Borders

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In this sequel to Debaran Revisited, Hutch and a still-recovering Starsky, find themselves drawn into a complex case that has woven a sinister web from LA to New York and back again. The pieces of the puzzle steadfastly refuse to fit into a recognizable pattern, and both men must simultaneously face a wily criminal and their own uncertain future…in a landscape where nothing may be as it seems.

While “Borders” may be read on it’s own, Debaran Revisited serves as a sort of prologue to it, introducing both the main plot and the characters.

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JANUARY 29, 1980

“Something’s come up. I need to talk with you.”

“What’s wrong?”

Long pause. “I don’t know.”

Starsky looked at his watch once again, wondering for the umpteenth time what could possibly be keeping his partner. While the more rational part of his brain reminded him that it was little more than half an hour past the time Hutch could reasonably be expected home, his impatience couldn’t have cared less. Always eager for Hutch’s return, the anticipation was even keener today in light of the maddeningly cryptic telephone conversation that kept re-playing itself, unbidden, in his mind. From whatever angle you looked, it made no more sense than the jigsaw puzzle laid out in splendid disarray before him on the coffee table.

Growing bored with stacking the pieces into precariously balanced towers and unable to sit still any longer, he got up and paced. We said no overtime, remember? Scanning the funkier of the wall clocks as he walked — a largely unconscious action — he willed the hands to move just a little faster. The first time in weeks that I actually have something to tell you and…

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening hesitantly, as if the person on the other side was unsure of his reception.

“Hutch? Glad you came back — beginnin’ to think that you’d gone to Brazil without me.”

In his eagerness to reach the door, Starsky nearly collided with his obviously startled partner and launched into his narration before the other had a chance to say a word. “Hey, we got a weird call while you were out earning a living, all the way from New York. Not Ma or Mac this time, either…” He stopped for a breath and grinned at Hutch’s expression of blank surprise. “Hi,” he offered, relieving Hutch of the white paper bags he was juggling without giving them a thought.

The indulgent grin that crept onto Hutch’s face aptly reflected the transition from surprise to bewildered amusement. “I don’t know who are you or what you’ve done with my partner, but stick around awhile. You’re a lot easier to live with.”

“Oh, shut up and sit down. You’re going to want to hear this.”

“On the other hand…”

Starsky ignored the barb and followed closely behind Hutch as he made his way to the closet to hang up his holster.

“Detective Sergeant Tressa Ross of the NYPD is paying us a visit on Thursday. She wouldn’t tell me what it was about over the phone, but I’m thinkin’ that it has to be connected with the case. I mean, why else would she…” He paused again, finally staring down at the all-but-forgotten bags in his hands. The seductive combination of aromas issuing from them was impossible to ignore any longer and the reason for his partner’s delay suddenly became obvious. “What’s this?” Starsky asked the question very quietly, as guilt slowly began to insinuate itself into his consciousness.

“Food. There’s this rumor out there that the body functions better with than without it. Of course, they probably weren’t referring specifically to Bert’s Taco Palace, but the theory’s still sound.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“Peace offering?”

Hutch’s initial unease finally registered. Starsky didn’t have to question its cause, felt the corresponding regret and responsibility converge in a stab of almost physical pain. Can’t really blame you for being wary, babe. Especially after this morning. Except that it wasn’t just this morning: his moods had been unusually volatile lately and Hutch always seemed to get the worst of it. It has to stop, he thought gravely. Knowing that you’ll take it doesn’t give me the right to blast away at you at will. And after all that you end up going to my favorite restaurant and pick up dinner? Aw, Hutch…

“Dummy.” Despite the gentle reproof, he hoped that at least some of the warmth he was feeling had worked its way to the surface. “You’ve got it backside forward. The injured party’s supposed to be on the receiving end, remember? What’s the matter with you?”

“I lose track,” Hutch replied equably, relaxing further. “Your turn next time, okay? Well, don’t leave me hanging. What’s going on with Ross?”

“Nope.” Starsky set about arranging things on the table. “You first. How was your day?” It was time to take a break and listen to his partner for awhile. Though he knew it was neither expected or necessary, he silently vowed to reciprocate tonight’s gesture in the near future. Make a salad, maybe even go after sushi…

“Slowly, as usual. I spent most of it pulling files down in R and I and the rest explaining to one of our city’s finer citizens the potential legal drawbacks of shooting pigeons downtown.”

“That sounds a lot like last week. They stickin’ you with all the loonies now?”

“Probably figure all the years with you qualifies me as an expert,” Hutch replied dryly, affectionately ruffling his partner’s dark curls as he made his way into the kitchen to wash up. “Your day sounds a lot more exciting than mine, so let’s hear it, huh?”

Hutch listened carefully as Starsky relayed the conversation as close to verbatim as he could remember, interrupting only when clarification was needed. The call had been notably brief, lacking in any definitive information, but hinted at just enough mystery to make conjecture thoroughly irresistible.

“And she said she was coming alone? Without Mac?”

“Yep.” That in itself was significantly odd, Starsky recognized. It had been her partner, Det. Rob McMahon who had all but adopted them, taking Hutch’s parting request to keep them apprised of happenings in the case very much to heart. Since he and Ross had returned to New York, he had called like clockwork at least once a week, sharing office gossip and family news along with the few case-related tidbits he was allowed to divulge. Granted, Ross had been undercover for most of the intervening time, but seemed well content to leave the phone calls to her partner.

“It must have something to do with the Debaran case,” he continued. “What else could involve us? It’s all they’ve been working for the past five months, but still…” He let the sentence trail off, glanced down at his plate, and looked up with a smile. “This is terrific.” The fact that he was actively attacking the pile of food with an enthusiasm rarely seen anymore probably made the statement redundant.

Hutch returned the smile but made no comment, his mind now fully engaged in the subject under discussion. “According to Mac, their undercover investigation went off without a hitch.” Unlike ours, was the unspoken-but-clear implication. “I was under the impression it was all over but the paperwork as of three weeks ago. Hard to imagine what could’ve gone wrong at this point.” He paused for a moment, staring at the fork resting in his hand as if just realizing it was there. “Still, you never know. Remember what a tangled web Debaran wove here in LA? Not an easy organization to crack.”

“Yeah, but they did. Debaran’s dead, his organization’s in ruins, they caught the rest of the bad guys and put ’em in jail. It was supposed to be an unparalleled success — gold stars all around.”

“Well, maybe some of the documents they seized gave them a new line of inquiry, something with an LA connection.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, either,” Starsky threw in quickly, shaking his head. “If it were that, don’tcha think she’d have gone through channels, instead of calling us?”

Hutch made a face. “Okay Sherlock, you’ve had more time to analyze all the facts than I have. What do you think?”

“I think I need more hot sauce,” he dodged, reaching over and helping himself to a few of Hutch’s condiment packs. “What’s she like anyway?”

“Who?”

“Ross. Who d’ya think?”

Hutch looked up, obviously surprised by the question. “I only saw her the one time they came out here to confer with us, same as you.” When there was no acknowledgment forthcoming from Starsky, he added pointedly, “You were there, remember?”

“Are you kiddin’, Hutch? I barely even remember we had company. Probably wouldn’t remember August at all if you hadn’t told me about it.” It was an exaggeration, of course, but only a slight one. Ross and McMahon’s visit had come just three months after the shooting, only a couple of weeks after his release from the hospital. Starsky had been downing so many painkillers at that time that the few memories he did manage to hang onto were hazy, at best.

Hutch smiled. “I’d almost forgotten how out of it you really were.” He paused, considering. “Well, let’s see. She struck me as a dedicated cop — professional, competent, focused on the job at hand. Nice in a cool, reserved kind of way. Ambitious. Why?”

“Old habits, I guess.” In response to Hutch’s questioning look, he explained, “Thinking like a cop. Just want to get a feel for who she is before she walks in the door.”

“Now’s a good time to get back into the habit,” Hutch agreed softly. “Or would be, if you’d of ever actually stopped.”

Starsky felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. Yeah, and I can also leap tall buildings and hit a pea at fifty yards with my Beretta. Hutch’s unwavering belief in him was enormously gratifying, but he judged himself to be a lot rustier than his partner’s assessment would seem to indicate. It was past time to reacquaint himself with the mindset that had been, up until eight months ago, second nature to him. He would need it and much more if he were to have any hope of being re-certified for the force.

Toby Debaran, his organization, and the twin investigations it had spawned continued to be the central theme of the night. They played “what if” throughout the washing up and were still discussing the phone call’s various interpretations as they made their way into the living room with coffee. It was there that Hutch caught his first sight of the puzzle-piece acropolis Starsky had constructed in his absence and laughed out loud.

“I like your approach, but I don’t think jigsaw puzzles work too well vertically. Or did we lose too many pieces to do anything else?”

“Guess we’ll find out as we get further along,” Starsky replied with a sheepish grin, wincing inwardly at both the jab and the memory of the puzzle’s earlier unscheduled flight across the room. Still, if you have to take out your frustrations on something, there are worse things than the annual Christmas present from Ma. Not yet ready to discuss the morning, he was about to change the subject when his mind finally caught up with what his eyes had been seeing. Hutch had positioned himself on the floor and begun the daunting task of counting pieces. He sighed. Unbelievable.

Satisfied that they still possessed all 1500 of the little cardboard cutouts, the two men settled into a contented evening that combined a little jigsaw puzzle work with a lot of supposition. It was Hutch who, glancing at his watch, finally cut the conversation short.

“It’s getting late. You about ready?”

“No.” Starsky crossed his arms in pretended defiance.

“Okay, let me put it another way. Get in there –” Hutch nodded toward the bedroom, ” –and get out of your clothes.”

Starsky feigned dismay. “What, no flowers? No wine? Ma warned me about guys like you.” He rose from the couch with an exaggerated sigh, adding plaintively, “I mean, that’s gotta be worth at least a box of candy.”

“I brought dinner, remember? You’re providing all of the whine and if you really need a flower, I think the oxalis is still in bloom. Feel free to pick one.” When Starsky still showed no immediate signs of moving, Hutch added a cheerful-but-firm, “Walk or be carried. Your choice.”

“And they say romance is dead,” Starsky mumbled, slowly making his way into the bedroom.

The banter had long ago become nightly variations on a common theme, but neither seemed to tire of it, except on the worst of days. It wasn’t until Hutch had nearly completed the deep therapeutic massage of Starsky’s back and was set to start on his chest and abdomen that Starsky spoke again.

“Hutch?”

“Hmm?”

“About this morning…”

Hutch leaned down so that he was mere inches from Starsky’s ear, his warm breath brushing lightly against cheek and curls. “Will you forget about this morning?” he asked gently. “I told you, it’s fine. Now turn over.”

Starsky smiled to himself, secure in the knowledge that with Hutch it really was. This was gnawing at him, though, and he wanted it said. “I know, but… Do you know why I do it?” Compliantly, he eased onto his back. “Why I take it out on you?”

“Payback?” Hutch suggested lightly.

“Nah. It’s ’cause you’re here and you’ll take it. Everybody else I’ve ever known would walk right out that door and never come back. Talk about unfair, huh?” It seemed spectacularly so to him.

“Well, if you’re keeping score, you’ve taken more than your share from me over the years. Besides, it’s a small price to pay if it helps.” Hutch was quiet for a moment, then added, “It’s been hard lately, I know. We’ve been so focused on getting your body healed, most of the psychological issues just got pushed to the side.”

It was true. With few exceptions — one particularly bad flashback in the hospital, an occasional panic attack, the sometimes overwhelming separation anxiety early-on whenever Hutch was out of his line of vision — it hadn’t been until recently that his psyche had decided to demand its due. Making up for lost time now, he thought ruefully.

Hutch worked over a particularly sensitive area just to the right of one of the entrance wound scars, stretching the damaged muscles beneath with practiced efficiency before continuing.

“We both knew they’d surface sooner or later and I guess it’s time to deal. We’ll manage.”

“‘Course we will,” Starsky almost whispered, averting his eyes momentarily as a wave of feeling swept over him. The line that marked their separateness had so long ago blurred that the use of “we” had become as natural as breathing. Somehow though, Starsky still found the term — and the reality it reflected — profoundly touching.

“Y’know, you actually seem more ‘up’ tonight than I’ve seen you in awhile,” Hutch declared, jabbing him teasingly. “Are you sure you didn’t do something else today that I don’t know about?”

“You mean like visit my secret lover?” Starsky chuckled, but found the question worth considering. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but his mood did seem to have unaccountably brightened.

“Something along those lines.”

“Nah, who else would play Monopoly with me at three o’clock in the morning?”

“We’re few and far between.”

Try one of a kind. Turning serious, “I dunno. Maybe it’s just having something else to think about besides me and what my body is or isn’t going to do.” He found himself hoping that the business with the Debaran case would somehow require their attentive and direct involvement.

 

JANUARY 31, 1980

Starsky stared darkly once again at the box lid: “Metamorphose II” by one M.C. Escher. Well, if his mother thought that he was capable of reassembling the pieces to that, she had a very inflated opinion of him, indeed. It looked about as perplexing intact as it did scattered in so many pieces on the coffee table.

“You’re supposed to work the borders first,” said a voice from behind him.

“What?”

“Borders.” Hutch made the shape of a rough rectangle with his hands. “You’re supposed to start with the corners, then work the border. Remember? That way you’re starting with what you know and the rest fits into place.”

“Just like that, huh?” He was starting to remember why he had never enjoyed this particular form of diversion. “What did you do, go out and get a rule book? You just worry about your half.”

“Well if you want to do it the hard way…”

Starsky peered across the coffee table. “I don’t know how to tell ya this, but your side don’t look all that much better than mine.”

“That’s because we don’t have the border done yet,” Hutch countered easily.

“Y’ know something –” Starsky’s usual rejoinder to such comments was cut short by the sound of a car door slamming, presumably heralding the arrival of their guest. He looked out the window expecting to see Ross and did a double take.

“Hutch? Hey, come ‘ere.” He motioned his partner over. “Looks like we got two for the price of one,” he said with a grin, “and at least one of ’em has good taste.”

Rob McMahon was reverently circling the Torino, stroking it gently as he walked — the very essence of a man in the throes of infatuation — while his partner did her best to break the spell. Notably unsuccessful at first, Ross did eventually manage to broker a temporary separation of man and machine and directed a reluctant McMahon up toward the apartment. At the sight of the two LA detectives, his enthusiasm immediately locked onto a new target and he bounded up the steps with alacrity, greeting both men like a puppy catching sight of its master after a long period of separation.

“Hello, Mac,” Hutch greeted, extending his hand. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but we weren’t expecting you.”

“Yeah,” Starsky added, following suit. “Your partner didn’t mention you were making the trip, too.”

McMahon opened his mouth to say something, but was preempted by Ross. “That’s because his partner didn’t know he would be.”

McMahon looked momentarily uneasy. “It was kind of a last minute thing,” he offered, casting a brief glance at a less-than-happy-looking Ross.

So you’re not supposed to be here, Starsky realized. The plot thickens. One look at Hutch told him that his partner had arrived at the same conclusion.

Changing the subject with dizzying speed, McMahon gestured toward the Torino. “Your car?”

Hutch pointed to Starsky, who proudly replied, “Yep, Mac. My car. She’s a beaut, ain’t she?”

“Oh, man!” McMahon almost drooled. “She’s perfect. Must handle like a dream, huh?”

“The Striped Tomato?” Hutch scoffed, paying no attention to the evil eye his partner was giving him. “It’s too loud, too fast, too red. An abomination on wheels.”

“Ignore him,” Starsky said with mock disdain. “He knows not of what he speaks.”

“V-8 460 with a four-barrel carburetor?” Ross asked quietly from behind her partner. “Automatic tranny, definitely. A classic in the making.” A quick smile was her only response to the two men facing her, jaws dropped.

“Oh brother,” Hutch moaned, mournfully dropping his head onto Starsky’s shoulder. “Not three against one. I refuse to believe this is happening.”

“Detective Ross, are you spoken for?” Starsky’s face had been transformed by a broad grin. “Because I think I’m in love.”

“Better stick with what you’ve got,” she teased, moving past him into the apartment. “I’m unusually high maintenance.”

As soon as the door had been closed and the expected salutations completed, McMahon drew back to get a better view of Starsky, his expression one of unabashed amazement.

“You are the same guy we met five months ago, right?”

“More or less,” Starsky replied with a laugh.

“More. Definitely more,” Hutch corrected.

“Turn around,” McMahon ordered, making a circular motion with his finger.

Unsure of the purpose behind the request and getting no help at all from his partner, who merely mimicked McMahon’s finger motion with a barely suppressed grin, Starsky warily did as asked.

“You look great,” the young detective concluded, awed. He turned to Ross. “Doesn’t he look great? I wouldn’ta recognized you from last time. Ya looked mostly dead back then.”

Starsky decided to accept the comment in the spirit in which it was intended. On a daily basis the changes hadn’t seemed that dramatic, but to people who had only seen him for a few hours shortly after his release from the hospital, he knew that he must appear to be a different person entirely. In truth, he felt much the same way about the two detectives from New York. Last seen through a drug-induced haze, he wasn’t sure he would have recognized them, either.

It wasn’t until all four were settled in the living room — each with coffee in hand — and a half an hour’s worth of small talk concluded, that Ross introduced the more serious topic that had brought the pair all the way from the other coast.

“I have to be up front with you, this is entirely unofficial. If you’re uncomfortable with that, I’ll understand. I’m just not sure where else to turn.” She looked from Hutch to Starsky and back again, as if trying to gauge their reactions thus far.

“You know that if we can, we’ll help,” Hutch said gently. “What’s going on?”

“That’s a good question,” she said with a tight smile. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer. I’m trying –”

“We,” McMahon interjected.

She looked startled, as if she had momentarily forgotten that her partner was there. “– we are trying to find someone. She’s been seen here in LA and I was hoping that you might have a contact I — we — could make use of. Lorna Jensen. I’m sure you remember her.”

It’s more than just McMahon not being expected, Starsky realized, Ross didn’t really want you here at all. No wonder there’s a bit of tension in the air. “Yeah,” he answered quickly. “I never actually met ‘er, but Hutch did. We pegged her as well-placed with Debaran; had a habit of appearing at the site of drug or arms deals a day or two in advance but never there when the transaction actually took place. Never did figure out exactly how she fit in and,” he looked over at Hutch and added innocently, “didn’t she give you the slip once?” It hadn’t really been his partner’s fault, he knew, but he couldn’t resist needling him about it whenever the opportunity presented itself.

“You’re never gonna let it go, are you?” Hutch sighed, sounding much more aggrieved than he really felt.

McMahon spoke up. “Don’t feel too bad. She slipped through our net, too.”

“She, Martin Banks, and a handful of others,” Ross clarified, “but Lorna’s the only one we have a lead on.”

“Okay,” Starsky began, “but why? I mean, isn’t the case closed? I thought it was all gift-wrapped and delivered to your DA a little over three weeks ago.”

“It was. However, there are some inconsistencies and,” Ross exchanged looks with her partner, “Owen Hill was just arrested for Debaran’s murder.”

Hutch straightened, obviously surprised. “Your confidential informant?”

She nodded. “He didn’t do it. Someone went through a lot of trouble to make it look like he did and I’d be very interested in knowing why.”

“How do you know that he didn’t?” Since the notion didn’t seem completely out of the realm of possibility, Starsky presumed they were basing their assumptions on something. “I mean, I don’t doubt you, but…”

“For one thing, he had no motive,” Ross replied quickly. “Oh, they said that he made a private deal and Debaran was backing out, but it doesn’t make sense. A man with no history of violence doesn’t usually make a start by blowing off someone’s face with a sawed-off. Besides, he wouldn’t jeopardize the total walk he was getting courtesy of the DA for helping us. He didn’t do it — I’m sure of it.”

Starsky looked at Hutch and saw the same question reflected in his eyes. There was no easy way to ask it and he didn’t really want to, anyway. Go for it, babe, he communicated non-verbally to his partner. It’s your turn. He knew that if he didn’t ask, sooner or later Hutch would.

“Hill, uh…,” Hutch shifted slightly in his chair, his voice reflecting the discomfort behind the words, “as part of your cover, you two were supposed to be in love, right?”

“It was just a cover!” McMahon protested, but Ross motioned him to be still.

She took a deep breath before responding and spoke very slowly when she did. “Pretending to be in love with Owen required acting abilities I didn’t know I had. He is not a particularly appealing specimen of humanity. He’s probably done a number of things that would warrant his incarceration for a long time, and I’m sure that same logic has crossed the minds of a few of my superiors. The fact remains, though, that he did risk his life during the investigation. He held up his end of the bargain and when it came down to it, he protected my cover. He deserves better than what he’s getting now.”

“And you think Lorna knows something about Debaran’s murder?” Starsky had the nagging feeling that they were only hearing a small portion of a much larger story.

“I don’t know. I think that Lorna knows something about something and I’m hoping she can at least fill in a few blanks.”

“But we have to find her first,” McMahon added, ever the one to cheerfully state the obvious.

Starsky glanced at Hutch. “Huggy?” It seemed like a reasonable place to start. His partner nodded. “I’ll go give ‘im a call.” Even such a simple task as calling to ask for a contact felt good now; it seemed to belong to another life, another time, and he was looking forward to reclaiming it.

“An informant of ours,” Hutch explained, as Starsky excused himself. “Even if he doesn’t know where she is, he’ll probably be able to find out who does. You said there were “inconsistencies — what exactly did you mean?”

The call to Huggy didn’t take long and Starsky returned to the group within minutes.

“He’ll give us a call when he hears anything and we’ll call you. So what did I miss?”

“Ross was just going over some of the inconsistencies in the case,” Hutch said smoothly.

Considering how uncomfortable Ross was beginning to look, Starsky gathered that she wasn’t doing so with unmitigated joy.

“I’m not sure precisely what I mean by ‘inconsistencies’. There are a lot of things that individually don’t sound like much, but taken as a whole… It’s more of a feeling, really.”

“Give us a try,” Starsky prompted, trying to turn up the charm a notch. The conversation was going to stretch into next week if Ross didn’t open up a little.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. About halfway through the undercover job, things changed. I know it sounds odd, but it felt like I had been in control up until then. Do you know what I mean?” The question must have been rhetorical, because she continued without pause. “Then it suddenly felt like someone else was pulling the strings. I can’t point to anything specific, nothing went wrong. Everything went almost too right — exactly the way we discussed it in the planning sessions. It just felt…different.” She sighed. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, gentlemen. I was played. I missed something and I think it’s too important to drop.”

“What did your Captain and the DA say when you brought this up?” Hutch asked.

She smiled wryly. “They patted me on the head, gave me a commendation, and told me to take a few weeks vacation courtesy of the Department. When I kept digging, they sent me to the police psychologist who made the vacation official. Apparently I’m stressed from being under so long.”

“Which doesn’t make it not true,” McMahon added loyally.

“You read it the same way?” Hutch cast his gaze directly on McMahon. It was a fair question.

McMahon took his turn at looking uncomfortable and glanced briefly over at Ross before replying. “I was only under one day every week or so as a driver, so I didn’t see the day-to-day like she did. I stand by my partner, though. If she says this is wrong, it is.”

Good boy. “Are you suggesting some kind of cover-up in the Department?” It wasn’t something they had never encountered before, but in Starsky’s experience it was, at least, unusual.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” she replied, turning the now empty coffee mug in never ending circles on her knee. “Actually, I’m more inclined to think they’re worried I’m going to somehow unravel their little triumph. The case played quite well in the local media; very politically useful.”

“You didn’t get anything of consequence from anyone you busted?” Hutch asked. “You’d think someone would want a deal in exchange for information.”

She shook her head. “That’s another thing that’s strange. It was almost a conspiracy of silence. Oh, they gave us little things, but nothing of any substance. We’ve been trying to decide if they’re scared or just don’t know anything.”

“Considering that Debaran’s taking the Big Dirt Nap, we’re thinking it’s probably door number two,” McMahon added.

“What about your cover, the family you were with — the Peele’s, right?” Although Starsky addressed his question to Ross, he was simultaneously trying to distract his partner from the coffee mug dance taking place on the woman’s lap. Hutch looked to be edging ever closer to confiscating the cup outright.

“You were under a long time,” he continued. “Anything there to go on?” Sometimes things said over the family dinner were of a lot more relevance than those said in a business meeting and she had, after all, been placed in as Mrs. Peele’s long-lost daughter. Instant intimacy.

The fleeting look of pain that crossed Ross’s face was so transitory that Starsky doubted he would have even noticed it if it hadn’t been for her partner’s reaction.

McMahon stiffened instantly and blurted out, “We brought some files with us. Maybe we should go get them and come back later, huh?” He was already up out of his chair before his partner stopped him.

“It’s all right, Mac. We’re asking them to help us. They have a right to know everything.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do…,” he started to protest, but her commanding stare seemed enough to cut his sentence off at the knees.

“What did I say?” Starsky looked from Ross to McMahon, thoroughly confused now.

“Matthew Peele would rather face execution than do anything he thought might help me, even inadvertently. You see, he blames me for his wife’s death. She committed suicide shortly after we wrapped up the investigation.” Ross paused for a moment, studying the faces of the two LA detectives. “It’s not so surprising, really,” she added. “The daughter she’d finally found after searching for the better part of thirty seven years turned out not only to not be her daughter, but the cop ultimately responsible for putting her husband away for a very long time. She didn’t have a lot left when I got done using her.”

Damn, Starsky thought, remembering the times in his own career when innocents had been hurt through his actions. The guilt had been all-consuming and none of them, so far as he knew, had actually killed themselves. No wonder they sent you on vacation.

“We’re sorry,” Hutch said softly, speaking for both of them.

“Me, too. However, it isn’t relevant to the business at hand. I regret what happened to Barbara, I wish she would have made another choice, but I did what was required to get the job done. One has nothing to do with the other.”

Wanna bet? Starsky thought. Both he and Hutch had been through enough similar situations to know better. When you can’t reverse the major damage, you try to make amends by fixing all of the little things you can find, but perhaps that was best left for another time.

Hutch spoke up. “You say that you brought some files with you? Why don’t you go back to your hotel and rest up for awhile, huh? My schedule’s flexible these days. I’m only working Tuesday through Thursday in the mornings, usually just four or five hours at that. We can meet later this evening and decide where to go from here.”

Starsky noted that Hutch didn’t bother to add that ‘work’ currently consisted of being bored out of his mind on glorified desk duty, doing the jobs no one else wanted. Nor did he deem it necessary to share with them the reasons why: that he had only returned to duty because he was threatened with termination if he didn’t; that his refusal to accept even a temporary partner only lent more weight to a growing reputation for being stubborn and intractable. Starsky judged himself to be one of the few who saw the situation for what it really was — quite simply, the price of love. A matched set in all things, their top priority now was to get Starsky back in fighting trim. Everything else in life — including work — placed distant second to that.

Ross frowned, obviously unconvinced. “No offense, but I’d rather you two stayed out of this as much as possible. I’d only intended to borrow a snitch or two, not embroil you in what has the potential to be a career-threatening unofficial investigation. This is my crusade and I’ve caused enough…” She stopped mid-sentence, seemed to decide to rephrase. “…there have been enough people hurt in this as it is.”

So that’s why you wanted to leave your partner at home. “Well it can’t hurt to look things over,” Starsky said reasonably. “After all, four heads are better than two and we won’t get in trouble just for talking.” The way Hutch was rolling his eyes, Starsky realized that he already knew his partner was ready to jump in with both feet. In truth, Starsky was ecstatic: the game was finally afoot.

 

 FEBRUARY 2, 1980

“Hutch’s House of Health,” Starsky quipped into the phone.

A familiar voice chuckled. “What’s the matter, m’man? The big blond cookin’ for you again?”

“Hey, Huggy. No, his cookin’ I can take. Right now he’s doing something disturbing with raw stuff. Ow!” he yelped, as Hutch volleyed a green projectile in his direction. “I’m being assaulted with a lettuce,” he complained to the caller.

“Now there are some things about your relationship I don’t ask and I don’t want to be told. That probably qualifies as one of ’em, dig?”

Starsky laughed. “What have you got for us?”

“Call up your brethren from the Big Apple and come on down. The Bear has found you a contact.”

Starsky and Hutch arrived at The Pits within minutes of Ross and McMahon and, as soon as the introductions were completed, the conference was underway.

“Well, I found someone who’ll talk to ya. Friend of a friend who, I might add, is expecting compensation for his troubles.” He held out his hand expectantly. Ross opened her purse, but Huggy stopped her. “Not you, beautiful. This was a favor for these two,” he nodded toward Starsky and Hutch, “let them pay the tab.”

“Who is it, Hug?” Hutch asked, placing a generous finder’s fee in the outstretched hand.

“The friend is someone reliable who don’t like the police and who wishes to remain anonymous. The contact is a lady goes by the name Mercury Walker. Workin’ girl. Claims she was befriended by a dude called Banks, a full-fledged member of the little club you’re so interested in. Seems he found a new friend and now she wants to spill.”

All eyes turned to Ross, who shook her head. “I don’t believe we’ve met, but it’s quite plausible. I didn’t meet many of Banks’ diversions.”

“May not be the most reliable snitch, if she’s ticked at being put over for a new model,” McMahon offered.

“Don’t necessarily mean she’ll lie, though. She may just be mad enough to tell the truth,” Starsky said.

“Hell hath no fury,” Hutch added with a grin. Traditionally, some of their best informants had been ‘women scorned’.

“Where and when is the meet?” Ross asked.

Huggy inhaled deeply and bit his lower lip, momentarily avoiding eye contact with anyone as his fingers nervously tapped the table. “She set one condition,” he said finally. “Non-negotiable.” He looked up at Hutch. “She’ll only meet with Starsky, and only if he comes alone.”

All eyes shifted immediately to Starsky, who straightened abruptly, his face reflecting complete surprise. He suspected that he was the only one who noticed the simultaneous stiffening of Hutch’s posture, but chose to ignore it, for the moment at least. When he found his voice again, he asked, “Why me? Did she say? Does she know me?”

“You know what I know,” Huggy replied with a shrug.

Ross asked quietly, “Where does she want to meet?”

“Emerson Park, 12:30 tomorrow afternoon.”

She made a face and exchanged glances with her partner. “Public place, daytime on a Sunday…could be on the level.” To Starsky, “Especially if she remembers you from your investigation.”

“Name doesn’t ring any bells, but maybe…,” he shrugged, still trying to remember.

“How do you feel about this?” she asked somberly. “You’re obviously not obligated. As I said, I didn’t intend for anyone else to become involved.”

“I don’t see why –” the rest of the sentence was aborted as Hutch tugged lightly on his arm. “Will you excuse us for a moment?” Hutch asked the others. He politely waited until Starsky had risen from the booth before pitching him forward, albeit with as much discretion as the movement would allow. He didn’t let go until they were in a comparatively quiet corner of The Pits.

“Hey! What’re you –” Starsky started to protest. He could handle the periodic mother-henning when they were at home — in truth, it served them both well — but it was decidedly against the rules in public.

“I don’t like it,” Hutch announced, shredding the napkin that was still in his hands.

No fooling. “What’s the problem?” Starsky asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

“It doesn’t make sense. Why you alone?”

“I’m sure that word on the street has it I’m an invalid. She probably figures I’m the least threatening choice.”

“It could also be a set-up. Did you ever think of that?”

“No. Why would she set me up, Hutch? In the middle of a park? At 12:30 in the afternoon?” Starsky tried to keep his voice even, but was very quickly losing what little patience he had left. “Are you hearing yourself?”

Hutch sighed, leaning heavily against the wall. “You don’t have to do this, you know. It’s not…,” he stopped mid-sentence, apparently sensing that the argument was lost before it had ever begun. Sinking down a little lower, he rubbed his face wearily. “Will you at least wear a vest?” he asked finally, sounding resigned.

“A ve–? Hutch, listen to me. This is ridiculous. What’s she gonna do? Even if by some weird chance she did try something, y’ know you’re just going to be 30 feet away, hiding under a bush.”

“Yeah,” he spat angrily, “well I was closer than that when you…” He let the sentence trail off, looking somewhat startled that the words had left his mouth at all, and made a detailed study of his shoes.

“When I got shot,” Starsky finished, moving nearer. “Look at me, Hutch.” Laying a hand on his shoulder, he urged his partner to lift his head, waited until he was reluctantly obeyed before continuing. Speaking very slowly, Starsky tried to combat fear with reason. “It’s not the same situation. You know that.”

Blue eyes met blue eyes for a long moment; it was Hutch who finally broke the contact. Staring down again, he mumbled an almost inaudible “Yeah”. Reason, it seemed, was again the victor.

Starsky impulsively gave Hutch’s shoulders a squeeze, then patted a cheek lightly with his palm. “Yeah,” he mimicked with a grin. He knew how much the concession had cost. “You’re frettin’ like a little old lady, Hutch. Willya stop it? Let’s go back and sit down. We’ve got some planning to do.”

 

FEBRUARY 3, 1980

Starsky knew it was Mercury before she ever approached. Clad in a tight leather mini-skirt, expensively casual halter, sunglasses, and sporting shoulder length fire-engine-red hair, she too much resembled her name to be anyone else. His cop’s training kicked in as he looked her over: five foot two, small build, older than I’d of thought. Then he remembered one of Ross’s off-hand comments that Banks didn’t like to play with children. Fits Banks profile to a T. Expensive tastes, a lady of class, despite her career choice. Handbag too small to conceal a gun. You notice that, too, Hutch? Her commanding presence was palpable even in the way she sat down on the bench beside him. If Banks double-crossed you, he’s a lousy judge of character.

“Hello again,” she said amiably.

“Again?” he asked, surprised. “I know I would’ve remembered if we’d met before.”

She smiled, licking her lips seductively as she studied him. “Oh, you’d of remembered all right,” she purred. “I saw you once at a party. You didn’t see me. Marty’s funny that way: he doesn’t like to share. Didn’t find out who you were until after your little undercover job went all wonky and now I hear you’re asking questions almost two years after the fact. How come?”

“Loose ends,” Starsky replied casually, keeping his answers as non-committal as possible. “Why are you so anxious to talk?”

She sat back, an amused smile on her face. “Heard you might be after Marty Banks. He’s a snake. Anything I can give you that will make his miserable existence a little more so, I’m happy to oblige. You are looking for Marty, right?”

“Among others. He here in LA?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Yes! Starsky felt his pulse begin to quicken. Provided that Mercury had at least some of the information they were after and he could convince her that giving it over would inflict unbearable pain on her one-time boyfriend, this could actually work.

“You know Lorna Jensen?”

“Lorna?” She looked startled, as if it were the last question she’d expected. “I’ve seen her a few times, but…well, she didn’t seem important. Marty never paid any attention to her at all. What do you want with her?”

“Do you know where she is now?”

She shrugged. “I have people I can ask, I guess. If you think it’s important.” Her dismissive tone strongly suggested that she didn’t share the view.

“It can’t hurt,” he replied, trying to match her demeanor. “How many of the old gang are back in LA, anyway?”

She reverted back to seductive mode, running a toe up and down his shin a few times. “I don’t know. As I said, Marty’s here. I’ve seen Ray — that’s Ray Abolese — and Mickey Pringle. I’ve heard that Lee Raulson’s here, too, but I haven’t seen him personally. There are probably others. Since Marty and Tia have found true love, I’m not as connected as I once was.” She made a face.

Scratch Tia and Marty off the Christmas card list, Starsky thought. “What are they doing here?”

“I was under the impression that they were all recently unemployed. You do know that Debaran snuffed it, right?” she asked with exaggerated innocence, pushing her sunglasses down her nose a bit. “I imagine they’re here looking for work.”

“All in the same place? Sounds like maybe they already found it.” Don’t play games with me, sweetheart.

“Maybe,” she allowed. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Okay. Maybe I can ask them myself. Know where they hang out?”

“What’s it worth to you?” she asked sweetly.

“Hey, I thought you were in this to get back at Banks,” Starsky replied, feigning surprise.

“I am.” Leaning closer, she whispered, “But I never give it away for free.”

He reluctantly provided her with twenty five dollars from his wallet and grinned at her obvious disgust. “Sorry, my paycheck isn’t what it useta be. You probably make more than I do at the moment”

“Oh, somehow I expect I always did,” she said with a satisfied smile. “Ray and Mickey frequent ‘Nell’s Club’ on 8th. Know it?”

He nodded.

“If you get lucky, you’ll find Marty there, too, but don’t count on it. He and ‘Thumper’ don’t leave wherever they’re holed up for long enough to be seen in public. It’ll end within a week or two,” she added with a sigh. “He runs out of energy disappointingly fast. I’ll ask about the others, if you like. Some people still owe me a few favors.” Almost as an afterthought as she stood and prepared to leave, she added, “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

“Wait a second!” Starsky protested. “How can I get a hold of you if I need to?”

“Just tell your friend at the bar. He’ll make contact with my friend, who’ll make contact with me.”

“Hope I’m not in a hurry,” he said sarcastically.

She smiled beatifically. “Well if it’s anything that big, I’ll know about it long before you do anyway.” She started to walk away, stopped suddenly and backtracked. “Oh, and one more thing,” she added conspiratorially, removing her sunglasses as she turned around. “Tell your partner that he’s fine where he is. He comes any closer next time and I’m outta here. This is just between you and me. Got it?” She wrinkled her nose at him and winked before replacing the shades and slinking off down the park path.

Starsky just sat for awhile, mouth agape, watching her walk away. At this point, he wasn’t sure what to think.

*****

“I remember Raulson,” Starsky announced, leafing through one of the files brought by Ross and McMahon from New York. The four detectives had met back at the apartment to compare notes and discuss what had transpired earlier in the day with Mercury. “He kept some of the ledgers, supposed to be a financial whiz or something. Ray Abolese is professional muscle, but I never encountered Mickey Pringle.”

“Are you sure that she made me?” Hutch asked for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I couldn’t have been all that obvious.”

“Look,” Starsky said gently. “I’m just tellin’ you what she told me. I don’t know whether she saw you or just figured you had to be there. You blended in fine, but she’s a sharp lady who probably doesn’t let much get past her. Now can we please move on? Everyone else is on another page already.”

Ignoring Hutch entirely for the moment, Ross said, “Pringle’s into finances, too, and if he’s here you can bet James Lord is lurking about somewhere close. The two seem to work as a team, at least I never saw one without the other.”

McMahon looked puzzled. “But why? Getting the financial core gathered together suggests a re-grouping of some kind, but the organization’s dead. Who’s left to rebuild?”

“Well, we never were able to find even a quarter of Debaran’s assets,” Ross reminded him, moving out to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee. “Maybe one of the lieutenants has decided to become an entrepreneur, see if he can make a go of it here. If someone had access to even a small portion of that money, they could make a decent start at picking up where Debaran left off.” It was an intriguing hypothesis.

Hutch straightened in his chair, stretching his back and wincing at the effort. “Who has that kind of connection? Surely Debaran didn’t share his financial information with too many of his people. Unless he became a whole lot friendlier when he moved to New York, I don’t see him actually trusting anyone.”

“That was what made him so difficult to get to,” Ross agreed. “He was remarkably well-insulated, kept almost entirely to himself. Krueger was closer to him than anyone, but he’s all tucked away in prison awaiting trial.”

“Could he be playing king-maker from the inside?” To Starsky, it seemed a plausible enough scenario.

“It’s worth a look,” Ross replied with a frown. To Mac she asked, “You still have that friend at Riker’s? It would help to know who he’s been talking to, both inside and out. Can you get us a visitor’s list?”

“Yeah, no problem.” He looked at his watch, seemed to try to calculate the time difference between LA and New York. “Guess I’ll have to ring Jerry in the morning, he’ll be off-shift by now. What about the people Mercury mentioned here? Abolese and Banks at least have warrants out. Y’ wanna bring ’em in or what?” His face took on an embarrassed expression as he quickly added, “Not that we have jurisdiction anyway, I just wondered.”

Starsky and Hutch shared a long look before Hutch shrugged, asking simply, “Y’ think?”

“Yeah, better.”

“Up to it?”

“Oh come on, I coulda done that right outta the hospital,” Starsky replied, sounding offended.

“You two want to share your plans with those of us not equipped with decoder rings?” Ross asked with a smile.

Both men looked at her in surprise, neither immediately understanding the question. It was Hutch who caught on first, and flashed an apologetic smile. “Sorry. We’re thinking that it might be better to try old-fashioned surveillance first and see who all we’re dealing with before tipping our hand and bringing anyone in.”

“We could cover the club in shifts for a few evenings, keep track of everyone’s comings and goings,” Starsky suggested. “Then we could decide where to go from there.”

Ross and McMahon shared a brief glance before McMahon replied, “Works for us. Who wants to go first?”

“Maybe we should switch partners for this.” Hutch made the suggestion with little enthusiasm. “Starsky and I could easily recognize people from the LA investigation you’d have had no contact with and vice versa. What do you think?” He looked from person to person, almost as though he wished someone would contradict him. No one did.

“Makes sense,” Starsky said, his voice much brighter than his partner’s. As much as he enjoyed Hutch’s company, it had been just the two of them for so long now that the thought of having a conversation with someone else held an undeniable allure. “You don’t have to go back to work until the day after tomorrow,” he continued, addressing Hutch. “Why don’t you take tonight and I’ll do tomorrow?”

“How about it? McMahon asked his partner.

“If you’ve no objection, Mac, you do it this evening. I’ve been formulating a list of questions to spring on Mercury and it would give us a chance to go over them.”

All in agreement, Ross and McMahon headed back to their hotel to await the evening’s agenda, leaving Starsky and a still-perturbed-looking Hutch in their wake.

“What?” Starsky asked finally, unable to stand it any longer.

“I still don’t see how she caught onto me,” Hutch grumbled. “What set me apart from anyone else?”

With great difficulty, Starsky swallowed the smile that was threatening the corners of his mouth. “Will you forget about that? You were brilliant. Don’t know what else to tell ya, it was just one of those things.” Hope Mac enjoys post-game analysis, he thought wryly, because I can guess the topic of choice for tonight’s stake-out. Head on hand, he met his partner’s severe glare with one of amused affection.

*****

“How long have you been partnered now?” Hutch asked, making a stab at polite conversation. It wasn’t easy.

“A year and a half,” McMahon replied brightly. “She’s my first partner since making Detective. Couldn’t believe how lucky I was when I found out I’d been assigned to her, it was perfect timing. Her old partner retired, see? And there I was…”

The stream of words continued and, not for the first time, Hutch wondered how McMahon managed to talk incessantly without appearing to draw breath. Stakeout duty with him was akin to being one of the rocks on the beach pummeled by the never-ending tide, except that the tide didn’t expect a response: McMahon did. At least periodically. In fairness, he supposed, he would have found fault with anyone who happened to occupy that seat. As boring as surveillance could sometimes be even with Starsky — as annoying as Starsky could sometimes be on stakeout — not having him there just felt wrong, as though half of him were missing. And maybe, he reflected, in a way it was. He was rudely brought back to the here and now by the pair of binoculars being thrust into his chest.

“Hey, check it out,” McMahon instructed. “That’s Ray Abolese right there. You know the two guys with him?”

Hutch dutifully looked. “Johnny Mather is the one on the left, I don’t know the other one.” He frowned, grabbed the camera and tried to get a good shot of the mystery man. “Interesting. Mather, as far as we know, is a small-time dealer of high-grade smack. If he’s hanging out with Abolese…”

“…then somebody’s making a buy,” McMahon finished with a grin.

“But which way? You see Abolese as buyer or seller?”

“My guess is seller,” McMahon replied without hesitation. “Well,” he corrected, “someone representing the seller. Whoever’s pulling the strings these days must be looking to liquidate some inventory. Debaran had a habit of stockpiling assorted commodities in key places in several states and between the drugs and weapons, we figured we only found about a third of what he really had.” He turned to Hutch. “You?”

“Makes sense,” Hutch agreed. “Next question is: are they re-establishing the organization under new management or just turning goods into cash?” There was no ready answer to that yet, of course, anymore than to the even bigger question of who might be behind it all.

Ross, Starsky realized fairly early on in the evening, was not one of the world’s most sparkling conversationalists, at least not tonight. They had spent about an hour covering the list of questions she had compiled for Mercury, mostly attempts to establish the red-head’s true motivation in all of this. It was, he readily agreed, unlikely that even a highly-paid prostitute like Mercury would be angry enough at being jilted by a john to turn snitch. Ross promised to run a more thorough background check on their prospective informant in the morning, but the task of determining the real reason behind Mercury’s eagerness to talk would still fall largely to him. Since then, they had settled for going over files and photographs in relative silence, his attempts at amicable conversation going largely unanswered. Ever the optimist, he decided to give it one more try.

“So, how long have you and McMahon been partners now?”

“A year and a half,” she responded without looking up. “Since he was twelve.”

He took the humor as a good sign and, even though she didn’t ask, offered, “Hutch and I have been partners for the better part of a decade.” ‘Better’ in every sense of the word, he reflected warmly. “We’ve known each other since our days at the Academy, though.”

“It shows,” she said with a smile, immediately returning her attention to the file in her hands.

“You must’ve had a few partner’s, huh?” Come on, lady, talk to me. Just a little.

Perhaps she recognized his need to hear another human voice, because she put the file down and seemed to make an effort. “Mac is my fifth since making Detective. I worked with Kieran Rafferty for four years, until he retired in ’78. That was the longest I’ve ever been assigned to anyone.”

“Were you close?” he asked, curious.

She mulled the question over for much longer than he would have thought necessary. “Close is a relative term, I guess. We got on well, two stones rubbing against each other and producing very few sparks.” Her face seemed to soften as she spoke of him. “I learned a lot from him and I like to think he gained something from being with me. We keep in touch, but…well, if you mean close like you two, no. I don’t think that I’ve ever been with anyone.” It was spoken with no obvious regret or envy, just as a statement of fact. Having said it, she returned, once again, to her papers.

Starsky went back to staring at his watch, idly wondering if it had stopped or time itself had slowed, and fervently hoped that the stakeout wouldn’t last much longer. On a whim, he grabbed a piece of paper from the desk and began jotting down a list of the principal players in the case. He looked it over carefully when he was through, didn’t see any glaring omissions, and added either an “N” or an “C” beside each name to indicate the state in which they were active — adding both letters where appropriate. Browsing the work further, he still wasn’t satisfied and sat there frowning at it for a few minutes. Connect the dots. That was what was missing, lines linking names to show who was connected to whom. Abstract scribbles combined with nearly illegible Starsky shorthand in the end to create a document that looked like a page torn from a mad scientist’s notebook. Hutch will have a seizure, he thought with a grin, visualizing the neat lines, spacing, and — well, orderliness — that would have marked the Hutchinson equivalent.

Upon their return shortly before midnight, Hutch and McMahon offered their partners an encapsulated version of the evening’s events. Hutch agreed to take responsibility for having the surveillance photos developed poste haste, while Ross would see to the background checks on those people McMahon had recognized from New York. The two teams then went their separate ways with the intention of hooking up later to share any new information and prepare to start the cycle over again.

“So how’d it go?” Starsky pressed, when they were alone.

Hutch clapped his hands over his ears. “Ssshh. My ears are still ringing. I’ll tell you after the aspirin has kicked in. How was it here?”

“Quiet.” Starsky sighed. “Wanna trade?”

 

 FEBRUARY 5, 1980

“But why?” Starsky persisted, staring into the beguilingly innocent cow-eyes of Mercury. This ‘vestal virgin’ routine is wearing thin. “You’re not some star-crossed lover betrayed by her prince and you’re obviously not in it for the money.”

She blew a bubble and popped it loudly, saying nothing.

“And you don’t strike me as one of LA’s more civic-minded inhabitants, so why?”

“What do you care?”

He counted to five, then made to get up. “It’s a simple enough question,” he said, rising. “If you won’t answer it, then I’ll have to get my information elsewhere.” It was a gamble, but under the circumstances also the only card he had to play.

“All right, all right. Keep your trousers on, huh?” She grinned mischievously. “I’ve always wanted to say that, but never had much opportunity in my line of work. Here’s how it is: Marty was a good client, we had a great thing going for a couple of years. The sex wasn’t important…” She grinned lasciviously. “Well, it wasn’t important to me, anyway, but he used to give me other work. Sub-contracted some of his jobs for Debaran and paid me — really well, too. I was good and he made certain promises, you know? That the work would continue. Then Tia came along, and…” She let the sentence fall and pouted.

“…you found yourself out of more than one job,” Starsky finished. Okay, that makes a certain kind of sense. Maybe…

“Exactly! After everything I did: mule, runner, courier, escort, spy,” she counted them off on her fingers, “he decides he’s had enough. Cut the brake lines in my car, tried to kill me.” Seeing Starsky’s mouth start to open, she overrode him before he had the chance to speak. “Can’t prove it and under the circumstances I couldn’t exactly go the police anyway, but I know he did it. He’s a snake, remember? So I got away, went into hiding and figure, hey, turnabout’s fair play, right? A friend mentions you’re looking for info and I figured we could scratch each other’s backs. So to speak.” She smiled triumphantly, crossing her arms. “Good enough for you?”

“Good enough.” For now. “So what have you got for me?”

“I hear there’s a deal going down, Marty’s got his hands on a load of smack and wants to unload. I gather he’s been having prospective buyers interviewed, getting a lot of local interest.”

“Know where he got it?”

“Uh uh.”

Starsky was rapidly losing patience. “Care to make a guess?”

“If you’re asking if he’s going into business for himself, who knows? It’s possible. He was getting tired of being at the bottom of Debaran’s food chain. If he saw the chance, he might try and take it.”

That Starsky found very hard to believe. He had gotten to know Martin Banks better than he’d of liked and the man struck him as someone destined to remain a minion for life. Granted, it had been a few years, but still. “Could he be taking orders from someone else?”

“Sure.”

“Who?”

She laughed. “Oh, no. That’s your job. I don’t know and I’m not going digging there. Revenge is only sweet if you’re alive to enjoy it.”

“Fair enough.” He decided to drop it for the time being. “Who else is here? Were you able to get a line on Lorna Jensen?”

“It’s only been two days since our first meet,” she protested. “Give me a chance. I asked around about Lorna, talked to a few people who’ve seen her, but not for more than a week now. One of them thought that she was trying to make the connections to get out of town, maybe even out of the country. Don’t know for certain, but she’s probably long-gone.”

“It’s not that what you’re saying isn’t useful, but we need more,” Starsky pressed. “We need to know who’s behind this, who’s actually pulling the strings. We can’t even begin to touch Marty with this. If you really want to hurt him, you’ll have to do better.” It seemed the most likely argument to elicit a positive response.

She mulled it over for a few minutes. “I’ll bet you don’t have a lot of friends, do you?” she asked with a sigh, blowing another bubble. “Oh, all right. I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though, understood? And give me a few days, I have some business of my own to attend to.” To the inquiring look, she grinned, quipping, “I have to see a man about a horse.”

Mercury got up from the bench like a cat stretching after a long nap, looked over to where Hutch was pretending to pick up litter and waved. “Aw,” she said lightly as the blond straightened in the distance, “he looks all ruffled now.”

“Will you stop teasing my partner and go?” Taking a quick glance at Hutch, Starsky barely suppressed a smile himself.

Apparently satisfied with the reaction, she gathered herself together and skipped merrily away.

*****

“That’s all she gave you?” Ross asked again.

“I’m not holding out on you. That’s all she said.” Starsky restrained from further comment only with great effort. He understood the reason for the impatience, had even been there himself a few times, but didn’t enjoy being interrogated. “I’m not defending her, but she had a point: we haven’t really given her enough time to get anything else.”

“We don’t have any more time.” Ross laid the file down with a little more force than was actually necessary and began to pace, eventually lighting on a spot by the window.

“What’re you thinking?” McMahon asked, moving a bit nearer to his partner without closing the distance entirely.

“I’m thinking I’m frustrated,” she replied with a sigh. “I’m thinking that we only have three more days before we have to be on a plane back to New York, that we don’t have enough, and I don’t know how to get it.”

“The way I see it, we have two options,” Hutch said quietly from the couch. “Either we keep on with what we’re doing — watching, listening, digging, wait and see what happens — or, we begin rounding up people and see what shakes loose. Your call,” he added with deference, as she turned to face him.

And they never even had to send you to sensitivity class, Starsky thought of his partner appreciatively. Even though Ross had no jurisdiction in LA and technically no say in what course of action to follow, it would seem to him — to both of them — that fairness dictated it was still her case. Out of respect, Hutch wanted the decision of how to proceed be hers.

She turned to face the window again and gave the problem several minutes serious consideration before responding. “I came here to get answers,” she said finally. “Rounding up the peripheral players isn’t going to give me that. It might even blow the whole thing; effectively ensuring that it — whatever ‘it’ is — is never brought to light.”

“Option one?” Starsky asked.

“Option one,” she replied, turning to face the three men in the room. Ross let her posture relax as she sank into a chair. “I recognize and appreciate the professional courtesy…,” she nodded to Hutch, “…and everything else you’re doing. Really. I don’t mean to be short-tempered.”

“Hey, worse case scenario, even if nothing happens in the next few days, we’ll still keep at it,” Starsky promised. “Sooner or later something’s bound to break. Law of big numbers, right?”

Ross made a weak attempt at a smile, but didn’t look at all encouraged.

 

 FEBRUARY 8, 1980

The telephone jolted Hutch on the first ring and he grabbed it immediately, by habit catching it before it could disturb his partner.

“‘Lo?” he mumbled, reaching blindly for the clock on the bedside table. 4:57 AM. What the hell?

An impossibly alert-sounding McMahon was on the other end of the line. “Get up. We’re on our way over.”

“What? Jus’a min –” He swallowed, hoping to get his tongue and mind to work in tandem. “Do you know what time it is?”

“I know and I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s important. As of about fifteen minutes ago this investigation just became official. We’ll see you in a few.” A telltale click followed.

Now fully awake in mind, if not in body, Hutch stumbled out into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee before attempting the greater challenge of getting Starsky up — a feat that promised to be only slightly less daunting than the resurrection of Lazarus.

As promised, Ross and McMahon arrived within fifteen minutes, moving with an energy and purpose neither one of the apartment’s inhabitants had seen either of them display in any previous meeting.

“What happened?” Hutch asked, as soon as the pair were a few feet inside the apartment.

McMahon opened his mouth to say something, but his partner beat him to it. “A lot, but do you mind if we tell you about it over coffee?”

They both looked wired enough to him without the caffeine, but Hutch offered two steaming mugs anyway and settled everyone down in the living room before introducing the topic again. It didn’t require much prompting.

“We received a telephone call from our Captain about an hour ago,” Ross began. “It seems that Helmut Krueger transferred one and a half million dollars from his bank account back home to a numbered account here yesterday. Money that was then withdrawn within the hour. Only he didn’t have access to the telephone and he literally had a heart attack when the Assistant DA confronted him with the news today. He’s in the infirmary as we speak.”

“Weren’t all of the accounts automatically frozen?” Starsky asked with a yawn. It was too early to process this kind of information.

“Yep,” McMahon replied. “There was either a glitch or somebody had some inside help.”

“If it wasn’t Krueger,” Hutch asked slowly, “then who –?”

Ross had a ready reply. “According to him — and this is backed up by all of the information we have — a lengthy page of personal data as well as a code known only to Krueger and Debaran were required to access that particular account.”

“But Debaran’s –” Hutch stopped the sentence at that point, seeing the grim smile on Ross’s face and the enthusiasm reflected in her partner’s eyes; understanding slowly beginning to take hold.

“Yes, at least everyone thought he was permanently out of the picture,” she said softly.

“Now just wait one lovely minute,” Starsky protested a few seconds later, after the statement’s implication had a chance to sink in. “What do you mean ‘everyone thought he was out of the picture’? Don’t you guys check your bodies? Y’know, poke ’em a few times — make sure they’re really dead?”

McMahon smiled. “You saw the crime scene photos. They were scraping bits of someone off the walls for days. At this point we’re just not sure who.”

“How was the body identified?” Hutch’s voice had grown very quiet..

“Fingerprints,” Ross answered. “Obviously, a visual ID was out of the question. So was dental — both jaws were shattered by the blast.”

Starsky and Hutch exchanged looks, came to a silent understanding, and Starsky spoke again. “So what’re you saying? It’s not Debaran after all? But that would mean –”

“…that Debaran is alive, someone else isn’t, and a person or persons unknown in either the Coroner’s Office, with the DA, or high enough in the NYPD is involved in a conspiracy,” McMahon finished, his voice an even mixture of excitement and revulsion.

“That is just one possibility at this point,” Ross threw in, before the conversation could venture too far into the theoretical, “but it changes things enough to warrant our being here in an official capacity.”

“What about the money?” Hutch asked. “Any line on who it was who withdrew it?”

“According to the bank,” she said with a smile, “a man named Helmut Krueger came in to collect it. I’d say Helmut’s had a very busy few days.”

Hutch caught Starsky’s eye. “Well, we could gather some mug shots together and go see the teller. She might recognize someone from –”

“Security camera,” Starsky interrupted, appearing fully awake for the first time that morning.

Hutch laid one hand excitedly on his partner’s arm while the other shot to his own forehead. “Of course! The bank has to have a security camera, right?” Both men looked up expectantly at Ross, but it was McMahon who answered.

“We thought of that, too. Interest you guys in a little trip downtown?”

“First things first,” Ross interjected. Addressing Hutch directly, “I realize that you’re off today, but we wondered if you would like to accompany us to your Captain’s office to fill him in. He’ll be receiving a phone call from our superior, too, but he’ll no doubt have questions.”

“Of course,” Hutch replied immediately. “That goes for you, too, Starsk. You’re as much, if not more, involved in this as anyone.” The comment elicited exactly the response he would have hoped for: Starsky looked like a child on Christmas morning.

The group opted to go out to breakfast before confronting Dobey, taking the Torino at McMahon’s request, just so he could enjoy the experience of riding shotgun in the car of his dreams.

Dobey was obviously less than impressed with the narrative the four detectives offered him. Although he listened patiently enough, his demeanor still strongly suggested a father dealing with a group of recalcitrant children.

“You should of come to me with this before,” he scolded them en masse. “Ross, your Captain is very displeased with the way you handled this and I can’t say as I blame him. You should have gone through channels, made it an official investigation. Not involved a junior partner, let alone two of my men.”

Hutch opened his mouth to object, but Dobey stopped him. “And you, Hutchinson,” he bellowed, pointing his finger at the blond, “you damn well know better than this. I don’t believe you, and dragging Starsky into this mess, too.”

“Now wait just a minute here, Cap’n,” Starsky interrupted. “Nobody dragged me into anything. In fact, a lot of what we’ve done was my idea.”

“I’m not surprised,” Dobey grumbled. “You always did write your own rules.”

Starsky started to say something, seemed to think the better of it, and settled instead for looking offended.

Ross jumped in next. “With respect, Captain, I wanted an official investigation and was denied. I know I overstepped. I take responsibility for everything that’s happened here and I’ll no doubt be reprimanded for my actions, but that doesn’t change the fact that I was right. There is something going on here that deserves to be looked at, deserves to be pursued.”

“Hrmph. Well, you’ve got your official investigation now, Detective.” He sighed, pointing at the two interlopers from the East Coast. “You two are here as a professional courtesy, with jurisdiction only as it relates to crimes committed in the State of New York. Understood?” Ross nodded. “I’ve been asked to assign this case to one of my detectives,” he continued, “someone who will function as the lead investigator on the case.” He turned expectantly to Hutch. “Can I assume that you want the assignment? Seeing as how you’re already doing it,” he added dryly.

“Yes, Captain. We want the assignment.”

Starsky didn’t look up, but Hutch didn’t need to see his partner’s face to know what expression would be reflected there. Side by side, they presented the familiar united front that had been missing from their Captain’s office for so long a time now.

Even Dobey had to smile, albeit briefly. “Well, what’re you waiting for then?” He made a shooing motion with his hand. “Hutchinson, until further notice, your desk is cleared of everything but this. That means I need all of the paperwork relating to your current caseload turned in by morning. Now get out of here, but keep me informed. I want to know where you are every step of the way in this thing and I want the reports on my desk on time for once.”

“Yes, sir,” Hutch replied softly, as they all exited the room.

Starsky’s form popped halfway back through the door. “I’ll keep ’em all on the straight and narrow, Captain,” he said with a click of the tongue. “You can count on me.”

His visit was cut short as a hand, presumably belonging to a tall blond detective, reached into the office and unceremoniously yanked him out.

When he was finally alone, Dobey indulged in the laughter that had been threatening to come to the surface during the course of the meeting. It was undeniably good to have his favorite team back together again, even if only one of them was officially on the books.

*****

After Starsky called Huggy to set a meet with Mercury for later that afternoon, the four made their way to the bank, an undeniably posh building in the middle of the most upscale section of the downtown financial district. Definitely not part of their usual beat.

The severe-looking bank officer to whom they were sent regarded the detectives with rank suspicion, casting her eyes over each in turn and apparently finding something essential lacking in all but Ross. It was to the impeccably dressed female detective that she chose to address her comments.

“Well, the man who made the transaction wasn’t really our kind of people. You must understand, though, that when one is dealing with persons of great wealth one learns to expect a certain amount of eccentricity.”

“Naturally,” Ross replied with a straight face.

Remind me never to play poker with you, Hutch thought dryly.

“He presented a New York driver’s license, a passport, possessed all of the required security codes. I really don’t see how one can place the blame on us.” The woman twisted all three of the rings on her left hand in rapid succession, the pitch of her voice rising with each word. “We followed procedure to the letter. One doesn’t suspect duplicity without cause…”

“No, of course not,” Ross soothed. “Ms. Crawford, isn’t it?” The woman nodded mutely and she continued. “No one is blaming either you or the bank. It would help us a great deal, though, if we might just borrow your security tapes from yesterday.”

“Certainly. We have every intention of cooperating — ” Her eyes almost doubled in size as she fixed her gaze on Starsky, who had picked up a small piece of unusual pottery from her desk and was casually turning it over in his hands. “Please don’t handle that! It’s Ming.” She snatched it out of his hands as one might do with a troublesome three-year-old and reverently returned the item to its place of honor, turning her focus once again to Ross.

Managing his best ‘I-can’t-take-you-anywhere-can-I?’ expression, Hutch lightly slapped Starsky’s fingers in mock reprimand. Three heads turned away in unison as each of the male detectives struggled to regain a certain degree of decorum.

“You are, of course, all welcome to view the tape here,” Crawford continued. “We have a room upstairs equipped for that very purpose. It’s at your disposal, should you wish to make use of it.”

“We’ll have to seize the tape anyway,” Hutch threw in, tired of being invisible, “but it would save us some time if we could go over it here first.”

They were promptly ushered into a stately executive meeting room, complete with heavy red velvet drapes and a dry bar, and shown how to work the projector. Crawford left their company only with great reluctance and after a final admonishment to the four not to touch anything.

It was easy enough to pick out the man who had identified himself as Helmut Krueger to the bank staff: in this environment he stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. Hutch felt his spirits sink — he had the awful feeling that he knew exactly where this was headed.

“He looks like he just walked out of a shelter,” McMahon exclaimed.

“Maybe he did. I take it, then, that neither of you recognize him?” Starsky glanced at both McMahon and Ross before exchanging a grim look with his partner.

“It would be a shrewd play,” Hutch agreed, easily following Starsky’s line of thought. “Pick a street bum out at random, dry him out, and give him some forged documents. With enough coaching and the promise of an enticing enough payoff at the end, he’ll act out whatever role you give him.”

“And when he disappears,” Ross continued, “there’s nobody to miss him. Clever.”

“Well,” Starsky pulled his feet off the table as McMahon shut of the projector, “if there was any doubt before, there’s none now. We’re dealing with a pro.”

They dropped the tape off at Metro and Hutch ordered photos of the as-yet unidentified person of interest to be circulated among all of the black and white units. It was akin to looking for a needle in a haystack and even if they should by some miracle make an ID, all four knew that the chances of it leading anywhere were slim to none.

*****

“This had better be worth my effort,” Mercury sighed. “You’re playing havoc with my social life.”

“Tell me everything you’ve heard about who’s pulling this team together. No more lies of omission, no more games. Straight story. Understood?” Starsky hoped the unusually harsh tone would catch her off guard, maybe even jar loose some information she had no intention of disclosing. And maybe pigs will sprout wings and fly, he thought wryly. Remember who you’re talking to.

True to character, Mercury did not rise to the bait. “Who peed in your cornflakes this morning? I’ve already told you, I don’t know who’s been crowned Master of Important Things in all this and I couldn’t care less. Why don’t you go find Marty and ask him?”

“Because I’m asking you. You wouldn’t be holding out on me now, would you, Mercury?” That at least seemed to raise her tension level up a notch.

“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.

“You been hearing any rumors about Debaran? That maybe he’s not quite as dead as everyone initially thought?”

“What?”

For the first time since they met, Starsky had the feeling something he said had actually taken Mercury completely by surprise. Got your attention now, haven’t I?

“That’s what we hear,” he said calmly. “So how about it?”

“How — I mean what…?” She paused, taking a deep breath and pulling herself together somewhat before continuing. “What makes you think that Debaran might be alive?”

“We have our reasons. I asked nice. Now answer the question.” Not so much fun being on the receiving end of ‘need to know’, is it?

“I…I suppose it’s possible.” She was silent for at least a full minute and Starsky made no effort to interrupt her thoughts. “If it’s true, I guess it would explain a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s almost easier to believe that Debaran rose from the dead than that Marty suddenly grew a brain. If he is lurking around somewhere, he’d be smart enough to direct everything without actually coming to the surface. I’ll see what I can do, but I doubt that anyone in the know will talk to me.” She bit her lip and studied her fingers before making eye contact again. “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you plan on going about finding if he’s really dead? I mean, can’t you test the body or something? Make sure?”

“We’re may go ahead and request an exhumation,” Starsky answered quietly. It seemed a harmless enough bit of information to offer.

“Just out of curiosity,” she pressed, squirming slightly, “how long does that take?”

All of the red flags in Starsky’s brain were fully raised now and it took a supreme effort to keep what he was feeling from showing on his face. “It varies. Anyway, if the fingerprints on file have been tampered with, it won’t give us much. Why?”

“You’re not the only one who wants to know who you’re dealing with. Going up against Marty is one thing. If you want help in bringing down Debaran, you had better get your hands on a fatter wallet.” The smile she flashed as she left told him that her equilibrium had returned to normal. Or whatever passed for normal in Mercury’s life.

*****

“You know, you’re not as much fun as you used to be,” Starsky observed between mouthfuls of popcorn, watching as Hutch laboriously typed out each of the reports due on Dobey’s desk by morning. Judging from the size of the stack, Starsky thought it likely represented several day’s worth of neglect.

“Yeah, well, it’s all in the name of remaining employed. Unless you’re planning on us making a career change and you forgot to tell me, I suggest you let me get back to it, huh?”

Starsky sighed. He had spent the better part of the last hour and a half studiously noting all of the new information in his ever-expanding file of case-related mind maps and musings. Hutch still claimed to find the scribblings as incomprehensible as Martian, but his actions belied those words. Starsky had gloated inwardly on more than one occasion as he watched the other man root through the pile of papers to reference some fact or other.

Just now, though, he was bored, missed the beach, missed the time spent together there, and was still too buoyed by the day’s earlier activities to curl up quietly with a good book. “Hey,” he said softly.

“Yeah?”

Giving into his mood, he tossed a piece of popcorn in the general direction of his partner’s mouth and grinned broadly when Hutch happened to catch it. “Y’know,” he said with mock seriousness, “talking about a career change, there’s this exhibit at Sea World where the seals do the same thing, only with fish. Think we could turn you into an act?” “Cute,” Hutch laughed, returning to the papers.

Come on, Hutch. Play with me here. I won’t break. In the hope of eliciting some sort of a reaction, Starsky shot another few kernels of popcorn at his partner. When one landed directly on the paper Hutch had just finished typing, he got his reaction, though hardly the one he was hoping for.

“Knock it off, will you? You’re getting butter all over the reports!”

Starsky wasn’t about to give up that easily. “Nope,” he said evenly. “It’s called doing upper arm exercises, hand-eye coordination and all that. Making an accurate shot with one a these takes a lot of skill. You wouldn’t want to impede my training, now would’ja?”

There was a pause while Hutch seemed to carefully evaluate the situation.

Come on, Starsky thought, let go a little. It was with a vague sense of hope that he flicked one last kernel into his partner’s lap.

It had taken a lot of goading, but Starsky finally got his wish. Instead of answering, Hutch grabbed a handful of popcorn and made a lunge at his partner, thus precipitating a careful-but-enthusiastic wrestling match on the couch, each man vying for the upper hand while popcorn flew on all sides. At one point Starsky actually had Hutch off-balance enough that he slipped to the floor, but not without taking Starsky with him. The blond positioned himself with great care to be sure that his own body served as a mattress for the other. “Give?” Starsky asked, huffing a little from his perch atop Hutch’s chest.

It was to be a short-lived victory. “What do you think?” Hutch deftly flipped his partner back up onto the couch and this time managed to pin Starsky’s four limbs securely against the cushions. “Ah, ah,” he warned as the body beneath him wriggled furiously, “this can only get worse for you from here. I suggest you lose graciously and surrender while you still can.”

Recognizing his own position as hopeless, Starsky finally acknowledged defeat, of a sort. “All right!” he laughed. “You win…this time. Chalk it up as a bad idea, ‘kay?”

It had been too long since they had played as freely as this and it seemed to soothe an aching need, long denied but deeply felt in each man. The uninhibited laughter had also served to relieve a lot of pent-up tension and probably most important of all, the gentle wrestling — though undertaken with extreme caution now — no longer belonged only to the distant past.

Hutch finally settled for ditching the remains of the popcorn down the front of Starsky’s shirt, and announced — with as much dignity as the dusting of corn hulls in his hair would allow — that he was going to the kitchen to get some beer. “Find us a movie, will you? The reports can wait.” Starsky’s grin was radiant. His off-the-cuff parting comment, “Maybe if we dressed you up like a whale…” earned him the overturned bowl on his head.

 

 FEBRUARY 11, 1980

Scanning the ancient magazines in the waiting room while actively dreading his monthly doctor’s exam, Starsky was reminded once again of how bleak a day could look when one was sleep-deprived. Between the disturbing dreams and the muscle spasms courtesy of yesterday’s idiotic overexertion at the gym, neither he nor Hutch had gotten more than a few hours of rest before the alarm had gone off at six. If you’d of listened to your partner instead of trying to prove you had superpowers, you wouldn’t be feeling like this, the little voice inside his head scolded him. The fact that it was true helped not at all. He had also run out of hot water halfway through his shower, proceeded to trip over a pair of boots Hutch had casually discarded in the middle of the floor and — more than just a little grumpy by then — had nearly succeeded in picking a fight with him over breakfast.

Now this. He checked his watch again and swore under his breath. Were doctors ever on time? He had been kept simmering in the all-too-familiar beige waiting room for over an hour and a half past the scheduled time set for his appointment while Hutch, Ross, and McMahon followed up on the leads Mercury had given to him. That’s where I should be, he thought glumly, and if they don’t call me within the next five minutes I’m walkin’ right… In keeping with the rest of the day, the nurse chose that particular moment to summon him to the examination room. Terrific.

By the time the examination was over, the only thought left in Starsky’s mind was to get home, take a couple of pills, and go back to bed: the few parts of his body that hadn’t been hurting before were screaming at him now. A wave of nausea, no less severe for being expected, hit midway through the parking lot and he lost what little was left of his breakfast between two parked cars. The thought of curling up there and letting someone run him over held a momentary appeal, but he soon dismissed it. Way my luck is running today it wouldn’t finish me off, just earn me another stay in the hospital, he thought miserably, inching ever closer to where the Torino was parked. He was shaky enough by the time he got there to seriously question the wisdom of attempting the drive home, eventually concluding that the destination was close enough to merit the risk.

Willpower alone propelled him up the steps to the apartment, the desire to reach the telephone before it stopped ringing provided whatever other motivation he needed to get inside. Of course, it had stopped by the time he got to it.

Maybe I can just sleep until tomorrow, he thought as he reached into the medicine cabinet and retrieved the stronger variety of the available pain pills. He had just shaken two from the bottle when the telephone rang again, but this time he was ready for it.

“Hello?”

“Starsky,” exclaimed an exasperated-sounding Huggy. “Finally. I’ve about had my fill of being your answering service today.”

“What, Huggy?” He knew he sounded terse, but couldn’t help it. Now was not the time for anything but the briefest exchange of information.

“Well, Hutch has been tryin’ to get a hold of you for most of the day. Says to tell you that he got called into work, something about an extra body needed for a bust or words to that effect. Anyway he’ll be late.”

Perfect, Starsky thought, resisting the urge to bang his head against the table. “Anything else?” he asked wearily.

“Yeah. Mercury wants a meet, says it’s important.”

“When?”

“Oh, about half an hour ago.”

Damn. He looked down at the pills in his hand, then over at the door.

“Starsky? You still there?”

“Yeah, I hear you. I’m on my way.” With that, he hung up, carefully returned the pills to their bottle, and grabbed his car keys. Mercury, this had better be worth a hell of a lot more than anything you’ve given us so far. Otherwise it won’t be Banks you have to worry about — I may just kill you myself.

It was during the seemingly endless walk down the park path that Starsky became fully cognizant of the folly of his decision. Aching everywhere, lightheaded from having nothing at all in his stomach, and far past the point of being tired, his body was letting him know in no uncertain terms that it was not going to cooperate for very much longer. What the hell am I doing, anyway? he wondered to himself. Should’ve stuck with Plan A, Mercury and her information be damned. Then again, Hutch wouldn’t be back until who-knew-when and even Ross and McMahon were away to parts unknown. What if it really is important?

The pacing figure with the bright red hair laid into him as soon as he was within visual range.

“Why am I bothering to help you if you can’t even go to the trouble to meet me when something comes up? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting here? I called over an–”

Starsky could still hear her irate voice but could no longer make out the words as he put his head between his knees and made a valiant effort to not get the dry heaves on the park bench. Time passed and somewhere along the way the voice had stopped, or at least changed tone, and he felt hands touching his knees lightly.

“What’s the matter with you?” a much gentler Mercury was asking.

“Bad day,” he almost hissed. “Just get on wi–”

“It’s more than that, surely. Maybe you should–”

“Look, you said it was important,” he interrupted. “Will you just…” He stopped and took a breath. “Just tell me whatever it is so I can go home. Please.” If that constituted begging, so be it.

He was struck by the fact that her entire demeanor seemed to have altered in the last few minutes, a gravity and refined competence replacing the slightly salacious wit to which he had become accustomed. Starsky had the strangest feeling that he wasn’t talking to Mercury anymore, but to someone else momentarily sharing her body. Then the effect was gone as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him to wonder if it wasn’t just an illusion brought on by his rather fuzzy state of mind. Right now he wasn’t trusting much of anything he might perceive.

She slowly got up and settled herself alongside of him. “All right, here it is. I’ve heard talk that something big is going down tomorrow around midnight at the old Mercherson warehouse. You know the one by the pier?” When he nodded, she continued. “Abolese is a definite. Al Richter, Johnny Mather, and someone called Tigo — I don’t know his real name — they’re all supposed to be there, maybe a few others, as well as a small group from out of town.”

Herbert ‘Tigo’ Estell. Starsky quickly made a mental note. Tigo, it turned out, had been the mystery man with Mather from the other night’s stakeout.

“Richter used to belong to Maling,” Mercury continued,” so it’s a safe bet that it’s a transaction of some sort, but those are all the details I have. Play your cards right and you might even get someone to lead you to Debaran. I guess it could’ve waited until tomorrow, but I’m heading out for a few days and I thought you’d like to know.”

“Why?”

“‘Why did I think you’d like to know’ or ‘why am I leaving’?”

“No.” He rubbed his face, tried to clear his vision a little. “No, I mean why are you giving this to me? What do you get out of it?”

“Whose transaction do you think it is?” she asked with a grin.

“Banks,” Starsky replied, dropping his head into his hands with a sigh. “Should’ve guessed.”

“So where’s your blond shadow, anyway?” she asked, scanning the park. “Don’t tell me you forgot to bring him the one time he could actually do something useful.”

“Busy,” was all Starsky managed by way of reply.

Mercury sighed dramatically. “All right then. Give me your keys.”

“What for?” He was vaguely aware of how dim the question sounded, but things were no longer clicking the way they should be.

“You’re in no condition to drive,” she said patiently, “and if you kill yourself or someone else, you’ll be of no use to me whatsoever. Give me your keys and I’ll drive you home.” She held out her hand expectantly.

When he didn’t immediately respond she started to laugh, seeming to find a degree of humor in his hesitance.

“What is it you think I’m going to do? We don’t share the same taste in cars, I’m not planning on abducting you, and — no offense to your obvious charms — I have no intention of doing anything that would involve either one of us undoing a zip. Besides,” she added, leaning closer, “didn’t we already establish that you can’t afford me?” The extended hand still hadn’t moved.

“No one drives my car,” Starsky replied shortly.

“Get over it,” she said with equal brevity and an unblinking stare.

His mother had used that same tone with him when he was five years old, ordering him to spit out his gum. It had the same effect now and, reluctantly, he handed over his car keys. Score one for Mercury.

Once she had adjusted the seat and mirrors to her liking, they were underway. She was a surprisingly defensive driver and the trip itself was uneventful… until they were more than halfway home, when it occurred to Starsky that he hadn’t as yet given her any directions.

“Hey!” He tried unsuccessfully to straighten somewhat in his seat. “How do you…”

She glanced over at him with a casual smile and replied, “You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you? Relax. We’re almost there.”

The number of things that were not adding up were increasing exponentially, but at that particular moment, he couldn’t have cared less. Starsky was grateful enough to be home by whatever means and would mull over the intricacies of their conversation at some much, much later time.

As she pulled into his usual parking space, she turned to him. “Will you be all right here alone?”

The question itself was unexpected, but the underlying sentiment startled him even more. It seemed so…genuine? “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’ll be fine. Thanks.” In truth, he wasn’t quite sure how best to tackle the steps — right now Mt. Everest could have presented no greater obstacle — but had no intention of sharing that with her. “How will you get back?” he asked, suddenly aware that she had no apparent means of transportation.

Mercury bounced out of the car and came over to his side, where Starsky was moving with deliberate slowness. Offering him her hand she said cheerfully, “Oh, I’ll hail a cab. They usually stop for me.”

“Thanks,” he said again. “Really.”

There it was again, that same look that seemed to belong to another person altogether. Smiling, she gently asked, “You sure you’ll be okay?” When he nodded, she said, “Take care of yourself, hmm?” and tossed him the keys. “‘Til next time.” With a wink, she was off in the direction of the nearest main street.

By the time he was fumbling with the lock, he was no longer able to completely control his breathing. Once inside, he knew from the way the room was spinning that he had to lie down fast. Eschewing food for the time being, he grabbed the bottle of pills, extracted one more than the recommended dosage, and took them with a swallow of Hutch’s leftover coffee. Dragging himself to the couch he collapsed onto it, the sound of the telephone ringing in the far distance only partially registering as sleep overtook him.

*****

Hutch was mildly uneasy as he approached their apartment. He didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t been able to make contact with Starsky all day, but at the same time he knew that his partner was mobile now and under no obligation to wait at home for him. The unease grew to concern when he saw the Torino parked in its usual spot; it turned to worry when he entered the darkened apartment. Near-panic when he saw the recumbent figure on the couch.

“Starsky?” He approached slowly, fumbling with the lamp as he passed. Very quietly, “Starsk?” Still no response. It wasn’t until he was close enough to observe his partner’s slow and rhythmic breathing that he remembered to breathe himself. Pills. Must have taken some. Doctor’s appointment, pain…of course. Practiced fingers took a pulse anyway; he automatically counted respirations and felt for a fever. When all seemed to check out, he allowed himself to sink back against the coffee table, content for awhile just to watch the other man breathe.

Seeing Starsky in the daytime, active and involved in normal activities, it was relatively easy to cling to the illusion that the damage done to his body had been all but reversed. Sure, he was still underweight, tired quickly, and experienced periodic pain and shortness of breath, but he had also become remarkably adept at hiding those weaknesses. There were other times, though, that the reminders were harder to ignore and Hutch once again felt the weight of being the only one privy to the fuller truth. He saw what no one else was allowed to, knew the effort it took to put on the façade Starsky presented to the world at large. An ugly litany of realities played across his mind: the nausea caused by the required medication; the extreme pain when damaged muscles in his chest and abdomen would spasm and refuse to release; the speed at which Starsky’s body would give out entirely when fatigued. Now the nightmares. God yes, the nightmares. A relatively recent twist — flashbacks not only from the shooting, but from every other trauma he had faced in life — they alternately reduced the man either to a terrified child he rocked in his arms for hours or to a stranger who wanted to be left completely alone. In his zeal to prove that he was whole, Hutch sometimes wondered if Starsky wasn’t inadvertently finishing the job Gunther had started.

Yet Starsky was determined to return to active duty. The belief and determination that he would had often been the only thing that made the struggle seem worthwhile. Unfortunately, that increasingly likely scenario also happened to be the stuff of Hutch’s worst nightmares. When all was said and done, what he wanted most now — needed — was to keep his partner safe, loved, and permanently out of harm’s way. Conflicting needs, for the first time in our lives. Hutch also knew that he would have be the one to adapt, to find a way of controlling the fear.

When all other alternatives are unacceptable, you find a way to cope. Hutch scooted himself down to the end of the couch and began the delicate task of removing Starsky’s sneakers in such a way as not to disturb the sleeper. He watched for any sign of reaction and observed none, deep breathing the only visible indication of life. A freight train could come crashing through our living room and you wouldn’t even hear it, would you? Still, he arranged the afghan with equal care, allowing his fingers to linger briefly over the cheek they brushed before he finally turned away.

Halting mid-stride by the coffee table, Hutch distractedly toyed with the puzzle, fitting three more pieces into place as he banished his demons once again to the realm they occupied in his subconscious. Another day.

When over an hour passed and the sounds and smells coming from the kitchen had still failed to rouse his partner, Hutch decided to take a more proactive role. Placing a mug of coffee beside the half-completed puzzle on the coffee table, he crouched down alongside of the sleeping figure and did his best to coax him into consciousness.

“Starsk? Come on, babe. Time to wake up. Brought you some coffee. Come on.” It took awhile, but his efforts were finally rewarded as the form reluctantly began to stir. An arm reached out, groping blindly.

“Hutsshh?”

Hutch captured the hand that first found his ear, then worked its way haltingly to a shoulder.

“Hey, welcome back to the land of the living.”

“Wha –” Starsky tried to sit up, was stopped by a painful cramp, and settled back down on the couch with a moan. “What time is it?”

“After seven.”

“At night?” he asked, amazed.

“Last time I looked. Dinner’s almost ready.” Hutch gently smoothed back a few dark curls that sleep had left askew. “How many did you take, anyway?”

“Three.”

He made a face. “Must’ve been one hell of a doctor’s visit.”

Starsky flashed a weary grin as he made a more determined effort to sit up. “Yeah, well. It was fine until he tried to push his hand through my ribcage and out the other side.” He grimaced, rubbing his chest lightly. “Damn near had to peel me off o’ the ceiling. Then Huggy called and I had to go meet Mercury.”

“Oh? What’s happening on that front?” Hutch sat down beside him, fitting his hand against the back of the other man’s neck, massaging lightly as they talked in a gesture that had become so familiar over time he was no longer even fully aware of doing it. Noting the difficulty Starsky was having in situating himself comfortably, he reached for a pillow and casually handed it to him, waiting to see what would happen.

“Mmnn,” Starsky mumbled, accepting both cushion and massage with equal appreciation and easing himself back a little. “Better.”

Hutch breathed a sigh of relief. Lately a gesture like that was as likely to be met with open hostility as it was with gratitude and predicting which reaction was coming when was something he was still working on. His partner had made it abundantly clear that help was rarely welcome anymore unless he himself asked for it, and Hutch was at least making the effort to accommodate.

Starsky proceeded to fill his partner in on the particulars of the day’s events, highlighting some of the stranger aspects of his conversation with Mercury. “I don’t know,” he said, wrapping up the narration. “Maybe she’s schizophrenic or something. It was like talking to two different people today and I feel like I didn’t really understand either of ’em too well.” He shifted position again and, seeming to conclude that Hutch made a better pillow anyway, leaned more of his weight onto his partner’s shoulder. “At least she’s a careful driver,” he added with a yawn, almost as an afterthought. He stiffened as soon as the words left his mouth.

Hutch’s hand stopped mid-rub. “What did you just say?”

There was a pause Hutch recognized from long experience as his partner desperately searching for the best possible spin to put on an uncomfortable topic.

“Okay. First of all, you have to understand that I was feeling really lousy at the time,” he began.

Hutch braced himself for whatever was to follow. “Go on.”

“Well, I was there — we were there — and she didn’t think I should drive and…”

“Starsky…”

“…she drove me home,” he finished simply.

Hutch let all of the various ramifications of that statement sink in before saying anything. When he did speak, it was to get a clarification.

“Let me get this straight,” he said with exaggerated slowness. “You let a confidential informant — one that we still have some serious reservations about — drive your car and take you home to our apartment?”

“I know how it sounds, but –”

“She knows our address?”

“That’s another thing,” Starsky said cryptically.

Hutch rubbed his eyes, letting his hand rest over his mouth for a few seconds while he debated whether or not he really wanted to ask the next question. It was only with great reluctance that he decided in the affirmative.

“What?”

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“I figured that. Tell me anyway.”

“She already knew our address, drove right to it. I get the impression that Mercury knows a lot more about us than we know about her and maybe it’s time we did something about that.”

“Well, the background check Ross did certainly didn’t yield a wealth of information,” Hutch said, simultaneously running through a mental checklist of available options. “I wonder if either of them have any contacts they can reach out to long distance, try and get a bit more.” He shrugged. As uneasy as the situation made him, it was something that would have to be put on hold until tomorrow anyway, so there was no use dwelling on it tonight. Later.

“Not to change the subject,” he said, doing precisely that, “but did the Doctor have anything new to say?”

“Not really,” Starsky replied, relaxing again. “Everything looks, sounds, and feels like it should –” he made quotation marks in the air, “–‘at this point in my recovery’. I need to work on increasing my lung capacity, appetite, and stamina, but can’t over do it. Get enough sleep. Must not — under any circumstances — get over-tired. Follow my medication schedule as written. Keep up with whatever physical therapy program is working for me. Hold hands while crossing the street, don’t take candy from strangers, and go and sin no more.” He had memorized the standard speech long ago.

“He’s thorough, I’ll give him that,” Hutch said with a chuckle. Turning more serious, “Did you bring up the ‘other’?” He cautiously referred to the flashbacks and nightmares using the euphemism Starsky seemed to prefer.

“Nah, he’s no shrink. He’d just send me to one and I’ve really had enough of doctors for awhile.” Suddenly tense, he asked, “‘Sides, we’re managing okay, aren’t we?”

“We’re doing fine,” Hutch replied reassuringly, drawing his partner a little nearer. If that was the way Starsky wanted to play it and it didn’t seem to be causing any real harm, so be it. At least for the time being.

“Want dinner in bed tonight? I could fix up a tray.”

“No, that’s okay. The way I feel now, you’d end up havin’ to pull my head up off the plate and that would be embarrassing.” He yawned again, adding softly, “I’m not too hungry anyway.”

“Have you eaten anything today?” Hutch found himself addressing a head of dark curls that had somehow ended up resting on his shoulder, the answering silence confirming what he had already suspected. Trying to keep at least some of the concern out of his voice, he offered, “Tell you what: I’ll heat up some of yesterday’s soup, draw you a hot bath, and after that, a massage.”

Starsky’s head shot up, his face transformed into a mask of apprehension.

Hutch smiled. “The non-therapeutic kind this time, okay?”

“Sounds terrific,” Starsky admitted, mid-yawn, contentedly returning to the shoulder. “So, did’ja catch all the bad guys?”

“What? Oh. I guess it all depends upon your perspective. We raided Ruth’s again.” A sixty-eight-year-old grandmother of four with a penchant for knitting, Ruth also ran impressive high stakes poker games from her back parlor. “Let it never be said we didn’t do our part to protect the world from illicit five card stud.”

“Really? Can’t imagine you were all that successful.”

“We weren’t,” Hutch admitted with a soft chuckle. “She made bail before I had the report typed.”

“Well, there are some battles out there y’ just can’t win.”

“Tell that to Lieutenant Reynolds,” Hutch retorted. “It’s his obsession, I just went along as a token warm body. I have a theory, though, if you wanna hear it.”

“Sure. Why not?” Starsky stretched his legs lazily.

“I think that Ruth and Reynolds provide each other with a reason to get out of bed in the morning. If either one of them actually won, they’d both probably cease to exist.”

Starsky laughed at the thought. “It’s as good a theory as any,” he said, settling in. Neither man was in any great hurry to move.

Stretched out on the bed later that evening, Starsky gave all indications of being fast asleep before Hutch had progressed the massage beyond his shoulders. The blond kept on anyway. Touch, he knew, was one of the most potent communicators of all and he often chose to let his hands give voice to what words seemed woefully inadequate to express. He hoped the gentle contact would convey at least some of the depth of feeling behind it and keep the monsters at bay, for a little while at least. For both of them.

 

 FEBRUARY 12, 1980

“You’ve been really pushing it the past two weeks. Why don’t you sit tonight out, huh? Mac could come back here when he’s through with the interrogation and you could go over it together then.” Hutch knew all too well that the suggestion had the potential to be the opening volley in a new battle between them, but Starsky was still wiped from yesterday. He deemed it worth the risk.

At first, the man half-stretched-out on the couch made no reply. He sat up slowly, allowing his shoulders to slump forward, before finally giving his reluctant reply. “Yeah, okay.”

Fully prepared for an argument, Hutch hadn’t even considered the possibility of anything else. It was with a deep sense of concern that he sat himself down on the armrest and lightly placed his hand against the other’s forehead.

“Hey, you all right?”

Gently batting the hand away, Starsky turned to face his partner, the smile plainly genuine. “I don’t only agree with you when I’m sick, you know. I’m fine, just a little tired still. Willya stop looking at me like that? You’d think I just announced I was joining the ballet or something.”

It was enough to break the tension and Hutch smiled in spite of himself.

“Mac can do the interview solo just fine,” Starsky continued. “And as much as I hate being left out, even I can see that my presence isn’t gonna determine the success or failure of what goes down at the warehouse tonight. I couldn’t do anything but just sit there anyway and you can do that well enough on your own. It’s a good plan.”

Hate to break this to you, buddy, but riding along with us never was in the cards. Best intentions notwithstanding, Hutch knew full well that Starsky would never be able to remain a mere observer in the car if things were to get heavy on the scene. He’d be out in a flash, never giving it a first thought, let alone a second. Hutch readily acknowledged that he would do exactly the same were their roles reversed, and wasn’t about to take that kind of a risk with his partner.

Dropping his head down a little, Starsky mumbled, “Though I doubt Mac and I will have all that much to go over when he does gets here.”

Thanks to a rookie patrolman with unusually sharp eyes, they had located the street bum who collected the one and a half million in Krueger’s name. As willing as he was to talk, no one was counting on him to provide them with anything particularly useful.

“You sure you’re okay? We could…” The beleaguered, long-suffering look his partner hit him with was enough to lay the subject to rest for good and Hutch good-naturedly raised up his hands in unilateral surrender.

Starsky was still occupying the lion’s share of Hutch’s thoughts as he climbed into the car with Ross later that night.

“He all right?”

Ross’s soft question startled him on two counts: not only rousing him from his reverie, he also hated to think he was quite that transparent.

“I’m not a mind reader,” she laughed, her assertion contradicting itself. She seemed to be having no difficulty whatsoever in reading his expressions. “I noticed he looked a little pale, and you seem preoccupied. That’s all.”

“He’s fine. Just had a hard day yesterday.”

“Oh.”

Hutch was grateful that it was Ross alongside of him instead of McMahon. It would never even occur to her partner to leave a potential topic of conversation unexplored.

“I don’t mean to intrude, so please don’t feel obligated to answer this if it’s prying, but what are your plans for the future? Is it Starsky’s intention to get back on active duty?”

Hutch wasn’t sure why the question made him bristle slightly. “Yeah, that’s the goal. It’s what we’re aiming toward.”

“What’s the timeline?”

“Hard to say, it’s pretty much of a guess at this point.” He rubbed his hands over his eyes, tiredly. At this point, we don’t even know ‘if’, let alone ‘when’. “We’re looking at one ‘n’ a half, maybe two months now… if there are no major setbacks.” Hutch knocked on the wooden-paneled dashboard in a gesture of mock superstition.

“Have there been many of those?” Ross spoke without taking her eyes off the road.

Hutch thought for a minute. “No. No, not really. Considering all things, it’s gone remarkably well.” The answer — the realization that it was true — was something of a revelation. There had been several points along the way when it had seemed like one setback piled on top of the next, with no recovery time in between.

“The pulmonary embolism was bad,” he continued, shuddering involuntarily at the memory. “That happened just a few days after you left last time. Then there was the pneumonia…times two, if you count the bout he had in the hospital. Mostly, I guess, it’s just been a slow uphill climb. Did it, though.” Overcome every obstacle with strength, courage, and grace left to spare. He found himself unsure if the last had actually been spoken aloud or just thought.

“Turn here?” Receiving an affirmative nod from Hutch, she put on the left directional. “How long has it been now?”

“On the fifteenth it will be nine months to the day.” He could take it down to the minute if she asked, without having to calculate.

They arrived at the warehouse just before ten, in plenty of time to watch Abolese and Mather come upon the scene and be greeted enthusiastically by Richter. Then it turned into nearly every other stakeout Hutch had taken part in during his career — the initial flurry of activity over, boredom quickly filled the ensuing vacuum. Everyone would presumably be awaiting the arrival of Tigo and the group from out of town before getting down to business. There was certainly no point in calling for backup until all of the players were present and accounted for. Nothing left to do but wait.

Ross’s inherent quietness was a welcome relief from McMahon, but it wasn’t helping Hutch any in his bid to stay awake. He decided to test the waters and see how his very temporary partner felt about breach of protocol.

“Um, do you mind if I close my eyes for a few minutes? Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

“Be my guest. I’ll let you know when anything happens.” A knowing smile crept across her face. “If anything happens.”

Hutch was surprised to find himself transported back to the beach on a cool summer morning. He could see Starsky in the distance, but couldn’t seem to draw his attention. Strangely, no matter how fast he walked, he never seemed to get any closer to his partner and was becoming both tired and frustrated with the effort. Then Starsky just seemed to slowly dissolve away…

He was jarred from the dream by the sound of his name being called, repeatedly and with some urgency.

“Wake up! Something’s happening.”

“Wha –?”

“I’m not sure, but I think the party’s breaking up. Tigo finally came about twenty minutes ago, but there’s no sign of anyone else and the way they’re moving in there, it looks as if they’re giving up and going home. What do you want to do?”

Hutch forced his brain to click into gear and looked at his watch. Quarter of one. If they’re not here yet, it’s a safe bet they’re not coming. One glance through the binoculars told him that Ross’s interpretation was dead on and he reached automatically for the radio, requesting immediate backup.

“I don’t think we can wait any longer,” he said grimly.

“Four against two with backup on the way? I’ve faced worse odds.” The words were cheerful enough, but Ross’s face was anything but.

Both drew their weapons and headed for what was apparently the only way in or out, unless one counted the broken windows. The group inside was still loosely held together in the northern corner of the room, to the left of the door, and conveniently shielded from view by a tall stack of empty crates.

Hutch wasn’t accustomed to having to discuss a plan of action with a partner — he and Starsky functioned seamlessly as a single unit — but this was different.

“I’ll go in first,” he offered. “Draw their fire until you take up position.”

“No,” Ross whispered. “Other way around.” Seeing his expression, she added, “I’m not being contrary, there’s just no time to explain. Trust me.”

After a split second’s thought, he nodded.

Events unfolded in a dizzying blur after that: Ross moved into the warehouse with the grace of a cat, her approach so soundless that he didn’t have to provide any cover fire after all. Hutch took up his position opposite, both now covering the door so that anyone intending escape would have to go through them first. Maneuvering himself until he had all four of the suspects within sight, he waited until they were in relatively close proximity to each other before he alerted Ross and made his presence known.

“Police. Freeze! Right where you are. I want your hands where I can see them.”

Richter looked too stunned to do anything else but obey, opening and closing his mouth like some water-deprived guppy. Mather seemed to judge discretion to be the better part of valor, too, for he obligingly raised his hands. It seemed, though, that there was always one who opted to make life more difficult all around and in this case, they had two. Knocking over the nearest crates, both Abolese and Tigo drew their guns and decided to make a run for it.

Diving behind the nearest crate, Hutch heard a bullet ricochet over his head and to the right, another following closely in its path. Abolese, two shots. He kept score by rote, having been a cop for enough years to make it second nature. Another shot came from close behind, this one at least not directed at him. Ross was doing her job providing cover fire until he reached safety.

As soon as he was settled, he returned fire in the general direction of Tigo, his shot shearing off a sizable chunk of wooden box. They’re still pinned between us and the door, he realized. It’s just a matter of time now before they make a run for it. Hutch felt the familiar adrenaline rush course through his veins, his entire body on high alert.

He didn’t have to wait long. Abolese and Tigo emerged from their stronghold at the same time, firing simultaneously, and sprinting in opposite directions. Hutch chose to focus his attention on Abolese, waiting until the large man had just passed his own position before making a diving tackle. It was during the resulting wrestling match that Hutch was visited by another all-too familiar experience: the strange sensation of seeing sparkling white blotches before his eyes as a powerful blow connected squarely with his jaw. Hutch let himself fall softly to the floor, remaining absolutely still until, through slitted eyes, he saw Abolese straighten and turn. Well matched in both height and weight, and using the element of surprise to his advantage, the blond detective jumped up to his full height and came at the other man from behind. In a well-practiced move, Hutch threw his full weight against Ray Abolese, spun the stunned man and tossed him, throwing his body against the wall with a sickening thud. Collecting Abolese’s gun from where it lay abandoned on the floor, he tucked it into his waistband. One down, three to go.

Turning, he was in time to see both Richter and Mather scurry to the door, taking advantage of the chaos wrought by their two colleagues. It only took one warning shot from his Magnum to convince both men to stop where they were, but neither Tigo nor Ross was anywhere to be seen. Quickly handcuffing both men to each other and admonishing them to stay put or suffer the consequences, he arranged them next to the still-unconscious Abolese and headed for the door to look for Ross. He hadn’t yet reached the door frame when he heard a loud crash followed by a sharp cry.

“Ross?” He sprinted out the door, feet barely touching the floor.

The sight that greeted him outside would have been almost comical under other circumstances. Tigo was splayed on his stomach in an undignified pile on the ground, Ross atop his back, re-holstering her weapon now that the irate suspect had stopped struggling.

“I’d ask if you need a hand, but you seem to have it all under control.”

She went about the process of handcuffing the accommodating suspect without looking up.

“He ran for it,” Ross puffed. “I jumped him and we both flew over those crates.” She jerked her head back with a sigh, listening to the approaching sirens in the distance. “You take care of the others?”

Hutch nodded in the affirmative as he helped her lift Tigo to his feet. It wasn’t until then that the reason for the cry became apparent: both of her knees were badly abraded, gravel clinging to the bloody tissue in painful-looking mosaics.

“You’re hurt.” Offering his handkerchief, he tried to guide her into an area with a bit more light to get a better look, but she deflected his efforts with firm politeness. Ross, it seemed, did not like to be fussed over.

Backup arrived within minutes and Hutch and Ross followed the caravan back to Metro, the lengthy process of booking, reports, and — if they were lucky — a series of interrogations promising to eat up the next several hours.

It was almost three o’clock when Hutch could finally break away long enough to give Starsky a call. Pausing with his hand on the receiver, he turned suddenly to Ross, a question nagging at him that wouldn’t release its stranglehold until answered.

“You mind if I ask you a question?”

“Not at all,” she replied equably, dabbing at her left knee with a damp paper towel.

“Why did you want to go in first?”

She paused for a second, frowning, as if unsure of what he meant.

“At the warehouse,” Hutch prompted.

She smiled and returned to tending her injuries. “Simple. You’re taller than me. If you would have had to provide cover fire you could’ve done it with me barely crouching down. It’s a better position for both of us.”

“Oh.” Come to think of it, he did seem to recall reading that once in the Policeman’s Manual, years ago. That was both the trouble and the blessing of working with one partner for so long a time, the tendency to develop your own customized operating procedure.

He rang home without further delay. Despite his reputation, Hutch knew that he didn’t hold the patent when it came to worry. Starsky would have to be decidedly on edge by now.

*****

Starsky consulted his watch for the third time in fifteen minutes. Come on, Hutch. It doesn’t take that long to stakeout a warehouse. He was unaccountably on edge; could already feel the muscles in his chest and abdomen constricting uncomfortably and knew that the next step would be all-out cramping.

Anxiety or legitimate trouble? He had always valued his ability to sense when something was wrong regarding his partner — it had come in very handy on more than one occasion — but wasn’t sure he trusted himself to tell the difference anymore.

“Hey, you okay? Y’ look a little strange.”

The question abruptly brought him back from his thoughts. “Uh, yeah. I just need to stretch a little.” Damn. If it was becoming obvious even to McMahon, it was definitely time to take preemptive action before the situation got any worse. Panic attacks were bad enough with Hutch present, much worse when alone, completely unacceptable in front of anyone else. He got up and headed for the kitchen.

“I’m making some tea. You want anything?”

McMahon, predictably, followed closely on his heels. “Nah, I’m fine. You must not’ve heard me, huh?”

“What? Sorry, guess not. Wanna try again?”

“I asked if you two shared this apartment or what? I mean, it’s a little small, isn’t it?”

Starsky felt himself tense further. As much as he liked McMahon and didn’t want to appear rude, some aspects their personal lives belonged only to Hutch and himself.

“Useta be mine,” he said casually, “but now we share. Hutch let his go when we were still livin’ like beach bums. We’re looking for a larger place, but it’ll have to wait until we know… Well, everything’s kind of up in the air at the moment.” Along with almost everything else in their lives, the choice of permanent living accommodations had been put on hold until they learned whether or not Starsky was going to be re-qualified. “The jungle out there’s his,” he added with a grin.

“Oh. Plant lover, huh? Tressa grows stuff, too, only all o’ hers bloom.”

Starsky braced himself for the next obvious question, but McMahon somehow refrained from asking it. Amazing. That either meant that he was at least occasionally intuitive enough to recognize when to keep his mouth shut or he assumed Starsky to be in need of a live-in nurse. Starsky was really pulling for the former.

“What’s that?” McMahon asked, watching as Starsky placed a handful of dried leaves and flowers into a saucepan.

“Tilia. Something Hutch found in a health food store; it’s a natural anti-spasmodic.” Much to his partner’s chagrin, Hutch had returned to the whole nut-and-berry scene with a vengeance after the shooting, inflicting all sorts of horrors on Starsky in the name of ‘health’. He had to admit, though, that this tea was worth its weight in gold: it effectively eased even the most severe cramping and nausea, typically within five minutes and with no narcotic side effects.

“They go into spasm sometimes,” he explained, rubbing the area around his ribs lightly. “Hurts like hell and this is a lot better than taking pills. You’re welcome to try some, but it don’t taste like much.”

“I’m thinking that’s a ‘no’,” McMahon said politely. He seemed revolted by the very thought.

Hoping to steer the conversation in another direction, Starsky said, “You’re a good partner, y’know, coming with her like that.”

“She didn’t see it that way,” McMahon replied, pulling a face. “Mad as a wet cat when she found out.”

“She was probably just trying to keep you gainfully employed,” Starsky countered gently. “I realize that you couldn’t exactly take your vacation at the same time your partner was being exiled, at least not without rousing some suspicion, but you keep punchin’ senior officers and you’re gonna find yourself in the unemployment line. Besides, two week suspensions don’t look good on a permanent record.”

“I don’t intend to take it up as a hobby,” he admitted cheerfully, then seemed to grow suddenly thoughtful. “She can’t do everything on her own, though.” He sighed. “Not many people really get her, y’know?.”

“Hmm?”

McMahon was silent for a moment, seeming to gather his words carefully before proceeding. “There’s this story about her, something all of us are taught at the Academy.” He took a breath and, when he continued, his voice was full of admiration. “Right after she made detective, she went into a hostage situation. You know? In exchange for one of the hostages, so that she could try and talk the guy out. Anyway, it didn’t take long to realize that he wasn’t going to leave alive and if she didn’t do something right then, he was gonna start blowing away the hostages. Like the others, she had her feet bound, her hands tied in front of her, and no piece. So she got innovative, right? She found a piece of broken bottle, got one of the other hostages to create a diversion, picked up the glass, and called him over to her. When he came, she gave one upward thrust, hit ‘im right in the jugular. She was a hero.” McMahon paused. “What not many people get is the other side of that.”

“What do you mean?” Starsky was truly interested now.

“Well, she basically killed a guy with her bare hands. Didn’t really mean to and it did save about five other people, but still. You can’t do that and not be affected, not if you’re human. Tressa’s had to be more together than anyone else around her, just to be taken seriously — viewed as an equal. But people sometimes don’t think…” He stopped abruptly, looking as though he had been caught talking out of turn.

Starsky thought he understood. “Barbara Peele?”

“Y’know how she found out?” McMahon asked, looking up. Starsky shook his head. “She heard it in the squad, other cops talking about it. No one even took her aside to tell her privately. I mean, she’s lost her real mother about ten months before and still nobody makes the connection?” He sounded remarkably sad. “It’s her own fault, too, though. She acts like nothing can get to her. It can.”

You’re deeper than you let on, aren’t you, kid? Ross isn’t the only one with a deceptive veneer. Starsky found himself more and more impressed with the young man in front of him. His intended response was cut short by the ringing of the telephone, the sound making him jump slightly. Get a grip, Starsky, he thought grimly. You’re starting to look like an idiot.

He picked up and, as he’d hoped, it was Hutch on the other end of the line.

“What’s with you two? Did’ja get lost or something?” He hoped the feigned irritation would cover the unreasonable relief that would otherwise surely have been audible.

“No. Things just moved faster than we’d expected and not everyone decided to play nice. Made us work for our paychecks.”

“Are you –?”

“We’re fine. There was some shooting, but we’re either unusually good or the bad guys were lousy shots. Listen, I can’t talk now. We’re at the station typing reports — should be done, oh, within a half an hour or so. See ya then.”

“‘Kay.”

Starsky found himself relaxing somewhat as he hung up, the tension he’d been feeling earlier slowly evaporating away. He discovered something new there, in its wake — a certain degree of satisfaction, perhaps, that his instincts were still intact. Haven’t lost it yet, he thought, almost smugly.

*****

“You might want to let Hutch take a look at those,” Starsky suggested after a quick glance at Ross’s badly abused knees. “He’s gotten to be a pretty good nurse over the last several months. Probably qualifies as a fully-fledged RN by now.” Directing a bright grin at his partner, he added, “The things I do just to give you career choices.”

“Yeah, well consider your work complete. I surpassed Florence Nightingale awhile back now and it’s time to stop.”

Ross smiled, but looked drawn. “Thanks for the offer, guys, but I think I’d prefer to pick the gravel out myself. If you’ll just direct me to the medicine cabinet…”

Hutch pulled down the first aid kit and left Ross in peace, shepherding Starsky and McMahon out into the living room so he could re-cap the evening’s festivities.

“Everyone else lawyered up?” McMahon asked, when Hutch had finished.

“Everyone but Abolese,” Hutch confirmed. “He laid it all on Richter’s doorstep, swears he thought it was a private deal.”

“You believe ‘im?” Starsky’s expression was somber. “Because if he’s telling the truth, we don’t know any more now than we did a few hours ago.”

“Square one.” Hutch studied his hands for a moment. “And yeah, I think if he knew anything else, he’d of told us. The number of charges he was racking up tonight really scared the hell out of him — he’d have sold out anyone for a deal.”

Quiet descended on the room for awhile, as each man became lost in his own thoughts. It was Starsky who finally broke the almost oppressive silence.

“Think I’ll go check on Ross. She should really be out here before we plot out our next move.”

Or decide if there is one, Hutch added silently. One look at Starsky told him his partner was thinking the same thing. “You might want to bring her a glass of water,” he suggested. “She’ll probably be wanting some aspirin and I don’t think there’s a glass in the bathroom.”

Starsky raised a hand in acknowledgment and was soon headed in the general direction of the bathroom with a full glass.

“Maybe what we could do –” He turned his head mid-stride, didn’t hear the door open, didn’t stop his forward progress.

“Starsky!”

Hutch’s shouted warning came too late and the collision with Ross, who had the misfortune to be approaching from the opposite direction, was nothing short of dramatic. While neither actually fell, the glass tipped forward and showered the already edgy female detective with its contents. She stood like some dripping sentinel in stunned silence for what seemed like an eternity, eventually lowering her head to stare down at her soaking purple blouse, while Starsky just stared, mouth agape. Hutch and McMahon, who had watched the scene unfold from the relative safety of the living room, did the same.

Starsky emitted what sounded like a poor attempt at a nervous laugh and began frantically reaching for something — anything — to dab the blouse with. Grabbing an errant sweatshirt of Hutch’s, he made a genuine-if-futile effort to rectify the situation.

“Didn’t see you comin’ out from there, ya need to wear bells or something.” He flashed his most charming smile at her and was alarmed to discover that, at this point at least, she was decidedly immune.

“Uh, one or two hours, this’ll all be dry. No –”

The icy glare she fixed him with cut him off mid-sentence. Ross snatched the sweatshirt away from him, only lowering her eyes when she had it firmly in hand and began a halfhearted attempt to dry herself off. The silk chiffon had already begun to pucker and it was immediately apparent that the results would not warrant the energy expended. Defeated, she let the sweatshirt drop to the floor, her shoulders beginning to tremble slightly, although she made no sound.

For one horrifying moment, Starsky thought that she was crying. Placing a hand on each of her shoulders, he tried to make eye contact. “Hey, it’ll be all right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” It took a few moments to see the situation for what it really was. Ross wasn’t crying at all. In fact, she was laughing. Uncontrollably.

McMahon was the first to join in, after making a pointed comment about her resembling nothing so much as a plum left too long in the refrigerator, and Starsky and Hutch jumped onto the proverbial band wagon soon after. The absurdity of the current situation, coupled with the tension of the past several weeks, soon reduced all four otherwise mature adults into undignified, quivering heaps.

Dabbing his eyes as he tried to regain a little composure, McMahon maneuvered himself in front of his partner and extended a hand. “Keys, Tress. I might as well go after your cheesecake now.”

“Cheesecake?” Hutch somehow managed to choke out. He had to know.

“Long story,” McMahon replied easily. He winked at his partner. “It’s how we’ve learned to handle days like this. Anyone else want anything while I’m out?”

“Beer?” Starsky asked hopefully.

Hutch reached into his wallet to make a contribution to McMahon’s early morning food run. “Does beer go with cheesecake?”

“Tonight?” Ross threw in. “Oh, why not?

Upon McMahon’s return, the four settled themselves in the living room, contentedly surrounded by cake and beer. Starsky claimed the couch, as it was still somewhat easier to move off of than the floor, while Hutch sat with his back against it, below Starsky’s head. Ross and McMahon took up their positions opposite.

To Hutch it seemed that Ross — clad in one of Starsky’s newer shirts — had emerged from the experience transformed, as if the unbridled laughter had somehow lanced an invisible wound. I guess all of us had the need to decompress, he reflected, looking up briefly into his partner’s now tranquil eyes.

They decided to go over everything once again, the files passing from one detective to the next in an almost synchronized pattern, conversation still more banter than substance. They were about to make a serious start when McMahon casually consulted his watch and jumped as though he’d been bitten.

“May I use your phone?” he asked nervously. “It’s, uh, long distance, but I’ll call collect.”

Receiving an affirmative nod, he scurried off in the direction of the bedroom.

Ross mouthed “Camilla” in answer to Hutch’s questioning gaze, and both men grinned. They had heard enough about McMahon’s beloved over the past few months to adequately pen her biography.

“He’s still on her? It’s not natural. I dated three at a time when I was his age,” Starsky laughed.

“His age?” Hutch scoffed. “You were doing that up until a few years ago.”

“People who live in glass houses…” was shot back.

“He’s courting her,” Ross explained, her face a mask of solemnity. “They’re both taking this very seriously.”

The three returned to sifting through the mounds of paperwork, the companionable silence broken only by an occasional commentary and the periodic rumblings of laughter coming from the direction of the bedroom.

“You believe in that?” Starsky asked finally. “All that ‘love at first sight’ stuff?” He directed the question at Ross, already knowing Hutch’s feelings on the subject.

She sat back off of her heels and stretched her legs out in front of her, arching her feet lazily before responding. “As a general rule, no. Then again, I’ve been reconsidering a lot of ‘general rules’ lately.”

“Come to any conclusions?” Hutch didn’t bother looking up as he asked.

She sighed. “I don’t know. I’m beginning to think that maybe there aren’t many rules, after all.” After a thoughtful pause, she added, “I don’t think that actual love happens as often as people like to think. You know the kind I mean? ‘Soul mates’? I think that’s the phrase du jour. Once in a lifetime and that only if you’re among the truly blessed. Maybe with that there is some kind of — oh, I don’t know — recognition, perhaps? There certainly seemed to be between those two,” she nodded toward the bedroom.

“A cop and a sweet little flower vendor,” Starsky mused. “Sounds like an early Hollywood movie, don’t it? Somehow that’s exactly the sort of girl I see him ending up with — perfect fit.” He pressed his hands together for emphasis and said it with such conviction that Hutch had to smile.

“That in itself would be unusual, wouldn’t it?” Ross mumbled, almost inaudibly.

“Hmm?”

She shrugged. “A ‘perfect fit’. Love comes in all shapes and sizes, but almost never, I think, in the package we expect.”

The two men exchanged the briefest of glances before Hutch spoke. “Maybe in the end it doesn’t really matter,” he suggested softly, his gaze suddenly intense.

She returned the gaze and replied evenly, “I’m sure it doesn’t. It’s rare enough in any form.”

McMahon chose that particular moment to rejoin them, studying their faces for a few seconds before speaking. “Okay, what’d I miss? You all look too serious.”

His partner smiled up at him. “I was waxing philosophic again — it has that effect on people. How’s Cami?”

“Great! Said to say “hi” to everyone. Wonders when I’m comin’ home.”

“What did you tell her?” Ross asked with a curious smile.

“That I did, too.”

As soon as McMahon returned to his spot on the floor, Hutch cleared his throat. Somebody has to get the ball rolling and it might as well be me.

“What have we got?” he began. “Toby Debaran is either dead or isn’t dead, depending on who you talk to. We know at least a part of the nucleus of his organization has gathered here and they seem to be doing whatever it takes to get money. Why?” He looked from one face to the next, waiting for a response.

“Money’s always good,” McMahon offered with a shrug.

Starsky laughed and looked down at Hutch. “Can’t argue with that, huh? Well, either someone intends to rebuild or they’re distributing the wealth before going their separate ways. Don’t see too many other ways of reading that one.”

When no one else had anything to add, Hutch went on. “Why won’t anyone talk to us? Every lead just takes us to another dead end, or at least back to where we started.”

Ross spoke up next. “I’m inclined to believe that most of the people we’ve spoken with genuinely know nothing more than they’ve told us, and that goes for both here and New York. It’s part of what’s so frustrating about this. You can eventually manipulate people into giving you what you want, but you can’t make someone tell you what they don’t know. Although I do sometimes have serious doubts about Mercury’s veracity,” she admitted.

“She knows a lot more than she’s willing to share — I’d best my life on it.” Starsky reluctantly took the last sip of his half-bottle allotment of beer, glaring at Hutch as the other cheerfully handed him a root beer as replacement.

“There’s something strange about her,” Hutch mused.

Starsky nudged him. “Been tellin’ you that from the beginning.”

“No, it’s more than that.” Hutch furrowed his brow, tenaciously clawing at a rapidly retreating proto-thought. “Why you alone? Why none of us?”

“Good taste?” Starsky laughed, as Hutch shot him a withering look. “She remembered me from before, she said –”

“I know what she said,” Hutch interrupted. “But just hypothetically, looking at all the other possibilities… Why would someone typically specify one person over someone else?”

There was silence as each searched for theoretical answers. It was McMahon who spoke up first.

“Fear of being recognized?”

Three pairs of eyes locked onto him like he had just spoken in Chinese, and he shifted uncomfortably under the spotlight.

“I mean,” he continued, hesitantly at first, “it’s the first thing that you would usually think of, isn’t it? That someone would be trying to hide their identity?”

For almost a full minute, the sound of a pin dropping to the floor would have reverberated like thunder. Hutch found his voice first and said with a shrug, “Okay. I don’t think we ever considered that. Does it fit? Who could the three of us know, that you wouldn’t?” He jerked a thumb in Starsky’s direction.

“Fitting the general description of Mercury,” Ross added. She began listing the woman’s traits, “Female, mid forties, small build, short stature –” She was stopped mid-sentence by the sight of both Starsky and Hutch tensing in unison, wide eyes locked onto each other, experiencing a silent-but-shared epiphany. Starsky reached down for the file, but Hutch got to it first and joined his partner on the couch. Pointing to the photograph within, he almost whispered, “Is it?” When there was no immediate response he tried again, only louder.

Starsky raised his eyes, a grimly triumphant expression on his face, and conveyed his answer silently to Hutch before letting the others in on what had just taken place. Holding up the photograph so that both Ross and McMahon could see it clearly, he announced, “Everyone, I would like you to meet Mercury Walker. Different hair, different make-up, different persona, but definitely her.”

In his hands was a photograph of Lorna Jensen.

McMahon let out a low whistle while the other three attempted to integrate this newest piece of information into what they knew of the larger picture.

“So who does Lorna represent, anyway?” McMahon asked. “Debaran or someone else?”

“Debaran,” Ross said with an air of finality. “At least I think we have to assume so until such time as we have another working theory.” She paused. “My God. So many things make sense now. No wonder we never got very far with her leads, she’s been sending us down a progression of bunny trails from the very beginning.”

“Even tonight has a certain logic to it,” Hutch agreed. “Especially if it really was a private deal. Debaran, or whoever, found out about it and didn’t take kindly to his people freelancing — particularly with his property. There probably never were any out-of-towners. Through Lorna, he burned his own people and used us as the match.”

“At least she should be easy to pick up,” McMahon said brightly. “We’ll grab her next meeting, won’t know what hit ‘er.”

“I’ve been looking forward to interrogating her for a long time now.” Ross’s face could have been chiseled from stone.

“No.” Starsky, who had been uncharacteristically quiet up until then, finally spoke up. “There might be a better way.” He looked at each face as if to see if anyone was going to contradict him outright. When no one did, he continued. “We’re assuming that Lorna transformed herself into Mercury for the express purpose of keeping tabs on what we’re doing, right? To get information from us, lead us in as many wrong directions as she could without rousing suspicion, to distract us from whatever’s actually going on.”

“And bring regular reports back to her boss,” Hutch added quietly. He had a feeling he knew where his partner was heading and wasn’t sure he liked it much.

“That, too,” Starsky agreed. “Well, we might just have the chance to turn the tables on her. She doesn’t know I know. I could feed her some disinformation for a change, try and force her into giving us something useful.”

Ross gave the proposition some thought, then shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. A bird in the hand…”

“Please,” Starsky said softly. “At least let me try. It’s too good of an opportunity to just throw away.”

“He’s right.” Hutch spoke with grave certainty, smiling up at his partner as he heard the other man exhale the breath he had been holding. Starsky gazed at him, his expression a combination of relief, gratitude, and maybe just a touch of surprise. “She’s been smart, but let’s assume we’re smarter and see where Lorna leads us when she’s not holding all of the cards.”

Ross cocked her head to one side and stared intensely at Starsky. “Are you good enough to pull this off without tipping her off?”

“I’ve never known anyone better undercover.” It was Hutch who answered without hesitation. It was, after all, the truth.

With only a cursory glance at her partner, Ross turned back to the two men on the couch and smiled. “Sold.”

 

FEBRUARY 15, 1980

Lorna scoped Starsky out from head to toe and seemed satisfied with what she saw.

“You look one hundred percent better than you did the last time we met. Fully recovered I hope?” Her voice was light and almost bubbling over with confidence; completely at ease now in his company.

And that’s exactly how I want you to stay. “Amazing what a good night’s sleep or two will do for ya. I was fine by the next day.”

“Glad to hear it. And I gather congratulations are in order.” She bent down at the waist in a passable bow. “Was thrilled beyond words to learn you nabbed Abolese, et al. Under the circumstances, I wasn’t sure you had even heard what I was saying, let alone would remember both the correct warehouse and the time.” She chewed enthusiastically on her bubble gum. “Sorry Marty wasn’t among the glistening jewels of humanity you picked up, but hey, you can’t win ’em all.”

“Funny thing about that,” Starsky began, matching her amiability point for point. “They all swear that it was a private deal instigated by Al Richter. And ya know something? During the entire course of the interrogations, Marty’s name didn’t come up. Not even once.”

Seemingly in an introspective mood all of a sudden, she furrowed her brow and blew a bubble thoughtfully. “Hmm. It’s a stumper, all right. Anyone mention Debaran?”

Starsky noticed that she was searching his face a little more closely than usual and worked to keep his expressions in line with what she thought he knew.

“Nope. Hutch says they all looked like at him like he was nuts when he mentioned old Toby. Everyone seemed pretty well convinced he was dead.” Leaning closer to her, he almost whispered, “You don’t happen to know of anyone who’s actually seen him around, do you? Someone who might be willing to give us a lead? Even something insignificant would be helpful at this point. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re kinda hitting our heads up against a wall right now.”

She considered for a moment. “Maybe. I’m working on someone, trying to earn his trust, but he hasn’t opened up to me yet. I don’t want to give you any false hope, but I think he might be the one. Wish me luck, huh?”

Yep, right after I sell all of my belongings and go raise yaks in Tibet. He nodded and flashed her his most engaging smile. “So what else have you got for me?”

She was staring deeply at him again and he returned the gaze, taking great care to betray nothing. Come on, don’t do this to me. Now’s a hell of time for a flash of woman’s intuition. He could almost feel the meeting degenerating into a subtle game of chess between the two of them and Starsky didn’t like it one bit.

Lorna gnawed away at her lower lip for a moment, seemed to reach a decision and finally offered, “You might not believe this, but I think that Marty’s decided to re-join the world. From what I hear, he’s going to be meeting personally with a local named Carl Wellman. Ring any bells?”

“Yeah,” he said dubiously. “He’s one of our more colorful guns-for-hire. Who exactly does Banks want dead?”

“Don’t know, but maybe you can ask them. They’re meeting at the Hillcrest Hotel on Fifth and Pine, Room 22, seven thirty in the evening on the eighteenth.” She grinned broadly and lightly poked him in the arm with an index finger. “I’ll be expecting my honorary badge in the mail, but you can pay me the cash now.”

He slipped her a fifty, grateful that they were official now and the Department was picking up the tab.

“Thanks. Oh, and I finally got some solid news on Lorna.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s officially flown the coop. Best guess is that she ended up in Rio, but nobody knows for sure.”

“About what we figured, huh?” You missed your calling, sweetheart. Should’ve been an undercover cop.He found himself smiling as he wondered if she wasn’t perhaps thinking he would have made a brilliant criminal.

“What we figured,” she agreed.

Their conversation lasted a few minutes longer, but contained nothing that Starsky could identify as having any discernible substance. When the time came, she rose with dramatic flair, issued her standard wave to Hutch, and was gone.

As soon as Lorna was no longer in sight, Hutch joined his pensive-looking partner on the bench.

“So, how’d it go?”

“Not sure,” Starsky replied softly. “It felt kinda weird this time.”

“Weird how?”

“Not sure.” He shook his head and turned toward Hutch with a smile, patting him lightly on the thigh. “I don’t know, it’s probably just me. I’ll tell you something that is strange, though: she gave me a line on Banks. Says he has a meet set on Monday with Carl Wellman.”

“Paretti’s hitter?” Hutch asked, genuinely puzzled.

“The one and only. And before you ask, I have no idea.” Paretti was the moderately-well-situated dealer who utilized Wellman’s particular brand of talent the most, usually to permanently dispatch rival dealers. How he would have gotten hooked up with a guy like Banks and, even more interestingly, why, was beyond Starsky just now.

Hutch looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, Lorna’s last tip was on the money. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll get a line on Debaran next. If not, at least we stand a chance of bagging two wanted felons — that’s not a bad day’s work.” When there was no response forthcoming, he glanced over at Starsky and found him staring straight ahead, as if in a trance. “Starsk? Hey, you still in there?”

“Hmm… Hmm?” He straightened then, surprised.

“You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I was just thinkin’. Why would Lorna tell us this? I mean, I can understand the last one. Richter was freelancing and Lorna’s boss wanted both him and his friends out of the way, but why this?”

“Maybe Marty’s up to something, too.”

“Banks?” Starsky snorted. “He’s never had an original idea in his life. Wouldn’t know what to do with one if it hopped into his lap and introduced itself.”

“Diversion then. Gotta be. It’s about the only other choice.”

Starsky exhaled loudly. “Talk about your needle in a haystack. It’s a big city out there and we don’t even know what we’re supposed to be being diverted from.”

In an uncharacteristic display of optimism, Hutch cheerfully replied, “Well, we’ve got three days. Let’s turn the town upside down and see what shakes loose. Who knows? We’ve gotten lucky before.”

 

FEBRUARY 18, 1980

Hutch fidgeted as he snapped on his holster. Gratified as he was that his optimism hadn’t been completely unfounded, it didn’t make leaving this way any easier.

Thanks mostly to the enlightened self-interest demonstrated by a prostitute busted for solicitation — she had been enthusiastically trawling for johns at Nell’s Club at the time — they had uncovered a scenario that at least hinted at being worthy of a diversion. James Lord and Mickey Pringle were rumored to be meeting with a known money launderer down by the waterfront, at roughly the same time and clear on the other side of town from where the supposed meet between Banks and Wellman was set. Just to be on the safe side, Metro was dispatching officers to both locations. It was, however, the Pringle and Lord meeting that was generating the most excitement, and it was to there that Hutch, Ross, and McMahon would be heading in twenty minutes.

What made it difficult was having to leave Starsky behind. While his partner was actively involved in every other conceivable aspect of the case, at least insofar as he was able, a planned raid was completely out of the question. Hutch glanced briefly into the living room where Starsky was dejectedly toying with the puzzle. He hadn’t asked to come and wouldn’t, Hutch knew, but the pain was an almost tangible presence.

He wandered into the living room slowly and sat down close alongside his partner. “Hey there, buddy…” he began, then faltered, not really knowing what else to say. With a heavy sigh, Hutch rubbed his hand up and down the other man’s back a few times. “I’m sorry.”

Starsky smiled sadly at him. “Hey, it’s not your fault, is it? S’ okay.” The way he spoke made it difficult to determine just who was trying to comfort whom. “Stop lookin’ at me like I’m freezing to death and you just stole my last blanket, huh? It’s fine. It’s not like I would be a lot of help if I did tag along, probably just get in the way.”

“Never,” Hutch replied with conviction. “It won’t be long now, you know, and we’ll be out there together…like we’re supposed to be.” He hoped he was being reassuring. To him, the words were filled with as much dread as promise.

“Better believe it.”

“I do,” he said seriously. “I do.”

Starsky snaked an arm around his partner’s waist and gave a quick squeeze. “Thanks. Well, fill me in on what goes down tonight, even if you have to take notes, okay? Now get outta here,” he ordered, giving Hutch an energetic shove off the couch.

As the door closed behind him, Hutch found himself oddly looking forward to this case being wrapped up and going back on desk duty, boring as that was. Actually, he reflected, the boredom’s a good part of the draw. It was no doubt in large part because of it that Starsky didn’t particularly envy his days at work. Seeing the expression on his partner’s face minutes ago had cut into him on a deeper level than the physical could ever reach. A lingering pain, it was just getting too hard to keep walking out the door.

Hutch sat in his usual position in the passenger seat of the car bestowed upon Ross for the duration of their stay; Ross behind the steering wheel, McMahon directly behind her in the back seat. They had arrived early at a waterfront hotel called The Mirador and found a perfect spot from which to observe all of the guest’s arrivals and departures. The ideal place to do surveillance.

McMahon spotted Pringle and Lord before either of his colleagues, excitedly pointing them out with the help of binoculars.

“Jackie was right, something really is going down tonight.” McMahon sounded as if it were the last thing he had actually expected.

“If this pays off, remind me to do something nice for Jackie,” Ross replied with a smile.

“We already did.” Hutch adjusted the binoculars to his liking as he spoke. “Got her bail reduced by half and convinced the DA to knock off two of the three charges pending. Her information turned out to be as much of a gold mine for her as it might be for us.” He was about to pass the binoculars over to Ross when he noticed another familiar face.

“Well, look who’s approaching from the marina.” He pointed out the solitary figure nervously making his way toward The Mirador.

“Venable?” Ross asked hopefully. “He’s a little twitchy, isn’t he?”

“Experienced,” Hutch replied evenly. Relinquishing the binoculars, he grabbed the radio and announced to the black and white units parked out of sight that they now had confirmation on all three suspects and to prepare to move in on his signal.

“So how long are we gonna give ’em a before we crash the party?” McMahon reminded Hutch of a bull at a rodeo, bucking against the barrier in its enthusiasm to get into the ring.

“Oh, fifteen, twenty minutes. Long enough for them to settle in and get comfortable.”

Ross picked up on his line of thought and continued the lesson. “It’s better to let the edge wear off before you go in. The more the suspects have relaxed into their own business, the more effective the element of surprise.”

Hutch turned to her with a grin. “You’re knees would probably appreciate a nice quiet surrender.”

“More than just my knees,” she shot back. “I always pray for by-the-book arrests. The excitement of battle is highly over-rated.”

Ross got her wish. Twenty three minutes later, three detective plus four uniformed officers entered Room 39 and took James Lord, Mickey Pringle, Edward Venable, two guns, and a suitcase packed with three hundred twenty thousand dollars into custody without incident.

God bless accountants, Hutch thought with a satisfied smile. ‘They’ll never take me alive’ was apparently not a phrase to which they were strongly bonded. Lord and Venable had failed to even try to draw their weapons; Pringle didn’t have one to begin with.

McMahon declined to accompany Hutch and Ross on the ride back to Metro, preferring instead to have a patrol car drop him off at the stakeout still in progress over at the Hillcrest. The lure of making an additional two arrests in one night apparently held a much stronger appeal than the admittedly more tedious routine of booking and interviewing did. For tonight at least, no one had the heart to argue with him.

As soon as the three suspects were making their way through booking, Hutch grabbed the phone and rang Starsky at home. A thought had occurred to him somewhere along the way and, while perhaps not entirely in keeping with procedure, it wasn’t precisely forbidden, either.

*****

Starsky had abandoned the puzzle in less than half an hour. Feeling the need to accomplish something, yet just now possessing little of the enthusiasm required to actually make a start, he did manage to jot down a series of updates to his file of notes. As he read through them, vainly hoping to see a previously invisible pattern magically appear out of the chaos, he concluded that the entire exercise had been nothing but a colossal waste of time and chucked the lot into a corner.

Idly picking up a book next, Starsky found he couldn’t really get into it, either. The television was the next logical choice and he eventually settled for an old science fiction movie he had seen three times already. It wasn’t a favorite, but he had come to the rather dismal conclusion that this was probably about as good as it was going to get this evening.

He was seriously considering a brief-but-heartfelt wallow in self-pity when the phone rang. You’ve got impeccable timing — you know that, partner? he thought fondly. Don’t let anyone ever tell you any different.

“Hello?”

“Starsk?”

“Nope. He got bored and sailed for Tahiti three hours ago.”

“We got ’em,” Hutch announced, completely ignoring the quip. “Pringle, Lord, and Venable…just as Jackie laid it out for us.”

“Without a hitch?”

“Without a hitch. And you haven’t heard the best part yet. Our bonus was three hundred and twenty thousand dollars worth of dirty money, just waiting to be cleaned — all from one of Debaran’s earlier gun deals.”

“Yes!” Starsky was fairly certain that the sound of his fist impacting the table carried through the phone lines, probably conveying his feelings more eloquently than any words he could have latched onto. “Y’ think one of ’em will roll?”

“Well, I don’t know, but I thought you might wanna come down and see for yourself. I could use some help with the interviews…if I’m not tearing you away from anything important, that is.”

Starsky was silent for a moment as the offer sunk in. “You think Dobey would go for that? Me being in on the interrogations?”

“I didn’t ask. What do you think he’s gonna do, come in and drag you out?”

An unexpected rush of adrenaline momentarily impeded his ability to speak, but tongue and brain managed to re-connect after only a brief pause. “I’m on my way.” He placed the phone back on the receiver with care, grabbed his keys, and flew out the door.

“We’ve got Pringle and Lord,” Hutch explained to his eager partner as they sat at his desk at Metro. “I gave Venable to Ross.” He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. “Man, let me tell you, that woman knows how to conduct an interview. I was ready to confess myself and I was only in there about ten minutes.”

“I’m not surprised — she’s not exactly your average chick.” Starsky paused for a moment, reacquainting himself slowly with the squad room. “Mac still hanging out at the Hillcrest?”

Hutch consulted his watch. “Yeah, probably for another hour or two, but if nothing breaks by then…” He shrugged. “Well, you know what they say about hope springing eternal and Mac’s got a lotta hope. I don’t think he’s going to give in until the last possible moment.”

Swatting Starsky’s knee with a rolled-up notepad, he took his last swig of coffee, rose from the desk, and the two made their way down the hall to Interview Room Three. It was time to have a chat with Mickey Pringle.

Starsky glowered menacingly against a wall while Hutch made all of the official noises required of an officer about to launch into an interrogation, at the same time smoothly obtaining permission from Pringle to have his partner present in the room throughout the proceedings.

“Detective Starsky is here as a consultant only,” he concluded, turning to Pringle. “That means that he cannot ask you any questions directly, but may address questions and request clarifications through me. You have no objection to that, do you?”

“Uh, no. I guess not.”

Pringle was already sweating profusely, Hutch noticed with pleasure, and the interview hadn’t even begun.

“So, Mickey — you don’t mind if I call you Mickey? So, what were you doing with all that money tonight?”

“Uh…I already answered that already. Earlier.” He licked his lips nervously.

Hutch glanced up at Starsky, who had moved a couple of steps closer, arms still folded. “Yes, I know you did. My partner hadn’t arrived yet, though, and I think he’d appreciate hearing, too.”

“We wanted it laundered.”

Hutch made a face, though his tone remained patient. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“What?”

“Your employer. We’d like a name. Try and focus, Mickey. Who are you working for?”

Pringle glanced at Hutch but was riveted by Starsky, who had just gotten closer by another three steps.

“I, I… I don’t know. I don’t know. We weren’t told.”

Starsky opened his mouth for the first time, being careful to address his question to Hutch instead of Pringle, speaking very slowly. “Is he stupid or is he lying?”

Hutch exchanged a long glance with his partner, then leaned back in the chair. To Pringle, he calmly asked, “Are you stupid or are you lying?”

“Stu — No! Neither. I just don’t know.”

Hutch clicked his tongue against the side of his cheek. “Now you see, that right there is where we have a problem. You never once thought to ask?”

“No one would ever say and…” He looked down at the table glumly. “No, I didn’t ask. It’s just, well, it’s better sometimes if you don’t know.”

“Okay, let’s assume that I buy that. How did it work? Your orders didn’t fall from the sky and the money didn’t get up and walk itself over to you. Unless you want us to believe this was all conducted on an invisible plane of existence, you must’ve seen somebody at one point or another.”

He was so preoccupied with Starsky’s slow, purposeful advance that Hutch had to tap the table with his pen a few time in order regain Pringle’s attention.

“Well, we, we used five different drop sites. All in rotation. We’d get our orders from one, pick up the money at another, and so on.” He leaned back in his chair, trying to put distance between himself and Starsky, who was hovering directly in front of him. Pringle looked plaintively over at Hutch.

“Look, guys.” He spread his arms submissively. “I’m just a glorified banker. I don’t know anymore, honest.” He placed his hand against Starsky’s chest as the detective leaned into his face.

Without moving his body, Starsky turned his head in Hutch’s direction.

“Is he touchin’ me? I think he’s touching me.”

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Hutch suggested. “He doesn’t like it.”

Pringle withdrew his hand as if he had been shocked and stared, owl-eyed, into Starsky’s too-near face.

Hutch pulled himself up from the chair with a sigh and tucked it neatly back against the table. “Come on,” he said cheerfully to his partner. “Let’s take a break, give Mickey here a chance to reflect awhile. What do you say?”

He laid a hand lightly on Starsky’s shoulder, feigned surprise when the other man jerked away, and watched as Starsky shot from the room, slamming the door in his wake. The blond shrugged his shoulders at a now thoroughly spooked Pringle, and left the room without a word.

Starsky was busily assaulting the vending machine as Hutch joined him in the hallway.

“I hope Pringle has a change of underwear. You’re scaring the hell out of him, Starsk.”

Starsky grinned as he waited for the candy bar to drop out the slot. He patted the machine fondly now, another ghost from the past he was visiting tonight.

“That’s the whole idea, but I’m not sure it’ll do much good. Mickey doesn’t strike me as the type to be honorably holding out, which means…”

“…that he’s probably telling the truth. Yeah, I’m inclined to agree. Still, I’ll go take another swing at him in a minute. You want to go see how Ross is fairing?”

“With pleasure.” Starsky gave his partner a halfhearted salute and started heading toward Interview Room One.

“Hey,” Hutch called after him softly.

“Yeah?”

“Stop having so much fun. It confuses people.”

Starsky grinned. “If we have to, we’ll unconfuse ’em later. I couldn’t stop now if I tried.”

When the interviews were over, the three detectives gathered over coffee in an empty interview room to compare notes on a less-than-encouraging evening.

“As it turned out, the only major difference between Pringle and Lord is that Lord wasn’t nearly as easy to intimidate.” Tired, Hutch had slumped down in the chair, fingers busily straightening a paperclip as he spoke.

“Their stories matched perfectly.” Starsky continued the thought, turning a chair around backwards before he sat, as was his custom. “Much as we wanted to believe they were lyin’, we don’t think they were. Whoever’s doing this, they’re enough of a pro to stay completely invisible. Out of sight, out of reach.”

“It really is beginning to sound like Debaran, isn’t it?” Ross mused. “Well, I hate to add even more bad news to the growing list, but I got even less from Venable. I honestly don’t know how he manages to stay in business — he’s got to be one of the most clueless people I’ve ever met.”

“It’s not for lack of technique. I saw how you worked him in there — you could teach a class in the art of interrogation.” Hutch smiled, then turned to her quizzically. “How did you ever…”

His question was cut off as McMahon walked in and joined them with a sigh, despondency emanating from him in waves.

“No joy, hmm?” Ross inquired gently.

“I sat there in that creepy, cramped little room they had set up until after midnight, all for no good reason,” he grumbled. “Neither one of ’em bothered to show. Hell…no one even tried to rent the room.”

“The exciting life of a street cop,” Starsky commented dryly. “Better get used to it, kid. It’s about seventy-five percent of what we do.”

“Yeah, and the other twenty-five percent’s paperwork,” Hutch chuckled. “Well, we didn’t fare much better than you. Why break up a perfect score?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Starsky’s tone was decidedly upbeat. “We still ended up with a sizable chunk of Debaran’s money. The night hasn’t exactly been a total wash.”

The unspoken reality, of course, was that seizing the money had almost certainly tipped Debaran off that they were onto both he and Lorna. Calculated risk that it was, when all of the available options had been weighed, they had deemed it was a chance worth taking. The fallout — if any — could be contained later.

Just now, at least, Starsky couldn’t have cared less. He had been a cop again — not officially — but had re-claimed his rightful place alongside his partner in all of the major interrogations and savored every moment of it. Whatever else, it had been a good night.

 

 FEBRUARY 20, 1980

Changing the burned-out porch light was becoming a far greater challenge than either man had been prepared for. As it was Hutch who was dangling by his teeth from the latter, he was understandably the more piqued of the two and didn’t seem inclined to contribute much to the conversation Starsky was determined to engage in.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Starsky complained again, just in case Hutch had missed it the first time.

“No — damn! — it doesn’t. Would you hand me that, that…” he pointed to the hammer.

“You hit it too hard, you’ll break the glass,” Starsky warned. He was trying to be helpful; Hutch didn’t seem to be taking it that way.

“I mean, if Debaran really is dead, who was it who pulled out the money? And if he’s not…well, the number of people who would have to be involved…it just doesn’t fit.”

“Well, we’re obviously missing something then. What did you do to this thing, anyway? Glue it in place?” He tapped more aggressively at the uncooperative light fixture.

“You hafta turn it counterclockwise or…”

“I know that. I’m just trying to loosen it a little first.”

Starsky didn’t point out the unlikelyhood of it loosening while being turned ever tighter. “Maybe he worked with someone. Y’ know? Someone who had access to the account information, too.”

“Someone that no one has ever seen? Even heard a rumor about? Hand me the towel, huh?”

Starsky sighed and did as requested without further comment. Hutch was right, he knew — it was a highly improbable theory. There was something though, a not quite retrievable thought nagging at him from just below the surface of his consciousness, something he missed. Oh well. It would come to him in its own time, when it was ready. He glanced up at the sound of soft swearing to see that his partner had finally wrested the glass globe off only to find the bulb firmly stuck, too.

“Hey, Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“How many cops does it take…”

“STARSKY!”

*****

With Hutch reluctantly on his way to work, Starsky sat hovering over the now nearly finished puzzle, left to sort through the dilemma on his own. If only the case were going as well, he thought darkly, gazing at the bizarre work of Mr. Escher so neatly laid out before him on the coffee table.

What have we got? He wasn’t willing to concede that Debaran was actually dead, not yet. If he was, that left a mystery person pulling all the strings and that scenario was entirely too open-ended. The alternative wasn’t much better: Debaran alive meant that a huge number of people were involved in a complex conspiracy that literally spanned from one coast to the other. Lorna was working for the top man — of that he was reasonably certain — but his own dealings with her were mixed at best. Half the time he couldn’t tell who was playing whom. The people who had been arrested either genuinely didn’t know anything or were too afraid to talk.

Starsky sat back in the chair, rubbing his hands over his face in frustration: the whole thing was making him dizzy. He toyed with a few pieces of puzzle, hoping to get his mind off the entire mess for awhile, but neither his heart nor mind was really in it. Well, he thought dryly, there was a time when I didn’t think we stood a snowball’s chance in finishing this, either, so maybe there’s hope after all. How had they accomplished this great task, anyway? It had looked impossible enough in the beginning. Borders, a voice inside his head answered and a memory slowly began to make its way to the surface of his mind. What was it that Hutch had said? “…work the borders first. That way you’re starting with what you know and the rest fits into place.”

Okay, fine. Start with what you know. Starsky pulled out his file of personal notes, read over everything again, and gave it some thought. Debaran headed a sophisticated, efficient, and powerful organization — first in LA, then in New York. It was compromised, shut down, and Debaran either dead or made to look so. He frowned. Well, that wasn’t precisely correct, for a start. What do we actually know? An organization existed. It was compromised and should have shut down, but didn’t — at least not completely. Someone who looked like Debaran was killed. Better, but what’s the common denominator? Someone had to have both the opportunity and ability…

He froze as an idea, so elegantly simple in its design that he was tempted to discard it outright, began to insinuate itself upon his consciousness. What if they had been going about this all wrong? They had been so wrapped up in following dead leads, interviewing people who knew nothing, chasing a conspiracy that would rival anything that came out of Watergate…could the answer really be that simple in the end? He tested the newly-born theory out, looked at it from every conceivable angle, searched for something — anything — that might refute it. Then, without benefit of celestial fanfare or fireworks, he knew.

First things first. He picked up the phone to call Hutch, hands shaking to the point that tapping the correct buttons was something of a challenge. To the friendly voice on the other end he said, “I need to speak to Detective Hutchinson.” Silence.

“I’m sorry, he’s out in the field. Can I take a message?”

“No time. Can you tatch me p–” he took a deep breath. “Can you patch me through to him?

“I’m sorry, but we don’t…”

“Listen to me. I’m his partner — was… no, is — this is Detective David Starsky and it’s an emergency.” He hoped that even if she didn’t understand what he was trying to say, she would at least grasp the underlying urgency.

“One moment please.”

One moment turned into several and Starsky felt as though several lifetimes were going by while he was on hold. Finally a click. Success?

A voice, breathless, as though the man it belonged to had been running a marathon, came over a static-y connection. “Starsky?”

“Hutch! I need to see you, now.”

“Starsky, what –? Are you all right?”

It wasn’t until he heard the tightly controlled panic in Hutch’s voice that he realized what this must be sounding like to his partner. What could be so wrong that it would warrant an interruption of this sort? He was sorry, silently vowed to make it up to him later, but right now there just wasn’t time.

“I’m fine, I’m better than fine. Meet me at Metro as soon as you can, okay? I just fit all of the pieces together.”

*****

The next step after leaving Hutch was to head to The Pits and get the ball rolling there. If this plan of his was to have any chance of success at all, the timing would have to be almost perfect and everyone had a role to play. The bar, thankfully, was fairly quiet at this time of the day and Starsky didn’t have to wait long before Huggy made his way over.

“Hey Starsky, your other half abandon you again?”

“Yep, he’s at work. Listen, something big is going down and I need to contact Mercury. We’ve found Debaran.”

After a pause, Huggy said. “Didn’t know he was lost. Don’t dead guys usually stay wherever you put ’em?”

“Debaran’s not dead; it’s been smoke and mirrors the whole time. Can’t explain now, just make contact. She’s been a good snitch and I’d hate to see her get dragged down in this. Get word to her to get outta the way, okay? Everything will be over by this evening.”

“Done.”

*****

The walk Starsky took after leaving Huggy had done nothing to quell the agitation he was feeling. As he walked up the steps into the eerily quiet apartment, he was keenly aware of the doubt gouging ever larger holes in his rapidly diminishing confidence.

What if he had read it wrong? All the hours, all the efforts of four dedicated detectives — not to mention the legion of assisting manpower from two coasts utilized during the course of their investigation — wasted because of his arrogance. There hadn’t even been time to tell Hutch his theory, just to explain what to do and when to do it. Hutch had been curious, obviously, but hadn’t even for a moment questioned the ‘why’ of it all — the trust between them was that implicit. Starsky wanted desperately to prove it justified.

Problem was, none of this was based on anything tangible. It was all instinct and instincts, he knew, could be spectacularly way-off base. Especially when you’ve been out of circulation for as long as I have. That wasn’t even taking into account the very real possibility that even if he was on the mark, it might just be too little, too late.

Stop it, he scolded himself as he put the car keys back in their usual place. You’re right and you know it, know it with every fiber of your being. Stop second-guessing yourself and be patient.

Patience, as it turned out, wasn’t required after all. He heard the front door open just then, very softly behind him. Didn’t have to turn around to know who it was; waited for the intruder to speak first.

“Nice place,” Lorna said simply.

“Glad you like it.” As Starsky turned around to face her, he idly wondered if she had climbed up on top of something to reach the house key or had opted to pick the lock.

“Word has it you found Debaran. Tell me more.”

He didn’t have the chance before Hutch emerged from the bedroom, Magnum in hand.

“Hutch!” Wearing an amused grin, she sounded genuinely pleased to see him. “What is it with you and hiding, anyway? Oh, and I see you weren’t alone.”

As Ross and McMahon also ventured forth from the bedroom, Lorna jokingly peered around behind them. “Any more back there?”

“Just us,” Ross replied coolly. “Hello, Lorna.”

She sighed heavily. “I thought as much. Oh, well. Being Mercury was a blast for as long as it lasted.” Turning to Hutch, “Put that canon away, dear. You’ll poke someone’s eye out.”

“I think I’ll wait until you’ve been frisked, if it’s all the same to you.”

Ross did the honors as Lorna first shrugged, then compliantly spread arms and legs. If appearances were even a marginally accurate barometer, she was by far the most relaxed person in the room. No weapon found, she turned her attention back to Starsky.

“It’s not true then, any of it? Debaran being alive, I mean.”

“No.” He stared at her unblinkingly, his expression jarringly serious. “I lied.”

“And here I thought we had this great working relationship going for us.” Her grin began to fade when she realized that he wasn’t playing along with her at all this time. A strange, silent conversation between the two adversaries ensued, as comprehension, momentary panic, and finally defeat all played across her face in rapid succession. She gazed down briefly at the floor, composed herself, then raised her eyes once again to Starsky. The smile was resigned now, but back nevertheless.

“Who are you working for?” McMahon asked. “If you cooperate, I’m sure we can reach some kind of an agreement we can all live with.

Words right out of the manual, Starsky thought. You still have a long ways to go, kid.

Lorna flashed an indulgent smile at the young detective, but said nothing. It was to Starsky that she addressed herself when she spoke.

“How long have you known? And you must tell me where I made my mistake. If you’re honest with yourself, you know we’ve both enjoyed the game. I think you owe me that much at least.”

Starsky felt himself redden slightly, wanting very much to argue with the assertion but finding that he couldn’t. “I didn’t know until just now. Not for sure. Didn’t even suspect until this morning. And it wasn’t a mistake that tipped me off: I just kept on going over everything we had and no matter how many different ways I turned it, nothing else made any sense. Of course,” he added, “the hints you kept dropping on me didn’t hurt, either. Your cracks about how much money you made, going to ‘see a man about a horse’…a little slow on the uptake on that one,” he admitted with a grin.

Hutch’s attention had been riveted on Starsky for several minutes now and out of the corner of his eye, Starsky had had the pleasure of watching as the light dawned. He still wasn’t sure if Ross was on the same page yet; knew from his expression that McMahon was still hanging several chapters back.

“What about a horse?” McMahon looked completely bewildered.

“Heroin, Detective McMahon,” Lorna replied smartly. “AKA ‘smack’ or ‘horse’. Surely they taught you that at Cop 101.” Turning back to Starsky. “None of the clues were that obvious and I had to take my fun where I could find it, after all.” Scanning the faces in the room, she added, “But really David, you shouldn’t have left your friends in the dark. I wouldn’t have pegged you as the dramatic type.”

“Wasn’t time to fill everyone in.”

“Mmm. I was planning on catching a flight this evening. Especially after what you did to me on Monday. Not nice.” She wagged a finger at him admonishingly. “I had plans for that money.”

“There is no one else,” Hutch whispered, finally recovering his voice. He rubbed at his mouth a few times, wide-eyed. “There never was.”

“Give Detective Hutchinson a gold star!” Lorna applauded, then moved toward the couch. “Let’s all go get comfortable, shall we? These heels are hell on the feet.”

A shocked-looking Ross tugged at her partner’s arm, urging him close enough to whisper something in his ear. He nodded, hastily beating a retreat back into the bedroom while his colleagues silently followed after Lorna.

She plopped herself down eagerly in front of the puzzle and proceeded to make herself at home.

“‘Escher’s Metamorphose’…ambitious.” She made a face. “You mind?” Lifting a puzzle piece, she glanced up at the three serious faces watching her. “Well go on,” she urged Starsky. “You worked it all out. That means you have dibs on explaining it to everyone else. Don’t worry, I’ll jump in if I need to.” With that, she turned her attention to fitting little cardboard pieces into place.

Starsky found himself unsure of where to begin. Haven’t had time to work it all out in my own head yet, let alone put it into words for anyone else. As much as he was savoring the moment, he almost wished that Hutch could take over. Of the two of them, he was by far the better orator.

“Nothing was making much sense to me this morning,” he began slowly, “and I began to wonder if we hadn’t been missing something important from the very beginning. We knew that the organization was still active, but not who was behind it. It’s a natural enough thing to do, I guess, but we kinda went ahead and filled in that vacuum with all sorts of neat theories, not a one of ’em based on anything solid.” He paused momentarily as McMahon re-joined them, giving a quick nod to his partner before he sat down.

“Anyway,” Starsky continued, “before that business with the bank account, no one had even considered the possibility that Debaran might not be dead. There never was anything to suggest that he was alive — no one actually saw him or talked to ‘im or even said they did.”

“But the codes…” McMahon protested.

“Exactly,” Starsky replied. “And if you set aside for a moment the idea of some huge conspiracy, you accept that Debaran truly is among the dearly departed and that Krueger is out of the picture, you’re left with a mystery someone who had to be very close to the top of the heap to have that kind of information. I couldn’t really warm up to the idea of some phantom third person out there that no one had even heard of, so who was left? Between the two investigations, we had pretty much worked out how everybody fit into the picture. With one notable exception.”

“Lorna,” Ross said softly.

Without bothering to look up from her position on the couch, Lorna smiled brilliantly. She was, Starsky noticed ruefully, making short shrift of their jigsaw.

More at ease now and beginning to find a rhythm, he went on. “Lorna was the only person we could never quite figure out. At first I thought that maybe she was just really close to ol’ Toby, that she decided to take over after his timely passing, but that didn’t fit too well, either. We knew Debaran was a loner, spent more time with his antiques than he did with people, didn’t seem to want to be bothered all that much with the day to day even of his own business. It made me wonder –”

“…if maybe the business was never really his,” Hutch finished. For the first time since they had gathered, the blond smiled softly.

McMahon blinked. “You mean…she’s…she’s always been the one at the top?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Lorna said wryly, hands on hips. She seemed to conclude that this was as good a time as any to jump in. “Debaran was the perfect puppet — I offered him a lifestyle he otherwise would never have been able to afford and would do anything to keep. Toby really loved all of those pretty toys of his,” she mused. “The paintings, furniture, sculptures, what have you. It’s how he was able to rationalize away what we were doing. I think he fancied himself Flavius Aetius to the rest of the country’s Attila…last bastion of civilization in a world teeming with barbarians.”

“And how do you rationalize it?” Hutch’s voice was cold.

“I don’t. I made choices. They haven’t come without cost, but I’ve always found the benefits to outweigh the price exacted.”

Hutch bristled visibly. “For you, maybe. But there have been countless people hurt by your ‘choices’.”

“True enough.” She paused, more serious now than Starsky had ever seen her. “Then again, I’ve always believed that the scales eventually balance. I’ll face my own reckoning someday, in one fashion or another.” She examined a puzzle piece with a sigh, turning it over several times in her fingers. “But not, I think, anytime soon.” The smile had returned.

“Prison may not be the walk in the park you think it is,” McMahon said fiercely, recovering somewhat from the initial shock. “Especially when a few of the people you’ve burned learn where you are.”

“If I really thought I’d be seeing the inside of a prison, I might be a trifle worried,” she allowed. “As it is, I expect that those higher up on the food chain than you fine detectives might be more interested in what I have to say than in punishing me for my various and sundry sins. Your bosses, I think, are rather more circumspect than you give them credit for. Quid pro quo and all that,” she said with a wink. “Anyway, Toby and I made the perfect team. I gave him everything his little heart desired, including the awed respect of an astonishing number of people who were so terrified of the man they literally shook in his presence. Heady stuff for a guy who had been well on his way to obscure hermitdom before meeting me.” She glanced up at everyone. “It was a reverse Pygmalion, you see: I transformed him into a king. And all he had to do for me was to follow my orders. We briefed each other on everything that was going on and he did what I told him to do.”

“Didn’t it bother you to have someone else take credit for everything you accomplished?” Ross sounded dubious.

“My ego’s not that big,” Lorna replied with a shrug. “I might not have been able to indulge in quite the same extravagant lifestyle he enjoyed, but the almost total anonymity to do as I pleased was ample enough compensation. There were endless amounts of money at my disposal and, through him, I still had complete control over my own not-so-insignificant empire. An empire that would have been a lot more difficult to build if its subjects had known they were working for a woman. Besides, delegating comes naturally to me.” A thought seemed to occur and she held up her hand for emphasis. “You know, the only thing I could never quite bring myself to entrust to anyone else was the choice of location for the transactions themselves. I tried for awhile, but nobody else had quite the eye for it I do. Too many screw-ups.”

“Did anyone else know?” Starsky asked.

“No,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “We never told anyone. Cardinal rule. No one could be enticed into give me up that way. It also made the whole thing that much more fun.”

“If everything was going so swimmingly,” Ross asked with a frown, “why did you have Debaran killed?”

“I didn’t. Well, not exactly. After your undercover operation here in LA went ‘poof’ and you came away with virtually nothing, Toby began to think that we were somehow invulnerable.” She turned so that she was speaking directly to Ross. “I didn’t catch onto what you were doing in New York until it had already gone too far. We were severely compromised and I just wanted to salvage what I could and be off. Toby — who wasn’t the calmest person in the world on the best of days — went into a full-blown panic and there was no talking to him. Now I may have mentioned to a friend that he was becoming troublesome. I might’ve even hinted that, if I didn’t have Toby to worry about anymore, I could possibly point this friend in the direction of a sizable amount of cash, but I assure you, I never actually ordered Toby’s death. Perish the thought.”

Hutch rolled his eyes heavenward while Ross fixed Lorna with an impatient glare and asked, “Can we at least assume that the person you hinted this to wasn’t Owen Hill?”

“Owen? Good heavens, no. I doubt that he would recognize the business end of a gun if it jumped out and bit him. I hated to drop it in his lap, but it did serve to keep everyone looking in another direction until I had everything tidied up.” Pausing briefly, she added. “In exchange for some consideration, I could probably point you in the direction of the actual trigger man.”

“Your loyalty knows no bounds, does it?” Hutch inquired dryly.

“Someone in my position learns to be pragmatic.”

“I have to ask,” Ross began, “what did you do with the real Mercury?”

“Mercury? Oh, she’s fine. Enjoying an all-expenses-paid vacation in the Bahamas and having the time of her life, from what I gather. Not missing Marty in the least.”

The sound of sirens approaching served to halt the conversation where it stood, McMahon explaining to anyone who hadn’t yet figured it out, “I called for assistance.”

“Of course you did,” Lorna replied evenly. “Quite right, too.”

Hutch assumed command over the scene as soon as the uniformed officers reached the apartment, conferring with them in hushed tones by the door. They approached Lorna soon after, but she waved them aside.

“Tell them to be patient, will you?” she asked Starsky. “I’m not quite ready yet.”

Starsky motioned the decidedly startled officers to wait by the door as Lorna fit the last piece of the puzzle into place with a flourish. It was unusual, to say the least. Then again, what about this case had been normal?

“There!” she exclaimed triumphantly. Rising finally, she turned to face the people she had kept waiting. “I’m all yours, gentlemen.”

“You can put the handcuffs away,” Starsky said firmly. “Lorna will be on her best behavior. Won’t you, Lorna?”

For a just a moment, Lorna became Mercury again. Sidling up close to Starsky, she purred, “I’m always on my best behavior.” Bestowing a quick kiss on his cheek, she graced him with a sincere smile before setting off out the door.

 

 FEBRUARY 26, 1980

The six days following Lorna’s arrest had been filled with interviews, paperwork, and an appalling amount of bloodletting between the various agencies vying for control, each wholeheartedly convinced that proper jurisdiction in the case rested exclusively with them. The Feds eventually won, as they usually did, and had swiftly arranged for Lorna’s extradition, whisking her away to New York and leaving several angry police departments in their wake.

This was the first opportunity Starsky, Hutch, Ross, and McMahon had had to come together as a group since the day of the arrest and, as the two New York detectives were scheduled to fly back home in the morning, it was likely to be their last — for awhile, at least. The Pits was crowded, but Huggy had thoughtfully set aside a table for them.

“Tell me something,” McMahon implored, staring plaintively at Starsky. “How did you know that she’d come to find you? We were about going stir crazy hiding back there in the bedroom. I don’t know how many more hands of poker I could’ve taken.”

“I didn’t,” Starsky replied modestly. “It was just an educated guess. If she would’ve thought for one minute I was onto her, I don’t think she woulda risked it. Otherwise, what’d she have to lose? Worst case scenario, we had baited a trap to get ‘Lorna, small-time criminal’. She gives up Banks, posts bail, and skips the country anyway. I figured that hearing Debaran was alive would at least make her curious. After all, unless she actually pulled the trigger or was there when somebody else did, she didn’t know for certain that Debaran was dead, anymore than we did. By telling Huggy that everyone else was away at work, I figured she’d be comfortable coming up to the apartment. As long as she didn’t see any sign o’ the rest of you, that is.”

The younger detective still looked perplexed. “I know we got some of her loot, but not enough to bother with, really. She could’ve just walked away, if she’d gone then. Why didn’t she? The money from the Krueger account was already transferred…”

“If was never about the money for her,” Hutch interjected. “Not really.”

“No,” Starsky agreed. “She’s addicted to the power, I think, and even more than that, to the game. Couldn’t resist giving me clues, even if it did increase her chances of gettin’ caught. Maybe that was even part of the thrill. All those years of fooling everyone…” He pointed his finger at McMahon. “That was what brought her up to the apartment that day, y’know — she had to find out just how much I knew and what I was up to.”

“You almost wish she hadn’t, don’t you?” Hutch asked gently.

As pleased as he was with how things had gone, Starsky found it hard to rejoice too much in bringing Lorna down. Going toe to toe with her had been more fun than he cared to admit.

“Maybe we have more in common than I would’ve thought,” he mused aloud. “I think I might’ve enjoyed the game almost as much as she did, and y’know something? Despite everything that she’s done, everything that she is, when it comes right down to it I can’t really make myself not like her.” He smiled a little sadly. “I’m not sayin’ that she doesn’t deserve to be put away, but it didn’t necessarily make me jump up and down with joy bein’ the one to send her there.”

“Then you should be ecstatic to hear this,” said a voice from behind him. Ross was back, rejoining the others after finally getting off the phone with New York. “She called it right — she’ll never see the inside of a prison. Instead, our Lorna’s in the process of giving up everybody — some that we hadn’t even heard of yet. She doesn’t need them anymore, so why not? Everything to gain and nothing to lose.” She sounded more amused than resentful. “The Feds are more than happy to give her immunity for all she has to offer. Lorna will do her civic duty and be put straight into Witness Protection.”

“Where she will retrieve all of the money from her many numbered accounts and immediately set to work rebuilding her organization. Clever lady,” Hutch said with grudging admiration.

“She’d better watch it,” Starsky laughed, “you can make a lotta enemies that way.”

“Not if you have them all arrested,” Hutch replied dryly.

McMahon looked absolutely crestfallen. “I can’t believe it…after everything she did, everything we went through, she gets off scot free? It ain’t right.”

Ross smiled sympathetically at her partner and pushed his beer a little closer to him “Oh, I don’t know. Owen Hill probably doesn’t think it was a wasted effort. Besides, we won. We — well you —” she corrected, nodding toward Starsky “- figured it all out, despite the odds. That’s worth something in itself.”

“How much trouble are you in back home?” Hutch asked. It was common knowledge that Ross’s superiors were still plenty peeved with the way she had conducted herself during the course of the investigation.

“I’ve been given an official reprimand and told to forget about making Lieutenant any time soon, but that’s about as far as they’ll go. My instincts were right — they can’t punish me too much for following them. If it would’ve gone the other way, though…” she let the sentence trail off. “Let’s just say I am in your debt. All of you.” She raised her glass to the three men sharing her table.

“You don’t wanna be a Lieutenant yet, anyway,” McMahon scoffed.

“Oh no?”

“Nah. We couldn’t be partners anymore, and I’m not finished with you yet.” He grinned broadly at her.

“I knew there was a reason,” she teased back. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, turning to Starsky and Hutch, “you’ll probably never get the full official recognition you deserve for it, but it was nothing short of phenomenal what you two accomplished in this case. The fact that you were somehow able to peel away all of the layers of deceptions and distractions — those that Lorna neatly constructed for us as well as the ones we created for ourselves — and actually recognize the crux of what was going on when you saw it…amazing. Do you realize you worked out in twenty three days what no one else caught onto in more than five years? I don’t know, but it strikes me that your talents might be somewhat underutilized as street cops. You really could do so much more than work the streets, if you wanted to.”

It had been said in the gentlest of ways, but surely there could be no mistaking the implication. Hutch looked gratified enough, but Starsky received it as an almost physical blow. “You don’t think I’ll be re-qualified,” he whispered over the tightness that had suddenly formed in his throat, and looked away. He was vaguely aware of Hutch’s hand as it came to rest on his back and linger there.

“On the contrary,” she replied. “I’m quite certain that you will.”

His head whipped back around to face her. “But I thought…”

“I realize that you have reasons for wanting to re-qualify, but after you have and it’s your choice to make… I don’t know, it just strikes me that the two of you have something unique to offer. Cold case files, perhaps, even teaching. Just keep in mind that you have a lot of other options available to you. If and when the time comes. Just a thought.”

Leave the streets? It was unthinkable, something he would accept only if it was forced upon him. And yet… as Starsky locked eyes with his partner, he was startled to see a hopefulness reflected there, a longing, perhaps. Too much to consider now, he set it aside with the promise to explore the issue in depth at some later point. The fact that he could even entertain the notion was a revelation in itself, significant because prior to this point he wouldn’t have bothered. He was abruptly brought back to the moment when McMahon spoke up.

“Well guys, it’s your turn to visit next time. I’ve had enough LA to last me for life — it’s too California, y’know?” He made a face. “Y’ ever get over to New York?”

“Yeah, actually. We were thinkin’ of paying my mother a visit in a few months.” Starsky had replied automatically, but his mind was still more engaged in what Ross had just said than in the present topic of conversation.

“Great! You wouldn’t come without looking us up?”

Hutch smiled. “No, Mac. We wouldn’t do that.”

“A few months, hmm?” Ross asked. “That might be good timing for a wedding.” She nudged her partner lightly.

“Hey!” he protested. “I have to ask her first.”

“Well, get with it,” Starsky teased. “Better hurry before she finds someone who keeps better hours.”

When all the laughter and ribbing had subsided somewhat, Ross drew everyone’s attention by tapping lightly at her glass with a spoon.

“Gentleman, I’d like to propose a toast. To friendships forged by unusual circumstances and to Lorna, unusual circumstances personified. Truly one of a kind, or so we may hope.”

Starsky grinned. That was something they could all drink to.

 

MARCH 7, 1980

Typical of an early March morning, they had the beach nearly to themselves. The two huddled closely together on the sand, ostensibly to keep warm, as the incessant breeze whipped around them and ruffled their hair, teased the blanket they were sitting on.

“This idea o’ yours wasn’t half bad,” Starsky sighed contentedly.

“I thought you said it was goofy.”

“Well, it is. Don’t mean I don’t like it. Just that when I told ya to go fly a kite, I didn’t think you’d take me seriously.” The brightly colored object twisted and turned lazily against the mottled sky, its poetic movements lending an air of timelessness to the setting. Magic.

For awhile they sat in companionable silence, thoroughly enjoying just being there, neither man wanting to break the spell.

It was Hutch who finally spoke. “You’re awfully introspective lately. What’s going on?”

Starsky had been intending to broach the subject at some point anyway and now was as good a time as any. “I’ve been thinking…”

“You’ve been warned about doing that,” Hutch chided.

“…about some of the things Ross said,” he finished, jabbing his partner lightly in the ribs. And the way you looked when she said them. “You know. About looking at other options.” He felt Hutch stiffen alongside of him.

“If it’s the re-qualifying you’re worried about…”

“Nah, it’s not that,” Starsky said dismissively, and meant it. “What we did, the way we worked this time? It was different.”

“How do you mean?”

How to explain it? He was quiet for a moment as he tried to gather his thoughts into something cohesive enough to be verbalized. “Ever since I’ve been a cop,” he started slowly, “it’s always been about acting and reacting to things that were going on ‘out there’. Surveillance, chasing suspects, always taking some kinda action to get results. Never thought much about it, it was just the way things were supposed to be. Well, this time my body wouldn’t let me do that. I had to step back and actually think things through.”

“And you solved it. You were the only one of us who saw the situation for what it was.” It was said with unmistakable admiration. “Guess that means I can’t claim to be the brains of this duo anymore, huh?”

“No. Just means that of the four of us, I was the only one who had the time to think it all out. No distractions. That’s kind of what I’m getting at. We didn’t chase anybody, get beaten up, drugged, shot, or tortured and we still managed to solve it. There wasn’t as much action, but y’know something? I didn’t really miss it all that much. There was another kind of satisfaction this time and maybe that’s the point. I mean, if you think about it, we’d of arrived here sooner or later anyway. Can’t keep on playing cops and robbers indefinitely. Maybe now’s the time for a change.” He turned so he was face to face with Hutch, could better gauge his reactions. “How would you feel about that? The truth now,” he warned, “I’m serious.”

Hutch opened and closed his mouth a few times before any words came out. “Relieved,” he answered honestly.

“Thought so,” Starsky said smugly, smiling as he leaned back.

“But,” Hutch continued, a decided edge to his voice now, “you walk away from everything you’ve been working so hard for because you think it’s what I want and you become an instant martyr. I’m not about to let that happen. Sure, the idea of you being back out on the streets again sometimes scares the hell out of me, but I can learn to deal with that. I will. And if you walk away from it because you’re afraid you won’t get passed, you become a victim. I’m not gonna let that happen, either.”

“What about we walk away from it because it’s what we both want? Then it’s not really walking away from anything at all, it’s walking toward something else. ‘Sides, I’m not necessarily talking about quitting the Department altogether and I am planning on going through the re-qualification, no matter what we decide here.” His voice had a ‘so, there’ quality to it, his folded arms only intensifying the effect.

“Then what do you say we shelve this conversation until then? Everything might look a whole lot different when you know you can come back on active duty.”

“Uh uh,” Starsky replied firmly. “I realized something a few days ago, Hutch. Getting back, having everything just like it was before — it’s almost been an obsession. Okay, let’s assume for a minute I can go back. It will never be like it was before. Too much has changed. Hell, I’ve changed. And the biggest surprise is how little that bothers me. A lotta things that seemed important before aren’t now.” He smiled. “And there are other things that have become a lot more important. Dying has a way of rearranging your priorities.”

“Think about what you’re saying here,” Hutch demanded. “You’re talking about quitting the only job you’ve ever wanted.”

“Yep. Got it in one.”

Hutch shook his head, exasperated. “This is crazy. Do you honestly think…could you really be happy doing anything else besides being a cop?”

“I’m happy now.”

“I don’t think flying kites on the beach qualifies as a viable career choice,” Hutch said dryly.

“Okay,” Starsky replied patiently, “then lets talk about what might.”

Nothing of such considerable importance could be decided in just one day. There was more than one option now, though, a host of possibilities to be explored. In the end, Starsky knew, sticking together was the only thing that truly mattered. That was their border. As long as it remained intact, all of the other pieces would somehow manage to fit themselves into place.

Finis