Tyler went on. “Big like a linebacker. The Latino was big, too.” He put a hand to his neck. “Had a tat, like those guys get in gangs or prison. A number and a scorpion here. He hit me with a tire iron and I went down like a ton of bricks…” He choked and swallowed more whiskey. “That’s when they grabbed Emmy Lou, dragged her from the car.”

“A number?” Hutch repeated. “Could you make out any part of it?”

“Several numbers, could have had a three in it?” Tyler rubbed his forehead. “Scorpion was underneath. I could hear them–” He spread his arms, clenching his fists. “I couldn’t help Emmy Lou, I couldn’t.”

This was the kind of interview when a cop had to turn off nearly every ounce of his empathy. It was awful, having to sound sympathetic, but not too sympathetic. Starsky’s throat felt tight and hot from the strain. There had been cases where the husband had hired assassins to kill his spouse, and still acted as if he’d been a victim himself. They couldn’t rule this out: Zack Tyler was a rich man. Was this some kind of vengeance killing or a gruesome but random rape and murder?

“Did your wife wear a necklace?” Hutch asked.

“I bought her this Indian squash blossom necklace. Antique, real old turquoise and silver.” He smiled a little at the memory. “She looked so cute in it. I just got it for her last week.” He sighed. “They steal that, too? Took my American Express Platinum card and I had ’bout six hundred cash in my wallet–none of those mean anything next to…Emmy Lou.”

Hutch thumbed the screen of his Android phone, keying up the picture of the toe piece they’d found at the crime scene. “Do you know what this is?”

“Yeah, sure, that’s the silver toe piece off a twelve hundred dollar pair of custom made boots.”

Twelve hundred? Starsky echoed mentally. And he’d thought Hutch was crazy for paying two hundred dollars for cowboy boots.

“Was it yours?” Hutch asked.

“Nah, I was never into anything that flashy. Give me a western style shirt and a pair of jeans, and I’m comfortable,” Tyler said. “I didn’t look at either…man’s feet.” He shuddered. “I just keep hearing Emmy Lou calling for me.”

“Could you identify these men if you saw them again?” Hutch questioned, his voice gentle and soothing.

“Sure, I’ll never forget them,” Tyler said with the expression of a man who’d lost everything in life.

~*~

“I need some coffee after that,” Hutch declared, donning his sunglasses the moment they were out of the sales showroom.

“Starbucks?” Starsky pointed to the ubiquitous shop next door. They could check in with the precinct while they finally ate their very late breakfast.

Hutch got his usual, a Columbian blend and a small cup of overpriced fruit. Starsky ordered his favorite mocha with extra whipped cream and a chocolate muffin the size of a baby’s head.

“Starsk,” Hutch observed with one eyebrow lifted, “that diet’s going to kill you someday. All that fat and cholesterol. That muffin alone…”

“Hutch, you paid for coffee you could have gotten in the squadroom–” Starsky countered, sitting in one of the overstuffed leather chairs in the corner of the coffee house.

“And three bucks for a couple of grapes and two slices of honeydew is outrageous,” Hutch finished for him. “But we’re not in the squadroom and I need the caffeine.” He drank a mouthful, setting his phone on his knee to peer at the screen displaying the silver toe piece. “This is really distinctive; maybe we can ID the killer with it?”

“What about Rae?” Starsky suggested, pointed to his hip. He and Hutch had gotten tattoos from the talented artist about a year ago. Starsky had a star on his left flank, Hutch a moon on his right. When they lay pressed together in bed, the celestial bodies aligned. “She’d know something about those rows of fishes. I’ve never seen anyone with full sleeves like that–kinda like the Japanese yakoos.”

“Yakuza,” Hutch corrected absently, touching his own hip. “Except, those types of tattoos are usually brightly colored and completely cover the skin of the arm from shoulder to wrist. Tyler said the fish were only on the inside of the Caucasian man’s arms.”

“The Latino’s easy enough to decipher.” Starsky munched down half the muffin. It was terrific, full of rich chocolate chips.

“A scorpion and three numbers?” Hutch nodded. “Got to be from the old Alacran 213 gang. Except when Pablo Munoz died, they basically disbanded.”

“Doesn’t mean that the ex-members don’t still have the same deadly mentality,” Starsky said sourly. His phone emitted a chirping noise. “Let’s see what Minnie has to say.” He opened the text she’d sent. “Weird, the tire tracks CSI picked up from the killers’ truck were snow tires.”

“In September?” Hutch poked a grape into his mouth.

“Oh, wait.” Starsky held up a finger, scrolling down farther. “Only one, actually. They musta really had a flat and put on the spare.”

“A snow tire,” Hutch said sarcastically. “Which put them in mind to flag down a passing car and indulge in rape and murder.” He nursed his coffee. “I’ve got to give this stuff up. Gives me acid reflux. A fruit juice cleanse would be a positive step.” He tapped on his phone to close the screen. “A sliver toe piece and fish tattoos. Feels like we’re on a scavenger hunt.”

“More like Cinderella,” Starsky said, dumping his empty cup into the trash. “We’re the princes, the silver toe piece is the glass slipper, and you and me are running all over our little kingdom looking for the dainty foot that it fits.”

“Well, Prince Charming, where do we go first?” Hutch asked.

“They musta fenced the necklace right off, to get rid of the evidence,” Starsky declared. “Fat Rolly’s, and then check out Rae’s encyclopedic knowledge of tattoos?”

“I’ve been meaning to stop in with her and give her the picture we got from Lenny the Glass Eye.” Hutch followed him out to the Torino still parked on the Ford lot.

“Oh, yeah, the one of the circus guy completely covered in tats,” Starsky recalled.

The drive to Rolly’s was a short one. He owned a second hand shop on Washington, within blocks of Metro. The place always looked like an absolute dump, giving Starsky itchy fingers to tidy up and polish the merchandise for a quick sale. But then, Rolly didn’t really make his money from the trash that was piled helter skelter on the shelves. His revenue was strictly off the books and untaxed: stolen property that he could easily resell to other buyers who were not too worried about proper channels. He was disgusting, foul mouthed and smelly, but he’d given Starsky and Hutch decent tips most of the time–as long as they roughed him up beforehand.

“This place looks worse than usual,” Hutch commented when he pushed open the door. As a small bell jangled to announce their presence, a huge man came barreling out of the back room, growling.

Hutch jumped back against Starsky, fumbling for his holstered weapon.

Starsky just had time to grab the door frame to avoid falling over, all the while registering that the monster of a human being was not Rolly. Not anyone he had ever seen before.

“Stay away from Lillian!” the man bellowed, trampling broken crockery as he plowed past both cops and out the door.

“Who the hell was that?” Hutch cried.

“Where’s Rolly?” Starsky waded around stacks of ancient National Geographics and a plastic container full to the brim with plastic McDonald’s toys. “Rolly?”

They found him lying on the floor of his office, beaten to a pulp and unconscious.

“Looks like we should have arrested the Hulk back there.” Starsky pressed two fingers into Rolly’s neck.

“I don’t have handcuffs big enough,” Hutch said, putting in a quick call for an ambulance. “He alive?”

“Got a pulse.” Starsky stood, glancing around the small, cluttered office. Amongst the haphazardly placed secondhand junk was a coffee machine, a bar refrigerator, and an old Mac computer. “Think I should take a look?” He mimed tapping the keyboard.

“Probable cause,” Hutch agreed. “Especially since a crime was clearly committed here, even if it has nothing to do with ours.” He found a ratty quilt and placed it carefully over Rolly to keep him warm until the paramedics arrived.

“Rolly is an idiot,” Starsky muttered. “No password protection at all.” He did a quick search for recent emails and documents. He wasn’t really expecting some big red animated arrow pointing the way to wherever the necklace was now, but a cute cat video with a Persian decked out in a squash blossom necklace would have been nice. “Nada. However, the last email’s from a Chaco–which could be a Latino name. Sent from his phone. Just confirmation of a meet.”

“For today?” Hutch hunkered down to read the small print.

“This morning. Two hours ago.” Starsky shrugged. “Get the geek squad on this, see if they can find anything–hopefully, this Chaco’s phone number. Least Rolly coulda done was grab a picture of the necklace for us, huh?” He crossed his arms, leaning against the desk and visually searching the room for some kind of a clue. It was like those damned “Where’s Wally?” pictures. Then he saw it. “Would ya look at that!” Starsky pointed to a jumble of bikes, trikes, and other wheeled objects. “A snow tire.”

“One?” Hutch swung around to see.

Shifting the unimportant rubber out of the way, Starsky hefted the tire. “They usually come in pairs.”

~*~

Rae Silver was a hard-drinking, chain smoking artist who could put the reality star Kat Von D to shame with her talent. In this increasingly smoke-free world, Starsky always felt like he was going to get smoke inhalation whenever he walked into her shop. She flaunted the current regulations prohibiting smoking in a retail establishment with a defiant puff of an ever-present cigarette. There was no denying her streetwise charm and raunchy wit, though. The shop wasn’t as fancy as the joints on TV, but then nobody had ever gotten hepatitis from Rae, either.

“Starsky and Hutch!” she greeted, clutching a cigarette between her teeth. She was putting the finishing touches on a black and gold butterfly on the thigh of a girl with vibrant red hair and teeny-weeny shorts.

Loving Hutch had not blinded Starsky to the joys of a pretty woman in Daisy Dukes. He just didn’t lust after that any more, not when he went to bed with a big, gorgeous man with the biggest…hands around.

“What’s good?” Rae called out of the side of her mouth, squinting at the last detail on the delicate butterfly.

“Looking at you, sweetheart,” Starsky flirted. The redhead gave him a seductive, come-on-after-the-ink-is-dry smile.

Rae sent him a withering look over her shoulder, but there was a twinkle in her eyes. “What about me?” she groused good-naturedly.

“You’re special.” Hutch leaned down to peck her on the cheek and handed over the picture of Boris the Magnificent, covered head to toe with tattoos.

“That’s really nice. He looks like my grandfather.” Rae blew out a waft of bluish smoke, turning off her tattoo gun.

Hutch grinned and tacked the picture up over the register while Rae collected the redhead’s money.

“Rae, you could do something for us,” Hutch said, perching on the counter. He described the Anglo with the distinctive tattoos, gesturing along his forearm.

For some reason, the gentle skitter of Hutch’s fingers on his plaid flannel shirt sent a little thrill down Starsky’s belly right to his groin. Damn. He did not need a hard-on right now.

Rae sucked on her cigarette thoughtfully, her eyes flirting around her museum of ink. The walls were entirely covered with examples of tattoo art. One area contained fish designs, but Starsky didn’t see anything like what Tyler had described on his assailant.

“Were all the fish the same, and there were like six or eight of them?” Rae asked finally.

“Far as we know,” Hutch answered.

“Macau is the only place that does tattoos like that.”

“Where’s that?” Starsky asked.

“A wide open port in the China sea,” Hutch supplied. “So he would have had to have them done there?”

“I know just about everybody in the biz in Southern California, and a half dozen or more from the rest of the continental US.” Rae picked up her tattooing equipment, tossing out the leftover ink and ejecting the needle from the gun. “Including some of those self promoters on the reality shows, but nobody does that particular design.”

“Guess that makes our suspect a sea faring man,” Starsky said, disappointed. He’d hoped they would have more info by now.

“Narrows it down to half a million in this port city.” Hutch rolled his eyes.

“Navy, coast guard, merchant marines, not to mention…” Starsky rattled off.

“Come on, Hemingway.” Hutch grabbed Starsky by the arm. “See you, Rae!”

~*~

With nothing more to go on than a missing necklace and two murderers in the wind, Starsky drove back to Metro. Hutch grumbled to himself the entire way, scrolling past dozens of photos on his phone.

“I know it was here…”

“What?” Starsky asked, nosing the Torino into his favorite spot directly in front of the building.

“The picture–” Hutch grimaced, giving his phone a shake for good measure. “It’s disappeared.”

“Did you pull up the email I sent?” Starsky asked sensibly, leaning against Hutch to thumb through the mail. A single pressure of his finger and the photo appeared instantly. “Aqui, amigo!” He stayed against his partner for a moment longer than necessary to imprint Hutch’s scent in his memory yet again.

Hutch indulged in a single head butt. “Your Spanish is getting better,” he added, clicking on a text as he got out of the car. He started up the front steps of the building, reading his messages.

“Don’t forget about the snow tire!” Starsky called, unlocking the trunk.

“You found it, you bring it into evidence,” Hutch said absently.

“It’s heavy!” Starsky hauled the damned thing out of the trunk and tried to balance it under one arm to shut the trunk at the same time. The tire bounced on the asphalt with a thud.

Hutch stopped at the top of the stairs to look down at his partner. “You coming?” He frowned at the tire lying in the gutter. “Pick that up; you’re always telling me not to litter.”

“Did the computer come up with any results yet?” Starsky ignored Hutch’s gibe, gathering up the tire in both arms. He climbed the stairs carefully without watching his feet.

“Not much, but the lab did turn up amphetamine residue in the blood analysis. Guy’s a tweaker.”

“Then both of ’em must be users. They come in pairs.” Starsky laughed, hearing himself. “Like–”

“Snow tires,” Hutch finished with a fond grin.

~*~

First stop was the morgue, quite possibly Starsky’s least favorite place in the whole building. It was in the basement, it was creepy, and not in a Halloween-fun kind of way. Plus, the whole place reeked of formaldehyde. The stench reminded Starsky of his science classroom in high school.

Hutch, with his more scientific bent, was always fascinated by the new techniques in forensics. Starsky preferred to learn about blood spatter and getting fingerprints off skin on the televised CSI.

“We’ve got a definite print on the vic’s neck.” Dan Shelly, head coroner for the BCDP peered over his half glasses at the pale flesh on the slab in front of him.

Starsky couldn’t see what he was pointing at because Hutch was in the way, and that was perfectly fine with him. Hutch would fill him in on the details later.

“You see the bruising here?” Dan bent low, his grizzled gray haircut military short.

“That’s amazing, I can almost make out the individual friction ridges,” Hutch said in awe.

Dan flicked the sheet over Emmy Lou’s face, shaking his head. “The rapists were brutal. Two distinct types of semen found–and we’ve got the DNA analysis started already. From what you say about this possible connection with the Alacran gang member–we may be able to ID him quickly. Most of them were in jail at one point or another and would be in the system.”

“But this guy with the fish tats is another story,” Starsky said. “What exactly brought these two together? Gang members either stay tight to their crew or leave the territory all together and have little to do with their former friends. This guy leaves a body only a mile from his old turf.”

“One mile is as good as one hundred to a gang,” Hutch mused, rubbing his chest thoughtfully. “Maybe this former gang member got a job on the docks and met your sea-faring man?”

“He ain’t my man.” Starsky never got tired of watching Hutch rub his own chest and sighed for missed opportunities. Wished they had a day off in the next week…

“We’d better go check in with Ning Wa and her pals.” Starsky turned away before he got too wrapped up in a mid-morning daydream.

The lab was across the hall. In comparison to the morgue, Starsky rather liked the high tech atmosphere with the mass spectrometer, the black lights and microwaves pulling fingerprints off surfaces with aerosolized super glue. Like a real life episode of Mythbusters and Abby’s lab on NCIS put together.

Ning Wa waved a latex gloved hand in greeting. “We have fantastic prints from the horns that were mounted on the front of Tyler’s car,” she said. “Definitely two sets of genetic deposits from the vic’s vagina and thighs.”

“That’s what Dan said, too.” Hutch nodded.

“There was blood underneath the vic’s fingernails, as well as a couple of drops on her body. She quite obviously scratched one of them.”

“You sent a text about amphetamines in the blood?” Starsky prompted.

“Poly drug use evident in both suspects’ blood,” Ning said, with a ‘what can you do’ shrug. “Meth, marijuana, as well as oxycodone and what I suspect is Bath Salts, although, truthfully, we don’t have accurate tests for the newest versions of synthetic drugs.”

“Bath Salts are everywhere, lately,” Hutch sighed, crossing his arms. “The users are violent and paranoid. Senseless rape and murder fits right in the profile.”

“Any positive IDs on the fingerprints?” Starsky asked.

“Scottie and AFIS are working on it.” Ning inclined her chin at a small man sitting at the computer, her black ponytail swaying against her shoulder. “Thanks for the snow tire, by the way. Perfect match.”

“Why the hell anyone would put a snow tire on his vehicle in the middle of September is another question,” Scott Preston commented, swiveling his chair away from his computer monitor. “I’ve also been surveying the traffic cam videos and got a hit on the killers’ vehicle about a mile away from the scene, but there weren’t any cameras really close to the oil field.”

Starsky had gotten to be good friends with Scottie. Over beers, they’d discovered similar interests in TV series, bad Japanese monster flicks, and a weakness for any form of chocolate. Scott was also the shortest adult Starsky had ever met and the first Little Person ever hired by the forensics lab–or the BCPD as a whole. He was three foot five inches tall, with a shock of curly light brown hair and brown eyes.

“That was my question,” Hutch agreed. “Doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“When did criminals possess a lick of common sense?” Scottie laughed as his computer chimed behind him. He tapped two keys and waved a short-fingered hand at the screen. There was a picture of a Latino man by the name of Huey Chaco. “AFIS comes through for you.”

“Terrific!” Starsky grinned. “Print out?”

“Coming up,” Scott promised, clicking the mouse. “His fingerprints were on a tire iron the first responders found under the convertible–probably thrown there after they attacked Tyler. We haven’t had any luck with the excellent set of prints on the steer horns mounted on the front of the car.”

“We’ve identified half the pair,” Starsky said, grabbing the paper that slid off the printer. “That’s terrific.”

“Oh, and I had a romp through Rolly’s emails.” Scottie pointed to the battered computer on a table to his right. “He’s fenced for this Chaco numerous times. Didn’t get a full name for your other perp, just initials mentioned two or three times: JB.”

“More than we had before,” Hutch said. “As to whether he’s our sea-faring man?”

“Hey, Starsky,” Scottie called out as the detectives started to leave. “I got the DVD of Ironman Three if you and Hutch want to have an Avengers night with Ning and me.”

Ning and Scott had been dating for as long as both had been in the department without a single hint of anything more permanent going on.

“Pepper Potts is the woman,” Ning threw over her shoulder. “Just saying.”

Starsky glanced at Hutch speculatively. Hutch wasn’t into The Avengers, but he liked their two co-workers well enough to override his opposition for CGI and cinematic pyrotechnics.

“Sounds good.” Hutch shrugged. “Saturday night?”

“Bring hummus; we’re going gluten free,” Ning said. “I’ve got corn chips and a great caponada chicken casserole I’m dying to make.”

Scott rolled his eyes, but nodded with a grin.

After he and Hutch logged their preliminary reports on the computer, Starsky needed lunch. He thought much better on a full stomach. Going to Huggy’s accomplished two goals: food and possible information. It was always a good day when he could multi-task that efficiently.

He hadn’t counted on Captain Dobey running interference.

“Starsky! Hutchinson!” the man bellowed, standing in the doorway to his office. He beckoned them in.

Hutch was in the midst of pulling on his jacket, the plaid flannel sleeve flapping as he hurried over. Starsky held up the other side of the jacket so Hutch could slide his arm in.

“You two guys couldn’t conduct a straight investigation if your lives depended on it!” Dobey announced for his opening salvo.

Starsky had to bite down on the response that came immediately to mind and looked helplessly to Hutch. They weren’t straight; no one could dispute that point.

Hutch generally had the good sense not to rise to the bait. “Well, that’s not entirely accurate, Captain…”

“This report reads like a comic book!” Dobey squinted a hard copy of the report Starsky and Hutch had submitted and read aloud, “The fiery red Torino fishtails to a halt. We spill onto the street ready for action.” He slammed the pages down on the desk. “I demand a straight, accurate report.”

“Hey!” Starsky reached out for the papers. He’d been really proud of his own prose.

“That was Starsky’s contribution,” Hutch put in. He tried to snatch the sheets from Dobey’s clutches, but the captain shuffled them back into a file folder. “If you’ll look further down, I describe–”

“Where does this wrestler come from?” Dobey interrupted, his patience clearly shredding.

“You mean the guy who K.O’d Rolly?” Starsky clarified. “I can’t be certain he’s a wrestler but–”

“What’s he got to do with these two guys you’re looking for?” Dobey demanded, his round face flushed with frustration.

“Technically, Captain, the wrestler doesn’t have anything to do with–” Hutch cut himself off rapidly. “Rolly apparently knows this Huey Chaco. We got the name Chaco from his computer.” Hutch spread his hands as if the rest was obvious.

“You think Rolly set up this murder?” Dobey frowned, smoothing the wrinkles he’d made in the paper.

“That’s not Rolly’s bag,” Starsky replied. “But these guys fence with him regular, so we have a solid lead. Ning and Scottie have prints on Huey Chaco. Can’t be too difficult to uncover his whereabouts and his partner, JB.”

“Unfortunately, who they are is locked up in Rolly’s head, and he’s unresponsive. Circumstances don’t look too good for him talking to us in the near future,” Hutch explained.

Starsky’s stomach took that moment to rumble, very loudly. “Cap’n?”

“What?” Dobey yelled louder than necessary, one hand on his phone.

“May we be excused?” Starsky asked very politely. He was sure his blood sugar was going to bottom out any moment. Maybe he needed a couple Hershey’s kisses for the drive over to Huggy’s.

Hutch hid a smirk behind his hand, on his way out even before Dobey dismissed them.

~*~

Walking into Huggy’s dimly lit establishment, Hutch’s hip bumped repeatedly against Starsky’s. Starsky didn’t mind a bit.

“Oh, please, close the door!” Huggy bellowed.

“Is that any way to talk to us, Huggy?” Hutch frowned, striding over to the bar.

Starsky peered behind them to make sure the door was securely shut. The room seemed even darker than usual. Maybe Huggy had taken Hutch’s advice and put in some of those damned new bulbs. None of them were as bright as a good old hundred watt bulb. The most illumination came from the flat screen mounted over the bar. CNN was on with the volume muted, the crawl along the bottom of the picture describing some conflict in Afghanistan.

“You got something against daylight?” he asked, straddling a bar stool. “Comes around every twenty-four hours, just like clockwork.”

“Don’t mind him.” Diane, the main bartender, rolled her eyes, lining bottles of tequila on the back shelf. “Lost our internet service and Comcast can’t come out fast enough.”

“Did you try turning your modem on and off?” Starsky suggested.

“Of course I tried!” Huggy said sourly. “Which means the register don’t work, can’t take credit cards during the lunch rush, not to mention that the linen service don’t show up, garbage men were late… Barry Bonds in full-on ‘roid rage is a pussycat compared to this Huggy Bear.” He glared at the two of them as if daring them to make an issue out of it.

Hutch smiled, all lips, no teeth, glancing at Starsky. “I’ll have iced coffee.”

So Hutch needed more caffeine, too. Starsky held up two fingers to order a second one. The candy he’d been hiding in the file cabinet in the squadroom had tided him over, but he wanted real meat now.

“Two iced coffees. You want food, or did you just come in here to pick my brain?” Huggy loaded up two tall glasses with ice and poured the hot coffee over the top.

“That how it has to be today?” Hutch raised a Spockian eyebrow. “Brie, apple slices, and fig jam on sourdough.”

Hutch’s usual of late. Starsky snorted. He wasn’t any more original. “The Special.”

“Larry!” Huggy yelled to the cook behind the half-wall separating the bar from the kitchen. “One Hutch and one Starsky!”

“You got it, boss.”

Huggy slid the coffees in front of their owners and waggled his long, narrow fingers. The gold ring in his left ear glinted in the neon light of a Heineken sign. “What it is, my men?”

Between sips of the coffee, Starsky gave a brief description of their suspects. “Rape and murder one. We want this solved now, Hug.”

“You know I don’t allow no rapists and such in my place!” Huggy whispered fiercely, as if afraid that customers would overhear. He watched suspiciously as Diane doled out beers to a trio of men at the far end of the bar.

How would he know his customers were rapists? Starsky wondered, but wasn’t about to rile the Bear any further.

“Well, Huggy,” Hutch asked. “Have any of your respectable customers mentioned two guys like these?”

“What, you think folk come in here gossiping about the latest murders?” He made a face, flicking a hand at the television. “That’s what the news be for. Not to mention, can’t place that Huey Chaco. The Alacran 213 gang never did come past 50th Ave any day of the week.”

“So you got nothing?” Starsky swallowed a mouthful of heavenly rich coffee. Huggy had always brewed a better cup than Starbucks.

Pulling himself up straight, Huggy pressed a hand to his thin chest. “Have no fear, Huggy Bear is here. I’ll put out word with the users on my string, see what we can reel in.”

“One Hutch and a Starsky on deck!” Larry called from the kitchen.

“We’ll take ’em ourselves,” Starsky assured him as a large group of thirsty customers streamed into the bar.

“Hug, the guy from Comcast is here,” Diane said, pointing to a gentleman carrying a clipboard.

“Bet he won’t want a beer,” Huggy groused, heading over to the technician.

Hutch grabbed both plates while Starsky snagged a table before they were all taken.

Spreading mustard on his burger, Starsky watched Hutch deconstruct his sandwich. He slid the top slice off, taking a slow bite of sourdough and brie. There must have been a tiny dab of fig too, because Starsky saw a smear of tantalizing jam on Hutch’s lower lip. Made him want to kiss his partner right there in the bar. When Hutch licked off the smudge, Starsky felt himself harden. What a wasted opportunity.

They’d been partners on the force and then partners in the bedroom long enough to know that their safety and their relationship had to stay on the down low when they were on a case. Most of their friends and co-workers were aware that they were a couple, but it was actually against department policy at best–and at worst, there were still gay bashers despite the abolishment of Prop 8, which had once banned same sex marriages.

Hutch looked directly at Starsky as if acknowledging the rain check on a kiss, but his eyes were sadder than Starsky had seen in a long time.

“What’s up there in your blond noggin?” Starsky asked, keeping the tone light to decrease any sign of arousal while they were in public.

“Zack Tyler and Emmy Lou,” Hutch said softly, toying with an apple slice coated with brie. He took a bite, obviously considering what he was about to say. “We’ve dealt with dozens of cases where either a husband or a wife died, but I don’t know when I have felt so…”

“Affected?” Starsky finished the sentence for him.

Hutch nodded, drinking the last of his iced coffee. “Tyler is mourning so very deeply, and I was suddenly hit with the thought of–what if something happened to you?”

Starsky felt Hutch’s fear in the pit of his gut, and the French fry he’d just swallowed was a lump of lead in his stomach. This wasn’t a new concern; he and Hutch had had various conversations about mortality over the years, even before they’d become lovers. But every once in a while, the specter of loss and dread rose up, clearly illustrating how fragile life could be, especially in their line of work.

“Starsk, I don’t think I could go on. Not–” Hutch turned his head, sweeping the room with what Starsky recognized as both a cop’s eye for potential threats, but also with the realization that he could not be completely honest even in their own friend’s bar. “Losing you would be losing a part of me,” he said simply, slipping his hand under the table to grip Starsky’s thigh.

“You’re part of me, Hutch,” Starsky whispered, tucking his hand into Hutch’s, glad of the red and white tablecloth that hid their movements. His heart hurt and was filled with adoration for his partner, at the same time. “Always will be. And we’re both gonna be cops as long as we can stand the job, but we are always going to be together. You hear me?”

“Can’t fight death.” Hutch gave Starsky’s hand a squeeze before letting go. He picked up the bottom layer of his sandwich as if needing something to do. “Random acts like this today… I despair of people like this Chaco and JB. They’re loose cannons–no agenda, no specific reasons for mayhem. Just violent.”

“Probably play Grand Theft Auto every day, huh?” Starsky understood exactly how Hutch felt, but he couldn’t let either of them wallow when they had a job to do.

Hutch opened his mouth, the flash in his eyes about to protest the change in subject, and then an almost smile played on his lips. “No, that’s what you do, Detective Sergeant Starsky.”

“I’ll have you know, I decided not to get the current version,” Starsky said loftily, gazing at Hutch. They needed an afternoon off–hell, a week off with nothing but a hotel room and pizza. Plus sex, lots of it. They’d been working nonstop lately, what with old people using a car bomb to demand better conditions in a senior living facility, and recent discoveries of corrupt officials in the BCPD covering up the  murder of kids who drove a vintage red and white car just like his. “I’m all about Minecraft and Worlds of War lately.”

“That and The Avengers, huh?” Hutch asked wryly.

“Hey, Captain America, admit it, you thought Hawkeye and the Black Widow were hot,” Starsky teased.

Hutch stood, tossing a twenty on the table to cover their lunches. “I will not admit anything of the sort.” He leveled a forefinger at Starsky. “However, if you went to the Halloween superstore that opened in the mall, I would not be adverse to a little cosplay–”

“In the privacy of our own homes?” Starsky smirked, winking.

~*~

“Zebra Three, Zebra Three,” dispatch called when Hutch logged them back in after lunch. “Meet Zack Tyler at Tyler’s Motors on–”

“Thanks, Mildred, we know where it is,” Hutch responded, clicking the off button.

“What do you think he wants?” Starsky asked rhetorically. It was obvious. All survivors wanted to know that the killers had been found, that justice had been served, and the balance of law and order preserved. Unfortunately, too often, it wasn’t that simple. Good triumphed over evil, but frequently at a cost.

Zack Tyler was leaning against a blue 2011 Ford, his arms hanging limply at his sides and his chin nearly on his chest. He didn’t raise his head until Starsky and Hutch approached. “Hi, you guys.”

“How are you doing, Zack?” Starsky asked to deflect his attention away from Hutch. Hutch had on sunglasses, but even with the dark lenses covering his eyes, Starsky could sense the empathy coming from his partner. Hutch felt strongly and Emmy Lou’s death had hit him hard.

“Custom paint job.” He raised his eyebrows at the Torino. “Nice set of wheels there,” he said, sounding like every word was forced up past his grief. “Is that a ’75?”

“1974 Gran Torino,” Starsky said proudly, running his palm along the sleek red hood. Built nine years before he was born, he’d never loved a car more. “My Uncle Al restored classic cars. This was his pride and joy and he willed her to me. Best thing he ever gave me.”

Hutch smiled indulgently. “He also gave you a Pinto.”

“I sold that,” Starsky sneered. He’d put it on Craig’s List and had a buyer in two days. Easiest money he’d ever made; although why anyone would ever want a Pinto was beyond him.

“How’d you big city cops like to buy this sleek little four-door sedan I got here, huh? It was previously owned by a lady of questionable repute. She only used the back seat.” Tyler gave a brittle laugh at his own joke. “Let me tell you, waiting around for news at the car lot is just awful. So I thought I’d call and find out what was happening?”

“We’ve got a couple of leads, Zack, but nothing we can talk about yet,” Starsky answered. He couldn’t mention Chaco–not before they’d questioned the suspect and taken him into custody.

“Two fucking killers walking around in broad daylight, free as birds,” Tyler said savagely, both hands curled into fists.

“It takes time.” Hutch’s voice was soothing, gentle. “We will get them.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, rubbing his temple as if he had one hell of a headache. “I believe you’re gonna try your damnedest.” Tyler glanced around at the shining vehicles spread out in every direction. “I’m selling this place. Whole kit and caboodle. The house on Mulholland Drive, everything. Too many memories.”

Starsky could totally understand the man’s devastation but what about the future? “Where will you go?”

“Don’t know.” Tyler shrugged dispiritedly.

“Zack, don’t give up,” Hutch implored. “This isn’t over. You’re still in shock, with a head injury. Things will…” he dwindled off, clearly unable to give a palliative platitude. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I’ve gotta be true to my nature,” Tyler answered. “And I ain’t going no place until you nail their hides to a barn door.” His fury swept through the words, giving them power, but he didn’t seem to have the energy to sustain it. He sank against the door of the sedan again, deflated.

“We’ll keep in touch,” Starsky promised. The man’s pain was so profound, it took on physical shape and weight. “Take it easy.”

“Yeah, you, too.” Zack raised a hand as they got back into the Torino.

Hutch’s phone played Rhapsody in Blue, Huggy’s ringtone.

He pulled it out of his pocket. “Hey, Hug, what have you got?”

Starsky backed the car out of Tyler’s Motors lot, pulling onto West Rosecrans alongside the curb in case Hutch learned a hot tip they had to run down.

“You still want a lead on those two tweakers, Chaco and his bud?” Starsky could hear Huggy ask.

“Putting you on speaker, Hug,” Hutch said, holding the device out so they could both see Huggy’s photo on the screen.

“I made you a contact with the angel,” Huggy said mysteriously.

“An angel?” Starsky muttered, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Not an, Starsky, the definitive article,” Huggy answered, which didn’t clear anything up in Starsky’s mind. “Eleven-oh-six Somers. Tell her I sent you,” Huggy continued. “If they’re around, she’ll know.”

“Thanks, Huggy.” Hutch nodded, clicking off.

He was already putting the address into the GPS when Starsky drove down the block “Where to.” Starsky glanced over at the little animated directions.

“To see an angel.” Hutch smiled sweetly.

~*~

The legend on the front of the ratty old apartment was clearly a hope rather than actual truth. What had once been gold letters spelled out Royal Apartments above the door, but decades of filth, as well as numerous tags from local gangs, had dimmed the original glory.

Starsky peered at the six mailboxes in the dingy lobby. The overhead lighting was a single bulb that had probably been screwed in during the Nixon administration. There was barely enough wattage left to let him see his own hand in front of his face much less the illegible names scrawled on the mailboxes.

“What’s this Angel’s last name?”

“Gabriel?” Hutch guessed, pointing to A. Gabriel on the fifth box.

“Always has to be on the third floor, doesn’t it?” Starsky sighed, mounting the stairs. Naturally, there was no elevator. Although, he was certain that if there had been, it would not have been in working order. The entire place smelled of old skunk, a clear sign that marijuana was regularly used by every single resident.

As they climbed, passing discarded needles, dirty condoms and the shells from two different calibers of bullet, Starsky began to get a really bad feeling. What were they walking into? Huggy knew a good many shady people, but generally they were harmless. He could almost feel the animosity coming out of every apartment they passed.

Hutch obviously felt the vibe, too. He pulled his weapon as they approached A. Gabriel’s door, the barrel tilted up at the ceiling. Starsky added his own gun without a word. Standing to the right of the door with his pistol held low, Starsky called, “Hey! Anybody home?”

When no one answered, Hutch leaned from the left to rap on the wooden door. It swung gently open at his touch.

“Yeah, yeah,” a raspy female voice answered, cackling. “I hear you.” As they entered, she added, “See you, too–in my mind.”

Holstering his pistol, Starsky walked directly toward the old woman sitting in a rickety rocking chair. Cataracts filmed both her large eyes. She had ashy brown skin, grizzled gray-black hair, and was missing several teeth, but there was an air about her. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but she seemed radiant and somehow lovely, the remnants of her past beauty hovering over her drug-ravaged life.

Hutch pointed silently at an old vinyl record cardboard sleeve with a picture of stunning singer wearing a shimmery red dress that hugged every curve. Angel Gabriel’s Top Ten was printed underneath and a song immediately popped into Starsky’s head, “Seraphim sing praises to my baby, but he never curled his wings around my soul…”

“Ya’ll come for the Angel?” she prompted with a resigned smile.

“No, we didn’t come to bust you.” Hutch rubbed a big hand over his face, empathy coming out in waves.

“Honey,” Angel chuckled. “What are you looking at those old pictures for?” She hummed the refrain from her biggest hit in a rich, mellow alto, the sound like the last tones of a perfectly tuned bell. She raised a hand, pointing to a gold record on the wall beside a collage of magazine pictures of her former self. “You got a hankering for that girl? That was fifteen years ago.”

“Huggy Bear sent us,” Hutch went on.

“I’m cool with that,” she said, rubbing her arms. Needle marks pocked the inside of her elbows, old and healed. She’d probably gone on to other veins once the easiest accessed places had gotten hard to stick.

Starsky put a sympathetic hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “We’re looking for a couple of drug addicts. One’s named Huey Chaco, from the old Alacran 213’s. He wears cowboy boots with silver toe pieces. One is missing. The other is a Caucasian, fish tats up and down his forearms. Both are in their mid-thirties, both big. Poly-drug users. You seen them?”

Angel frowned, biting down on her bottom lip. “What’d they do?”

Hutch’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Rape, murder. For kicks.”

Shuddering, Angel pulled a thin crocheted wrap around her plump shoulders. “Young girls?”

“Married woman,” Hutch said shortly.

Starsky glimpsed a quick expression of extreme sadness on his partner’s face when Hutch pointed to Angel’s drug paraphernalia lying on a desk near her arm. She had an unmarked baggie of brown powder–probably heroin– and a joint of Mary Jane out in the open, but neither Starsky nor Hutch would dream of busting her right here, right now. She was helping them; the least they could do was look the other way on her drug usage. The Marijuana was probably a legal prescription, anyway. Since neither of them could swear the powder was heroin without testing it, what would be the point of charging her with possession?

“Now why should I help the police finger a couple of tweakers?” Angel countered with a sly grin.

“Maybe because they’re giving honest drug addicts a bad name?” Starsky snarked, beginning to like old Angel. She had moxie, as his grandmother used to say.

“Oh, you’re cute.” She laughed, patting his arm, her fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary on his wrist. “Fifteen years ago, baby.” Cocking her head to the side, she stared blankly at the wall opposite for a long minute, mulling over what she would say. “Well, the Angel will tell you she heard a couple of junkies shooting their mouths off on cheap plonk in a bar near here.”

“Name?” Hutch murmured as if afraid to interrupt.

“Sugar chile, Angel be blind, she don’t always know the exact names of places she be, she just feels the vibes.” Angel shook her head.

“Around here, or farther away?” Starsky tried to clarify.

“Near the docks, baby, with the sound of the fog horns in my ears. And these two, they foul wherever they set. They was jawing ’bout making a score down by Terminal Island.”

Starsky thumbed his phone, typing in the location to his notepad ap.

“Now, brown bread hangs around the pike at a place called Big Chuck’s,” Angel explained. “White bread, I don’t know what he does. He’s a sailor.” She turned to the window as if she could see the depressing view, a breeze fluttering the dirty sheers. “Always talking about sailing off into the horizon.” Taking a deep breath, Angel sang, “I feel the ice is slowing melting, Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here…here comes the sun, here comes the sun...”  

Hutch exhaled, his eyes closed to listen to her music. “Beautiful,” he mouthed.

“See, I been to that horizon a few times,” Angel rubbed her arms again with evident regret. “Good times always seem a ways off.”

“Take care of yourself, Angel,” Starsky said quietly, squeezing her hand. “Be careful how you go.”

Hutch bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek. Starsky saw the twenty that he slipped into Angel’s palm. Hutch was such a softie.

“God bless,” Angel called out as they left.

Hutch was pensive on the way down to the lobby, but as they walked out of the building together, Starsky heard him humming Angel’s signature tune. He sang along with Hutch, “The angels can take my baby ’cause I just kissed a devil in the dark.”

Smiling, Hutch put on his sunglasses. “The first time I ever held you in my arms, ever kissed you, I had that song going through my head.”

“Oh, I’m the devil, huh?” Starsky chuckled, wiggling his butt just a little as he passed Hutch to walk around the car. He could feel Hutch’s stare like a brand on his backside.

“Lord, it’s the Devil, would you look at him,” Hutch sang the old Terri Gibbs song in his best country twang, “I never dreamed he’d have blue eyes and blue jeans.”

~*~

“Terminal Island,” Starsky said, driving toward the Vincent Thomas Bridge. “What could those two reprobates think of getting up to there?”

Hutch chuckled. “You mean, in sight of the prison?”

“Yeah. Guess bars, armed guards, and a sentence of possible life in solitary ain’t as much of a deterrent as it once was.”

“If JB is a merchant marine, he’s possibly involved in some sort of smuggling operation?” Hutch mused. “Big Chuck’s is that hamburger joint on the edge of the old arcade, isn’t it?”

“Burns me up that the arcade went outta business.” Starsky shook a fist at the universe. “That was one of my favorite hangouts when I was sixteen–a little pinball and then over to Big Chuck’s for lunch.”

“Breakfast of Champions, huh?” Hutch snarked with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You mock, Mister Desimated-Liver-and-Prune-Juice-Morning-Shake.” Directing the Torino into the line of cars headed off the bridge and onto the island, Starsky pretended to gag; the thought of that combination was hurl-worthy.

“You don’t know what you’re missing…” Hutch shrugged.

“I do–” Starsky began.

Hutch interrupted him. “The last time I made French pate, I included some desiccated liver in the mix.”

Glad he’d parked the car, Starsky stared at his partner in horror. “You’re kidding, that…” He stuck out his tongue, wanting to scrape it with something rough. “That great stuff we ate on French bread was…” His stomach suddenly roiling, Starsky groaned. “Hutch, you’re killing me.”

“I’ll go check the back entrance, shall I?” Hutch gestured at Big Chuck’s.

The place had gone downhill since Starsky’s teen years. The paint was peeling from the front and a handwritten sign in the window, next to an unlit neon sign for Pabst, had hamburger special spelled incorrectly. Starsky sighed for the days gone by and strolled into the diner. It smelled like old memories: French fries, hot dogs, and chocolate malts. But in reality, the place didn’t even measure up to the minimal panache of Huggy’s.

Horses were running at the Bay City Race Track on a TV mounted above the lunch counter. Starsky watched a brown thoroughbred dash past its competitors, and then scanned the customers.

Bingo. He recognized Huey Chaco right off the bat.

The murder suspect was munching on a tuna melt with curly fries, talking animatedly to another man. “Best Gal in the fourth,” he said emphatically. “To win.”

“You don’t know nuthin’,” the black man scoffed beside him. “If a horse bit you, you’d wouldn’t even know which end to put a saddle on.”

“Whatch’you talking about, Nando? I bin bettin’ on horses my whole life, man!” Chaco stabbed a finger at the other guy.

Taking a step closer, Starsky looked down to see Chaco’s feet. Sure enough, he was wearing scuffed but expensive looking cowboy boots. And only the right had a silver toe tip.

“Charlie!” Nando yelled to the waiter behind the counter. “Give me another order of French fries.”

“Coming up,” Charlie called back, signaling the cook to scoop up a basketful from the vat of hot bubbling oil.

Starsky sidled up to the counter, pretending to study the menu mounted on the wall, all the while scrolling through his phone. “Congratulations, Cinderella,” he said, holding up the photo of the silver toe tip. “Your foot fits the silver slipper.”

Tossing a handful of fries at Starsky, Chaco jumped to his feet in a panic.

Nando reeled back in surprise. “What the…?”

Starsky used that moment to scan the crowded diner. He couldn’t fire a shot in here, even if he wanted to, but he slid his Baretta from the holster left-handed, the iPhone still in his right.

Chaco whirled, trying to get away and ran smack into a blond woman. Instinctively, he latched onto her, drawing her close and flicking open a switchblade to press into her neck. The woman shrieked in fear, her blue eyes wide.

“No, you don’t,” Starsky said, training his gun at Chaco’s head.

The risks had doubled in less than a second. Starsky inhaled to slow his heart rate. The last thing he needed right now was an innocent death. He was peripherally aware of the horror on the faces of the cook, patrons, and the strong, choking smell of burning fries. He wanted to yell at Charlie, tell him to yank those potatoes out of the oil.

“I’ll cut her,” Chaco taunted, his lips drawn back from his teeth like a dog ready to bite. He took a step back, forcing the woman to move with him. “She’s toast if I don’t–”

“I don’t think so,” Hutch said in such a low, savage tone that even Starsky’s blood went cold at the sound.

He’d been so intent on Chaco that he’d barely seen Hutch melt from the shadows. Hutch stood tall and deadly, his gun millimeters from the rapist’s ear.

“You’re going to let that woman go,” Starsky said, secure with his partner directly across from him. He didn’t look at Hutch yet, didn’t want to let go of his intensity to gaze at the beauty that was Hutch in full-on warrior. He advanced aggressively on Chaco, staring him straight in the eye.

The ex-gang member never wavered, one hand clutching the blonde so closely that Starsky could see the knife indenting in her flesh.

Then Hutch placed his Magnum right onto Chaco’s temple, where the bone was the thinnest. “You so much as twitch a muscle, I’ll blow your head off,” Hutch whispered. “Drop the knife.”

The whites showed all around Chaco’s dark irises and his fingers went lax. The knife clattered to the floor at the same moment that the girl sobbed hysterically. Starsky swung her into himself as Hutch shoved Chaco across the counter, hard.

“Why?” the blonde babbled, “why did he do that? I wasn’t…”

“Shh.” Starsky helped her into a seat and took the glass of water another customer pressed into his hand. He held it to the girl’s lips, remembering Emmy Lou Tyler and glad this blonde hadn’t gone the same way.

“I called 911!” a patron yelled, brandishing her cell phone. “They’re on their way.”

“I called, too,” several other diners chimed in.

Starsky laughed, feeling the taint of adrenaline-fueled hysteria hovering in the back of his brain. “Couple of regular guys,” he said to no one in particular.

Uniformed cops were swarming the diner as Hutch yanked a handcuffed Chaco to his feet to propel him to the front door.

~*~

As usual with interrogations, there were delays that set Starsky’s teeth on edge. He went through a cup of the nasty squadroom coffee and two Hershey bars while they waited for Zack Tyler to come ID the suspect.

Starsky did win the rock-paper-scissors for the chance to grill Chaco, leaving Hutch to watch through the two-way mirror with Tyler.

Zack seemed to have found some internal fortitude. He was standing a little straighter when he walked down the main Metro hall toward them. There was a set to his strong jaw that had not been there before.

“Are you ready for this?” Hutch asked gently. “Would you like some coffee or water?”

Glancing over Tyler’s shoulder at his partner, Starsky could hear the echo of Hutch’s fear in his head–“I don’t think I could go on–” and the what-ifs started up in his head. Hutch hurt, Hutch sick or dying. He couldn’t imagine such a scenario without shuddering. Not the mental picture he wanted when he was going in to interrogate a murder and rape suspect. Starsky squared his shoulders to do battle.

It wasn’t a battle he had expected to lose, but despite peppering Chaco with questions, he got nowhere. With the video equipment recording every instance of their time together, the only voice to be heard was Starsky’s. Huey Chaco had obviously weathered many such sessions in his years on the wrong side of the law. He sat stolidly at the table, hands cuffed in front of him, showing nary a flicker of response to Starsky’s questions.

Disgusted, Starsky paced the room, very aware that Hutch and Tyler were watching on the other side of the two-way mirror. Damn! He’d wanted to crack this nut, get Tyler the justice he deserved. That Emmy Lou deserved.

Starsky leaned in close, right into Chaco’s face. He could smell the sweat, that faint betrayal of nerves, but Chaco didn’t flinch. “You know, you are one of the warmest, most responsive human beings I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet,” Starsky muttered. “An all-around regular fella.” He smacked the table once and stomped out.

A taunting chant of failure had replaced the what-ifs in his head.

~*~

“Well, Zack?” Hutch asked when Starsky walked into the observation room. “That’s one down, one to go.”

The Ford salesman pursed his lips with a regretful shake of his head. “I ain’t ever seen that man in my whole life.”

“What?” Starsky shouted. He’d not only lost the battle, now they were losing the war. This was insane! “But the toe piece–”

“His fingerprints were found at the scene of the crime, Zack,” Hutch said reasonably.

“I sure wish I could help you fellas.” Zack took off his cowboy hat and ran a hand through his gray hair, gazing off into the middle distance as if internally debating something. “He just ain’t one of them. That’s all.”

“He’s exactly like you described!” Starsky stabbed a finger at the two-way glass. “Alacran 213 tat, the boots–”

“I never saw his boots,” Zack said softly, patiently. “You found that ol’ toe piece. Maybe he dropped it there some other time.”

The dumbfounded expression on Hutch’s face must have matched his own. Starsky felt like he wanted to explode. This was not at all how he’d imagined this scenario turning out. They’d caught half the duo, but Tyler was the one refusing to cooperate.

Hutch raised one hand in silent resignation and opened the door to let Zack Tyler leave.

~*~

After arranging for an officer to guard Chaco, Starsky and Hutch cornered Dobey in his office to explain the situation.

It very clearly didn’t set well with the captain. His round face was dark with anger, and he slammed a pencil down on his desk, setting off a vibration like a mini-earthquake. “Now what the hell is going on?” Dobey demanded.

Starsky reached over to upright the pencil holder Dobey had knocked over. His daughter must have made it in kindergarten; crudely written letters spelled out Best Dad. Hutch watched him silently from his station at the water cooler.

“He swears Chaco’s not the one that murdered his wife or hit him on the head?” Dobey shouted, gripping the pencil hard enough to break it.

Starsky couldn’t stay still. He paced laps around the room to vent his frustration. How were they going to solve this if Tyler didn’t cooperate?

Hutch held up a hand to still Starsky’s motion and gave him a paper cup of water. He drew another, downing it in a gulp. “I say hold him anyway.”

“On what?” Dobey asked sourly. “Tyler’s not pressing charges.”

“We have more than circumstantial evidence to set Chaco at the scene. Fingerprints, blood evidence,” Starsky said, ticking off each item on his fingers. “And the silver toe tip, which matches the one on his other boot exactly. That’s enough for murder one.”

Dobey nodded reluctantly, jotting notes on a pad.

“We know Chaco’s our man,” Hutch insisted stubbornly. “Keep him in lock up.”

“The D.A will have a fit if we can’t collar the partner soon,” Dobey said with a frown. “I need a solid arrest here, with no legal loop holes Chaco’s public defender can jump through.”

His phone rang, the jangle overly loud as they all thought up strategies.

“Dobey here,” the captain answered. He tapped his pencil on the desk while listening. “Good, that’s good. My men will be down to get his statement in the next hour.”

“What?” Hutch asked, sitting in the chair.

“Rolly’s come around,” Dobey explained. “He’ll talk if we bargain on a lesser plea.”

“He’s wiggled out on charges of fencing stolen property before.” Hutch raised his hand in mute resignation. “At least, if he helps ID this JB, we’ll had a solid lead on Emmy Lou’s murder.”

“Rolly can nail Chaco for us, independent of Tyler,” Starsky said, “even if it’s only for stealing the necklace.”

“Keeps him in the system,” Dobey agreed.

“What if…” Starsky began, an idea forming. It was a crazy one, but there was a chance they could get both Chaco and the elusive JB on rape and murder if things worked to the advantage of the police. He looked directly at Hutch, praying his partner caught his wavelength. “We use one bird to catch another?”

“You think your boy would run to JB if he were free?” Hutch mused, one long finger rubbing absently across his collarbone.

“He ain’t my boy.” Starsky grinned, feeling slightly maniacal. Hutch is my boy, and always will be. He started to pick up the phone from Dobey’s desk, but Hutch beat him to it.

“This skirts all legal boundaries,” Dobey said dubiously, but he made no further protest.

“Hey, Dixon,” Hutch greeted the booking sergeant in the jail wing. “This is Hutchinson.”

His eyes were as unreadable as blue steel ball bearings, but Starsky could feel Hutch’s undercurrent of excitement. Hutch was definitely on his wavelength–and if he played his cards right, after this case, Starsky was going to get laid.

Dobey tugged at his already rumpled tie, and wrote something else on his notepad. He was obviously unhappy with the situation, but Starsky was pleased that the captain had enough trust in his detectives to back them on this.

“I want you to release Huey Chaco, number 33240.” Hutch mouthed an O of surprise. “All right, then.” He hung up, looking bemused. “He’s already on the street.”

“I’ll put a discreet tail on him,” Dobey said. “When you finish with Rolly, get in touch with the team tracking Chaco.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Starsky winked at Hutch, already walking to the door. “Let’s see what Rolly can tell us.”

~*~

The tune of Carly Mae Jepsen’s song, “Call Me Maybe,” came from Hutch’s jacket pocket as Starsky was piloting the Torino through late afternoon traffic. A wreck on the 405 freeway had backed cars up onto city side streets, and it was taking longer than usual to get across BC.

“Captain Dobey’s calling.” Hutch glanced at the caller ID with a puzzled expression. “We were in his office barely half an hour ago.”

“See what he wants.” Starsky stifled the urge to flip the bird at an inconsiderate driver who took a left turn from the center lane. “But don’t be surprised if I start yelling some un-department-approved words at the jerk driving that Hummer.”

Hutch chuckled. “Hutchinson here, Captain.”

The Hummer’s horn blasted, and Starsky missed the beginning of what Dobey said, but he saw Hutch’s shock plain as day. He hit the brake at a red light, stopping in time to hear the rest.

“–is dead,” Dobey said. “Shortly after he left lock-up.”

His eyes so wide, Starsky could see the whites around the blue irises, Hutch held the phone between them. “Captain, do you know anything more? Was it his partner, JB? A drive-by shooting?”

“We’re pulling traffic camera footage right now, but it wasn’t gang related,” Dobey explained.

“Damn!” Starsky exploded. Their whole plan was up in smoke not thirty minutes after they’d launched it. “What was with the team that was following him? They couldn’t nab the shooter?”

“Apparently, it happened very quickly,” Dobey added. “They were in an unmarked, about half a block back, their view partially blocked by a UPS truck.” He harrumphed, the noise like a growl on the Android speaker. “But they did get a glimpse of the shooter.”

“Who?” Hutch asked.

“They’re reasonably certain it was Zack Tyler.” The Captain sounded defeated.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Starsky smacked his palm repeatedly against the steering wheel, his belly clenched in a knot. Why? He’d known Tyler was in mourning, but this– “Old style vigilante, like a cowboy in a movie,” he said sadly. A whole days’ investigation and their best lead to the crime now lay on a slab in the morgue.

“Captain, keep us in the loop,” Hutch said wearily, clicking off. He stared straight ahead until Starsky had gone through the intersection and was driving down the street to the hospital two blocks ahead. “He wanted vengeance.”

“Now he’s a murderer.” Starsky shook his head.

Hutch sighed, lifting one hand in mute dismay.

~*~

Starsky hated hospitals. Nothing against the dedicated doctors and nurses who worked their asses off patching up injured victims and curing sick people, but he’d rather stay far away from the white and green tiled halls of Bay City Memorial. In his line of work, he’d come in through the automatic ER doors far too often, either as a patient or helping a fellow cop. The last time had only been six months ago when Hutch was knifed in the ribs by a drug-crazed assailant.

He glanced at Hutch walking beside him, reassuring himself of Hutch’s continued good health. He laughed silently; he’d seen Hutch’s naked chest that morning, and the six-month-old scar was barely visible any longer.

Starsky actually recognized the nurse at the third floor desk and remembered her name. The big honking diamond on the third finger of her left hand hadn’t been there last spring.

“Cate,” Starsky greeted jovially. “You didn’t tell me you were getting married.”

“Happened quickly.” She smiled toothily at the resident hunched over his reports on her left. “Luca came on-service in my unit and we hit it off.”

“Mozel tov!” Starsky cried.

“The nurses here are a special breed.” Luca raised his head with a ready grin. Probably in his late twenties, he looked sleep-deprived, with circles under his brown eyes and wild black hair that hadn’t seen a comb in days. “Love at first sight.”

He did seem bedazzled, but Starsky figured working thirty-six-hour shifts could do that to a guy. Starsky had given in to Hutch’s charms after a similar time spent awake. And he had never regretted it.

“Congratulations.” Hutch held up his gold badge for both to see. “We’re here to interrogate Rolly Scroggins. He was admitted this morning with head trauma?”

Cate nodded. “Dr. Langendorf said you’d be coming. Room 303. Someone from the D.A.’s office already talked to him.”

“Right there.” Starsky pointed to the open door directly across from the desk.

“You’re on the ball, Davey,” Cate teased.

Rolly was sitting up in bed, a large white bandage wrapped twice around his head. His naturally pale skin was fish-belly white and he was slightly green around the gills. He tracked Starsky and Hutch’s advance into the room with guarded, reptilian brown eyes.

“Hey, fellas!” Rolly croaked. “Thanks for saving my bacon.”

“Bacon?” Starsky echoed, turning to Hutch to make a gruesome face without Rolly seeing. “Hey, buddy, pork ain’t kosher.”

“Let’s have it fast, Rolly. We don’t care that you were dabbling with this Lillian behind her husband’s back. We want the names of the men who sold you an antique silver squash blossom necklace,” Hutch said, taking a stand on the right side of the bed.

Starsky stalked around to stand on the left side, bracketing Rolly between the two of them. Hutch hadn’t mentioned that they’d taken in Rolly’s computer as evidence, and he wasn’t about to bring it up, either.

Rolly looked between them sullenly. “Only when I get a guaranteed deal. The D.A’s offering me diddly.”

“The only guarantee is that you’re a known fence with a record. We already know you were in business with these two before and after Emmy Lou Tyler’s rape and murder,” Hutch began, arms crossed over his broad chest. Stern and formidable. “Makes you an accessory to murder, and in California, three strikes; you’re out, pal.”

“I don’t know about a murder, I swear…” Rolly protested, his face losing the negligible color it had.

“Can the bull, Rolly,” Starsky butted in. “We can tie this around you like a knot and dump the whole mess in the pen. You deal, baby, in about ten seconds or you got no deal. None at all.” He tapped his watch.

Inhaling raggedly as if he couldn’t quite take in a decent breath, Rolly waved his hand weakly. “Hold on, huh? Gimme a break.”

Hutch leaned over the bed to peer at Starsky’s watch. “Time’s up.” He inclined his head toward the door, waiting until Starsky had started around the end of the bed.

“Wait a minute!” Rolly said louder. “Wait.” He had the grace to look ashamed. “All right, I’ll give you their names. Little Huey Chaco and John Brown Harris.”

Terrific! JB Harris. Starsky did a mental fist pump.

Rolly held out both hands to the detectives. “Now, you’re gonna give me a conditional on the accessory, right?”

Hutch glanced at Starsky with a frown. “We’ll try,” he said sincerely.

Rolly grimaced, shifting uncomfortably in the bed, obviously ready to open up. “Okay. I fenced some laptops for them, a few Rolex watches, you know. And sold them a case of iPhones. Oh, and I threw in a snow tire for cost, since they’re reliable clients.”

Snorting derisively, Hutch rolled his eyes.

Starsky had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. Now we’re getting somewhere. “Give me something I can use, Rol,” he said.

“I gave you their names!” Rolly insisted. “You find Chaco; he’ll lead you straight to Harris.”

Starsky moved in real close to Rolly, forcing himself not to gag on the mixture of scents: old sweat, medicinal alcohol, and rancid breath. “Chaco’s dead. We just got the confirmation.”

Rolly hadn’t known. His face sagged as if he’d had a stroke, and he inhaled through his teeth.

“What about Harris?” Hutch said each word very slowly and deliberately.

“Forget Harris.” Rolly panted nervously. He held up both hands like a shield against the world. “I want to stay alive.”

“Look, Jabba,” Starsky sneered. “There’s already an APB out on Zack Tyler for the shooting.”

“Two witnesses identified him as the man who shot Chaco,” Hutch continued without a beat. “If Tyler gets to Harris before we do, the man is dead. And you’ve got no deal.” He slashed his hand through the air like an ax blade.

“Besides, you’re doing him a favor,” Starsky put in, playing good cop. “With us, the creepazoid gets a fair trial, at least, not a .45 between the eyes.”

Biting down on his bottom lip, Rolly was clearly considering his options. Starsky could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, reminding him of a steampunk robot made of cogs and gears that needed to be oiled.

“Harris does those medical tests places, where they pay you cash?” Rolly said finally. “When he needs drinking money.”

“Where?” Hutch swiped the screen of his phone to type in the location.

“Ace Medical,” he muttered, staring down at his chubby hands fisted on the hospital blanket. “By UCLA.”

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Rolly.” Starsky waggled his fingers, practically running out the door. His thoughts were in a jumble–so much going on. Tyler gunning for their suspects, and Harris out in the wind. They had to find him before Zack did.

“You’re going to love San Quentin, ” Hutch said with a toothy grin. “The view of the bay is gorgeous.”

~*~

Ace Medical was a squat, sixties-style building on Hilgaard Ave, to one side of the UCLA medical complex. Getting inside proved as difficult as entering the Bay City courthouse most days. There was a public lobby with a security inspection. Then Starsky and Hutch were directed to a second floor suite of offices guarded by a hatchet-faced woman seated at a desk.

Beyond her, Starsky could see a hallway with doors, most marked Entrance Restricted–Trial Underway. Since he knew there were no judges inside, he had to assume that was where the lab rats took new drugs or agreed to cutting edge techniques supervised by med students and post-doctoral candidates. Amazing what people would do when desperate for cash.

Some of those unfortunates were sitting quietly in a small waiting room, their faces sickly from the fluorescents lights overhead. A TV mounted on the wall was displaying a generic doctor network with a fresh faced lad in blue scrubs pointing to a list of healthy fruits and vegetables. The volume was on mute and no one looked the least interested in the nutrition lesson.

A woman at the reception desk pecked at a keyboard, staring at the screen over the top of bright orange reading glasses. The most amazing thing about her was the starched white nurse’s cap hairpinned securely to tightly bunned hair. Starsky hadn’t seen a nurse in a white cap since he broke his arm in the third grade.

“Ma’am?” Hutch asked politely, holding up his BCPD detective badge.

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” she said, picking up an electronic cigarette and puffing furiously without ever looking away from the data on her computer screen.

Starsky flicked an eye at her nameplate on the desk. “Excuse me, Ms. Mulcahey, we’re not here to sign up for a research job. We’re cops.” To prove the point, he opened his wallet to show his badge.

Ms. Mulcahey was a tough nut to crack. She shifted the plastic cigarette to the side of her mouth, glaring at the both of them without a word. Her white cap appeared to be a malevolent, mutant bat poised to attack anyone Mulcahey deemed out of line.

Taking a deep breath, Hutch replaced his badge with the mug shot of John Harris they’d obtained from Metro. “You ever seen this guy?”

Harris was a square-jawed man with narrow blue eyes and almost military short blondish hair. He looked about ready to commit murder even in the police photo.

Mulcahey took off her glasses, glancing at the picture before staring straight at Starsky with obvious contempt.

Distinctly disconcerted, and very irritated at her impenetrable gaze, Starsky dropped into his street cop stance and glared back at her.

“I don’t recall,” Mulcahey said, stone-faced. “HIPPA violations prevent me from–”

This is getting us nowhere. Starsky recognized his belligerent style was clashing with hers. “Hutch,” he said, giving his partner the floor. He stomped to a candy machine against the wall, searching for something sweet. It felt like forever since they’d eaten lunch at Huggy’s and the candy bars before Chaco’s interrogation.

“He’s a person of interest in an ongoing murder investigation,” Hutch said, going for polite, although Starsky could hear the strain in his voice.

“Like on Criminal Minds?” Mulcahey asked with the first sign of interest.

Starsky had to laugh. She was probably the sort who scrolled Facebook discussions for TV shows and read fanfiction.

“Maybe.” Hutch sighed. “Look, lady, he’s got tattoos–”

“These days, every Zachery, Madison, and Ryder has tattoos,” Mulcahey said with contempt.

Starsky leaned against the candy machine, digging the coins out of his tight jeans and watching the steam rising from Hutch’s ears. Hutch did not have much patience for people who stonewalled him.

“Tattoos up and down his forearms in parallel rows of fishes,” Hutch said tightly, touching the underside of his left arm.

“Oh, I remember him. Had to draw some blood before his injection.” She shrugged. “Easier for me to remember arms than faces.”

“When was the last time he was here?” Hutch asked.

Now that Hutch was making headway, Starsky selected a bag of M&M’s by punching the right combination of buttons and fed three quarters and a dime into the machine. His belly rumbled in anticipation.

Mulcahey tapped her computer keyboard to get his info. “Harris. Exactly three weeks ago.”

The M&M’s popped forward and were released from the spring holding them static, tumbling into the bowels of the machine. But they never made it to the chute at the bottom. Peering into the glass, Starsky could see his M&M’s, plus a bag of Doritos, and a sack of trail mix all jammed at the top opening of the chute. “Damn,” he whispered, making a fist and firmly hitting the front of the vending machine directly over the area where the snacks were.

“Do you have an address?” Hutch asked.

Mulcahey read off a phone number for him. “Hey, curls!” she yelled.

Startled, Starsky practically fell over into the candy machine, still with nothing to show for his eighty-five cents.

“You get out of here!” Mulcahey demanded.

“This machine gypped me out of M&M’s!” Starsky protested.

“Get out of here and take your nosy friend with you,” she announced with a curl of her lip. “I got people waiting!”

Starsky stared silently at her, taking in the smooth dark hair, the weird winged white cap on her head, and the sharper than normal teeth peeking out from under her top lip with a shudder. The undead characters on the British series Being Human were pussycats next to her.

“Starsky, come on,” Hutch urged.

“That’s the first lady vampire I ever met,” Starsky muttered, charging past his partner. He wasn’t staying here a moment longer; who knew when she’d need more blood.

~*~

“Zack lied about knowing Chaco so he could kill him revenge style,” Hutch said softly, rubbing his chest as if his soul hurt.

“Nothin’ about this case has felt good from the beginning.” Starsky drove the Torino down toward the docks, the bay sparkling under a sunny sky on their right. “When some drug dealer takes another one out–it ain’t good, but there’s a kind of balance, you know?”

Hutch nodded. “But this ruined the lives of two people who were decent and–”

“You’re not going to call a car salesman respectable, are you?” Starsky teased, and got a half-hearted smile in response. He parked the car beside a phone booth on the edge of a small marina filled with family pleasure boats. “Will you look at that? Hardly ever see a real phone booth anymore. According to AT&T, this should be the one.”

Hutch got out of the car and ducked inside to check the number. “There’s graffiti tags on every surface but I can make out the number: 555-6473. That’s it.”

Starsky slid his gun from the holster under his right arm, holding it down along his left leg to keep it out of sight of passersby. He scanned the tidy aisles of boats. There were only two or three people on their vessels this late in the afternoon. No telling which one might be Harris.

“Wonder if we beat Zack here?” Hutch said sotto-voce.

“I kinda hope he’s come and gone,” Starsky muttered. If there was anyone he would condone killing, it was a man who raped and murdered nice, married ladies. Or, for that matter, any women.

He and Hutch walked down to the dock leading out to the boats. Starsky glanced left and right, finally catching sight of a thick-necked guy with a sun-bleached blond crewcut. When the man turned, he raised a hand in greeting with a friendly smile. There were fishes drawn in blue ink along his forearm.

“Afternoon, fellas,” Harris said. “Can I help you?”

Hutch took a step to the left, widening the space between him and Starsky just as Harris pulled out a rifle. Harris fired, the bullet lodging in the boat behind them. Adrenaline cranking into overdrive, Starsky dove behind a couple of barrels on the dock, visually tracking his partner as Hutch found similar shelter. Both raised their guns to return fire, and Starsky heard the sound of running feet on the wooden dock. He peered over his shoulder.

Zack Tyler stood like Marshall Dillon on Gunsmoke, tall and imposing, an old fashioned Colt revolver cocked. He took aim, firing straight at Harris, rage and tears mingling on his face. He missed.

Hutch pulled off a shot and Starsky added to the volley, giving Hutch time to grab Zack’s leg. “Get back!” Hutch shouted.

Tyler shook him off, intent on his prey.

“Zack, get down!” Starsky yelled, trying to sight on Harris, but the man had ducked below the side of his vessel. “This is a police investigation!”

Tyler ignored them, drawing a bead on Harris. The suspect scrambled off his boat and dashed down the pier, firing madly over his shoulder. First Tyler, then Hutch raced off after Harris.

Starsky swore under his breath, scrambling behind them. He wasn’t letting Hutch out of his sight. He’d never forgive himself if Hutch got shot, and that fear gave his feet wings.

They legged it past the boats to a marine salvage yard full of hulking piles of rusting metal, just perfect for a suspect to hunker down and escape notice. Starsky was panting hard, and had almost caught up with Hutch when a battered Toyota appeared from between two rotting boat carcasses, scaring the hell out of him. He stumbled, going down on his knees.

Still in forward momentum, Hutch did a full 360 roll over the hood to get over to Starsky. The driver honked in irritation, flashing his middle finger.

“Move it, asshole!” Hutch screamed, waving the car away with the barrel of his gun. He grabbed Starsky’s arm, looking down at the shredded knees of his jeans. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Starsky knew his knees would hurt like a son of a bitch when the rush wore off, but for now, his blood was singing in his ears. He wanted to lean into Hutch, thank him for the save, but there was no time. He spared one moment to look Hutch over. Blond hair tousled and blue plaid shirt unbuttoned, but otherwise whole and unharmed. “You?”

“Not the one running in front of cars, buddy.” Hutch panted, wiping sweat off his forehead.

The roar of gunfire alerted them to where Zack and Harris had taken cover.

Hutch pointed with his gun barrel to signal that he was going off to the left and Starsky sprinted around a mound of metal, seeing Harris jump into a dumpster. Zack was hunched behind the relative protection of an inverted metal rowboat, reloading his old Colt. Catching his partner’s eye, Starsky motioned to Hutch, pointing first to Harris and then to Zack. Hutch nodded, heading for the cowboy’s hiding place. Starsky skirted a pile of recyclable cans, edging toward Harris.

Zack Tyler popped up like a jack-in-the-box, firing exactly at the moment that Harris took aim at him. Starsky was nowhere near enough to prevent the shot. Frustration zinged through his belly.

“Get down!” Hutch yelled.

Hutch started running when Zack twisted and fell, one hand clutching at the blood turning his western shirt bright red.

“Damn it, Zack!” Hutch whispered, sliding in beside Starsky. “He’s hit!” He squinted, his pistol held ready, but he didn’t fire.

At least it wasn’t you, love, Starsky thought grimly, reloading his pistol as rapidly as he could.

Harris sent another bullet their way, putting a divot in the pavement and sending up a puff of concrete dust. Zack moaned.

Hutch hunched over his Android phone, whispering their location to dispatch.

His heart in his throat, Starsky exhaled, his lungs aching from the strain. Because of Harris’ position and apparently unending supply of bullets, there was no way to reach the injured man lying unprotected and alone. Starsky could tell Tyler was badly wounded; an awful lot of blood had already poured out. Even if paramedics arrived in seconds, it might be too late.

Harris was still taking pot shots at them. Watching Hutch pull the trigger twice in a row, Starsky tried to ignore the gunfire and come up with some kind of plan. Examining their surroundings for the first time, he realized the yard was crowded with more than just old boats; it was a vehicle graveyard complete with a Zamboni, a forklift, and other heavy equipment.

“I called for back-up, but they’ll never make it in time,” Hutch said, flinching when a bullet whined past, far too close. He fired off a shot at Harris, but it was wide of the mark. “We’ve got to get to Zack, pull him to safety.”

Starsky shook his head as a bullet pinged against the oil drums they were hiding behind. “That dumpster he’s in is like a tank.” Starsky focused on the behemoth he’d seen earlier. That thing could be their salvation. “Cover me.”

Hutch didn’t question; he fired repeatedly at Harris, the boom of his revolver like a Civil War cannon.

Keeping his head down, Starsky sprinted the fifty feet faster than he’d ever done in a timed trial and scrambled up into the driver’s seat. He’d driven taxi cabs, the occasional bus–and a long time ago, in Afghanistan, a tank. How hard could it be to operate a crane? He gave himself two seconds to figure out the controls: gear shift, accelerator, brake, and the all-important lever to raise and lower the arm with the claw. He filtered out the gunshots, thoughts of Zack bleeding out, and the possibility of Hutch doing the same.

The familiar retort of a Magnum signaled that Hutch had run up beside him. “Give me your gun.”

Dropping his weapon into Hutch’s hand, Starsky smiled grimly, staring through the windscreen at Harris. Because the seat in the crane was far higher than where he’d been before, he could easily see the blond man inside the dumpster. “I got this,” he said confidently. “Piece of cake.”

Hutch stepped back into the protection of a junked truck to watch him work.

A bullet smashed the windshield directly in front of Starsky and he flinched left, his heart galloping. He sneered, grasping the gear shift. This has to work. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hutch return fire, but Harris was too swift, and Hutch didn’t get his man.

Starsky maneuvered the unwieldy vehicle closer to Harris’s hiding place, focusing on the suspect. The arm with the claw sported a giant magnet, just the thing to pick up a metal container.

As he eased the accelerator down, the vehicle lurched forward. Starsky raised the claw arm to the cloudless blue sky, poising it over his target. As easy as manipulating the joy stick on a video game. Slowly, with just a little waggle to open the gripping apparatus.

Harris took a wild shot at the crane, but the bullet bounced off without denting the reinforced steel panels.

The huge metal claw gripped the edges of the dumpster and Starsky hoisted his cargo high above the dirt with a quick flick of the lever. He cackled to himself. Harris looked thoroughly spooked, hanging onto the sides of his metal cradle. With a triumphant shove, Starsky released the claw, and the dumpster dropped like a stone.

Starsky leapt from the cab at the same time that Hutch dashed from his hiding place, both running to check on Harris. A quick look established that he was breathing, although dazed.

“I got Zack!” Hutch called, veering off to go to the injured man.

Without a shred of sympathy for his victim, Starsky flipped Harris over while yanking his handcuffs from his jeans pocket. “You’re okay,” he said, “And under arrest.” He cuffed the man’s wrists behind him, leaving him to muddle over what had just happened. No use reciting the Miranda to someone who was barely conscious.

The yard boss emerged from his ramshackle office, eyes wide with alarm.

Timing is everything, Starsky thought with grim humor.

“You!” Hutch commanded, “call 911! This man needs medical attention, fast.” He leaned over Tyler, inspecting the gunshot wound. A pool of blood continued to spread around Tyler, staining the knees of Hutch’s slacks.

“Got it!” The man looked grateful to have something to do, fingers already busy on his Smartphone.

Starsky suspected that he’d been tweeting a minute-by-minute account of the shoot-out while hiding under his desk.

Hutch shrugged out of his plaid flannel overshirt, tossing it to Starsky. His expression spoke volumes; Tyler was in bad shape. Hutch pressed a hand over the entrance wound. “Bullet must have hit an artery,” he whispered, his Adam’s apple bobbing with an obvious effort to maintain a calm front.

“Hey,” Starsky said softly. “Zack, how you doing? Let me get this under you.” He raised the car dealer’s head, pushing the shirt underneath like a pillow. “Easy does it.” The last time he’d seen so much blood pumping from a human being, Starsky had been in combat in Kabul. The gore turned his stomach, and he feared that Tyler didn’t have long to live. “Hutch?” Starsky asked softly, scanning his partner. Hutch would have mentioned if he’d been shot, too, wouldn’t he? That blood staining his slacks from the knees down must be all Zack’s.

“What’s happening?” Zack asked woozily, blinking as if the hazy sunlight was far too bright.

“Don’t talk; save your energy,” Hutch admonished, maintaining pressure on the wound. The blood spilled out around his fingers.

Zack grunted in pain, his face unnaturally pale. “Did you get him?”

Starsky wanted to rail against the fates, do something to change the inevitable outcome. Yesterday, Zack Tyler had been a nice guy who sold Fords, married to a gorgeous woman, happy in his life. Today, Emmy Lou was dead, Zack had gone from local late night TV personality to murderer, and he was dying with every beat of his heart. Starsky had seen good people brought down every day of his career as a cop, and it stunk.

“Yeah.” Hutch gulped, his face cut from stone, as if he was fighting hard to keep from breaking down. It was clear he hated the situation as much as Starsky did. “We got him.”

“Good deal,” Zack sighed, the breath going completely out of him.

Starsky’s heart skipped a beat until Zack inhaled with a moan. “Why didn’t you leave this alone, Zack? Let us bring in Chaco and Harris? That’s our job.”

“Can’t fight my nature,” Zack whispered, closing his eyes. He existed for a moment and then his eyes fluttered open again. “Lemme tell you a story my grandpappy tol’ me.”

Hutch started to interrupt, but Zack raised a feeble hand, catching Hutch’s. Hutch turned his face away and Starsky felt his anguish deep. Neither of them had caught a bullet, however, that didn’t make losing Zack any easier.

“There’s this scorpion, you see. Tryin to get across the Rio Grande, but he couldn’t swim.” Zack coughed hard, his lips white. “”So he talks this frog into carrying him across on his back. See, the frog knew the scorpion couldn’t swim and as long as he was in the water, that ol’ scorpion wouldn’t sting the frog ’cause then he’d drown, right?”

Starsky nodded, caught up in the story and dreading the end. He touched Zack’s neck, pretending to adjust the flannel shirt under his head, but actually feeling the man’s pulse. It was rapid but not strong, barely making an impression on Starsky’s fingertips.

“So the scorpion pestered him until the frog said–” Zack chuffed a silent laugh, the story clearly a favorite of his. “‘All right, climb on board.’ They got halfway across the river before the scorpion, damn if he didn’t up and sting that frog. Ol’ frog looked around at him and said, ‘What did you do that for? You’re gonna die, too now.'” Zack relaxed as if his journey was almost complete. Taking a slow breath that bubbled blood out the corner of his mouth, he continued his tale. “The scorpion just looked at him and said, ‘Couldn’t help it; it’s my nature.'”

Starsky blinked tears out of his eyes, seeing a hint of moisture in Hutch’s too. There was nothing to say to make it all better, so he wordlessly pressed his hand against Hutch’s thigh, knowing both of them needed the connection.

“And I’m being true to mine.” Zack managed on an exhale, his voice barely audible. “With Emmy Lou gone, living is too hard alone.”

“Hold on, Zack!” Starsky said fiercely. “The ambulance is coming; can’t you hear it?” The sirens were screaming in the distance, probably a street or two away. “You’ve got to hold on.”

Hutch made a small, inarticulate sound.

Zack’s eyes closed, his body going slack. Starsky pressed his fingers into the man’s neck, sure he could feel proof of a beating heart.

“Starsky,” Hutch said oddly.

“Yeah?”

“He’s dead.” Hutch reached down and smoothed his hand over Tyler’s face, closing his eyes. Hutch’s lips were pressed so tightly together that there was a white line all the way around his mouth, as if he wanted to throw up violently.

Some cases got to them both, carving memories deep into the flesh. Starsky watched his partner; Hutch would undoubtedly remember Zack Tyler for the rest of his life, and he’d never liked the man’s commercials all that much.

Starsky forced himself to swallow, sure his Adam’s apple was blocking off his throat. He blinked the tears that threatened to fall. Couldn’t cry in front of…well, anyone. Maybe Hutch, but even then, only in private. And Hutch wasn’t about to cry in public either, not when they both had a job to do.

Behind him, Starsky could hear the police cruisers and ambulance converging on the surplus yard. “You’re covered in blood,” he said softly, focusing on Hutch because it was much too hard to look down at Tyler. Hutch stood with the sun behind him, his blond hair lit like a candle flame.

“I’ll change when we get to Metro,” Hutch said as if talking was a burden. He wet his lips, frowning at the yard boss texting on his phone. “Since you are a witness to a murder, I’d advise you against releasing pertinent information from an on-going criminal investigation before you’ve talked to the police.” His voice was all authority, and the yard boss looked like he was about to piss in his pants.

“What’s your name?” Starsky asked as the first of cops and paramedics poured into the yard. “And do those CCT’s actually work?” He pointed to the small cameras mounted on the fence and office building.

“Wally Abrams,” the man answered, watching his business fill up with emergency responders. “Is the dead guy really that wacky late-night car dealer, Zack Tyler?”

Hutch was directing the flow of traffic, clearly using the work to isolate his emotions from what had just happened. Starsky recognized the need to be productive because what they had lost was almost too hard to bear. What if Harris’ bullets had hit Hutch instead? Would Starsky have gone all Rambo and hunted down the perp on his own? In a deep, dark place inside his soul, he knew exactly why Tyler had done what he did. And he approved.

“He was a really good guy,” Starsky said to Wally Abrams, emphasizing it with a jab of his finger. “Don’t you forget it.”

~*~

Hutch had to shower and change clothes because he needed to hand his bloody slacks into evidence, so Starsky brought Zack and Harris’ guns to Ballistics. Most of the forensics unit was out covering the huge crime scene that stretched from the boat marina to the salvage yard, leaving Scottie Preston the only one minding the lab. With his short, uneven gait, he had difficulty walking a crime scene.

Starsky heard a familiar voice coming from Scottie’s computer even before he saw what was playing on YouTube: a very old Zack Tyler commercial.

“Your jeans are ripped,” Scottie commented.

My skinned knees ache, too. Ignoring what he couldn’t change, Starsky came around behind the smaller man. “What year is that from?”

“Two thousand three. Tyler looks much younger.” Scottie hit replay and a vibrant Zack Tyler bounded out between a Crown Victoria and an F-150, talking faster than a professional auctioneer. He was all smiles, urging viewers to come on down to sample the new cars, and get free hot dogs and popcorn for the kids.

Looking closely, Starsky recognized a gorgeous, leggy blond gesturing Vanna White style at the old-timey popcorn cart. Emmy Lou. She never looked directly at the camera during the entire sixty-second spot; instead, she gazed at her energetic husband with an expression of rapt adoration.

His heart constricting, Starsky had to turn away for a moment. He knew that expression. He’d seen it on Hutch’s face, and knew Hutch had seen it on his. Luckily, Scottie was logging off YouTube and didn’t seem to notice.

“What a waste,” Scottie said softly. “Why’d you think Tyler went after them like that? Sort of the flip side of suicide by police?”

Knowing he’d be killed no matter what the outcome? Starsky inhaled sharply, weary to the bone. It had been a long day. He’d awakened when Hutch went jogging at six a.m., and it was now past nine p.m. So many emotions that he hadn’t been prepared for. He was used to the raw wounds that murder brought out, or at least had become partially inured, enough that he didn’t generally fall into a depression like Hutch with nearly every case. But Zack and Emmy Lou Tyler had twisted his heart in ways he’d never expected.

“Love,” Starsky said simply.

Scottie nodded slowly as if thinking about a certain person, his dark eyes grave. Then he smiled slightly, inclining his head at the door.

“Any chance I can ever get these clothes back?” Hutch asked, holding out a plastic bag containing his plaid overshirt and slacks.

“Hutch, you know how much Ning likes to cut up fabric,” Scottie said, filling out a slip for the bloody evidence.

“Blintz, we got days off coming up,” Starsky said, his heart soaring to have Hutch clean and looking reasonably cheerful. Seeing him covered in blood earlier had been too–Starsky wasn’t even sure what. A kind of premonition of some dire catastrophe? Whatever, he knew he never wanted to see Hutch drenched in gore again. “I’ll take you shopping. I know some great places for jeans.”

Hutch snorted inelegantly through his nose. “Buddy, not sure I will ever be ready for what you’d consider a great place for jeans.”

“You tell ‘im, Hutch.” Scottie chuckled. “Starsky shops at Army surplus. I’ve seen him there.”

“Hey! I do know a fantastic place for dinner.” Starsky slapped a hand on Hutch’s back, running his fingers down the sleek muscles to his firm ass.

“Where would that be?” Hutch asked dubiously, lifting a blond eyebrow.

“Your place. With some Chinese takeout. I’m starved.”

“Double order of orange chicken?” Hutch reached behind and caught Starsky’s roaming hand.

“What else?” Tugging him toward the door, Starsky waved over his shoulder at Scottie. “Saturday night for Ironman Three, right?”

“See you then!” Scottie called.

~*~

Starsky took his shower at Hutch’s, standing under the spray with his eyes closed, letting the water envelope him. Soap lather made his knees sting, but at least he got the bits of gravel out. The pounding wet heat smoothed out the tension in his shoulders and banished the last vestiges of Hutch as a murdered corpse from his imagination. He turned off the water, reaching for a towel, and heard Hutch singing.

“Seraphim sing praises to my baby, but he never curled his wings around my soul…” Hutch’s tenor paired perfectly with Angel Gabriel’s rich alto coming from what had to be Hutch’s iPod dock. Starsky knew his play list. The complex rhythms from the bluesy guitar and violin twisted around the voices, counterpointing the melody. “The angels can take my baby ’cause I just kissed a devil in the dark.”

Toweling off just enough that he wasn’t dripping wet, Starsky walked out of the bathroom. Hutch was swaying in time to the song’s coda, holding a bottle of Huggy’s latest find, a locally made dark ale.

“Can’t kiss the devil with the lights on,” Starsky said softly, flicking off the switch just as the next tune on the mix came up: Devil Went Down to Georgia with its maniacal fiddle solo.

Hutch turned, curling his free arm around Starsky. Setting the beer bottle on the table, he took a slow, admiring look at Starsky’s naked exuberance. “Ready to party, are you?”

“I had something in mind.” One last step put Starsky against Hutch’s chest. The soft fabric of Hutch’s microfiber shirt felt like velvet on Starsky’s skin and he intentionally rubbed his erection along Hutch’s groin. “Wanted to kiss an angel.”

Hutch inclined his head the bare inch necessary to close on Starsky’s mouth, whispering inaudible love notes as they kissed. Starsky didn’t have to hear the words; he knew the meanings deep in his heart. The devil in Georgia segued into the drunken wistfulness of Lady Antebellum’s I Need You Now.

Starsky couldn’t think of any better soundtrack to their lovemaking, and he swiftly freed Hutch’s cock from the imprisonment of khaki. He rubbed a finger over the moon tattooed on Hutch’s right flank, the one that fit so perfectly with the star inked on his left flank.

Hutch laughed with anticipatory delight when his warm flesh brushed against Starsky. Zingy need sparking every nerve cell, Starsky clasped both cocks in his hand, Hutch’s arms bracketing his waist to steady them both. The intricate harmonies swirled around the two men as Starsky pumped his fist. Hutch sucked in air, kissing Starsky with startling intensity. That second point of contact was all Starsky needed; his balls drew up tightly as he came, splattering against Hutch’s belly.

His fingers digging into Starsky’s pelvis, Hutch shuddered, long frame pulled taut as a guitar string. Suddenly, he sagged with the release, letting out a pent-up breath. “Should be required…” he murmured.

Kissing Hutch’s sweaty neck, Starsky chuckled wearily. “A requirement?”

“After a day like today.” Hutch sat on a kitchen chair, his fly still open.

He pulled Starsky down onto his lap, but Starsky was too wired to stay still. The orgasm had helped immensely, but now that he’d gotten the adrenaline down to a dull roar, the emotions were flooding back, reminding him of all that had been lost.

Hutch’s kiss on the back of Starsky’s neck was ticklish and he jumped up. Ducking into Hutch’s closet, Starsky pulled on a pair of old track pants and the X-Files t-shirt he’d left there. I want to believe. After doing a complete lap around the kitchen, he grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge.

“You looking for something?” Hutch asked lazily, clearly used to Starsky’s need to burn off excess energy. He’d zipped up and arraigned his clothes while Starsky got dressed. “The Chinese is in the oven, warming.”

“I just–” Starsky paused to identify the music coming from the iPod. An oldie, from that movie, Back to the Future: The Power of Love. Very apropos. “Can’t get Zack and Emmy Lou out of my head.”

Hutch nodded, rubbing a thumb through the condensation on his own bottle of Raunchy Eddie’s Dark Ale. “He loved her enough to die for her.”

“Scottie pulled up an old vid of one of Zack’s commercials,” Starsky said. He could still see the way Emmy Lou looked at Zack, as if she couldn’t live without him. Starsky shivered, taking a long pull on his bottle. The beer went down smooth, the sweet/bitter taste of barley and hops just the way he liked it. “Emmy Lou was in the background. First time I think I’ve ever seen her alive.”

Reaching out, Hutch clasped Starsky’s hand to tow him to the table. “They’ll be eternally young on YouTube forever, now. Probably be a memorial page set up for the Tylers in a day or two.”

“I kept seein’ you, covered in blood, kneeling on the cement–” Starsky shook his head to dispel the images he’d thought were gone. “And I…” He was as surprised as Hutch when the next words tumbled out of his mouth. “Marry me. So that we’ll be together.” Once said, they were exactly right.

“Like those cops did up north in San Rafael?” Hutch asked with such a fond smile that Starsky kissed him to preserve the sense memory of that smile forever. “Out in front of everybody?”

“We could put it on YouTube,” Starsky teased, looking straight into Hutch’s summer blue eyes. “Wearing tuxes, ‘Just Married’ written on the back window of the Torino.”

Hutch barked a laugh. “I’ll marry you in a heartbeat, but no vid on any social media site anywhere. You read me?”

“I do. Loud and clear,” Starsky vowed.

The End