Dusted

186

A psychotic psychic is killing hookers in Bay City.

 

Dedication: For MHE Priest, my favorite S&H writer.

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Starsky pushed up his sleeves and plunged his hairy arms into the hot, sudsy water. “You got any steel wool pads?” he called to the lump on the couch in the next room.

“I haven’t been to the store,” the lump replied. “Just let it soak.”

The dark-haired detective considered this option for only a second, then gladly left the casserole dish to soak. He snatched the dishtowel from where it hung on the handle of the refrigerator and dried his hands as he sauntered in to join his friend. “Dinner was great,” he said as he flopped down into the chair with a satisfied sigh.

“Glad you liked it,” Hutchinson said. He slowly brought his legs up to rest on the couch cushions and moaned. “I ate too much.”

“Y’only had two platefuls,” Starsky pointed out. “I had three and I feel fine.”

“That’s because you have a bottomless pit. Or hollow legs. Ohhh….” Hutch let his head fall back against the throw pillow.

Starsky chuckled. He switched on the TV and settled back with one leg dangling over the arm of the chair to catch the evening news. Ten minutes later, he switched it off. “Too much like work,” he mumbled. He walked over to the couch and swatted Hutch’s feet off the cushions so he could sit down. “Ain’t you recovered yet?” he asked. He propped his right elbow on his knee and cupped his chin in his palm.

Hutch opened his eyes just enough to give his partner a dirty look. “I think the casserole dish has soaked long enough,” he said snippily.

“Hmph. Some way to treat a guest,” Starsky griped as he stood.

“You’re not a guest and we had a deal,” Hutch reminded him. “My place, I cook, you clean up. Remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Starsky replied as he plodded into the kitchen. He paused by the refrigerator to replace the towel. “Hey, wanna beer?”

The only reply was a low moan from the couch.

Starsky shrugged his shoulders. “Guess not.” He reached into the ice box and pulled out a brew for himself.

The phone rang.

“Get that, will ya?” Hutch groaned.

Starsky plucked the receiver from the wall and leaned back against the fridge. “Hutchinson Manor, may I help you?”

“Starsky, is that you?” a gruff voice demanded.

He recognized his boss’ voice instantly. “Uh, no, this is Detective Hutchinson. Is that you, Huggy?”

“Huggy?!” Captain Dobey bellowed.

Starsky pulled the phone away quickly, but not in time to keep his left ear from ringing with Dobey’s outraged voice. Hutch heard the captain clear across the room and struggled to pull himself into a sitting position.

“Starsky, I don’t have time for this bullshit!” Then the Captain’s voice dropped an octave and quieted slightly. “We’ve got another one.”

“Damn.” Starsky looked up at the ceiling. “Nosebleed, tremors?”

“Yup.”

Starsky held the cold, unopened beer bottle to his forehead. “Where?”

“Taunton near Eighth.”

Hutch’s eyes found his partner’s. His eyebrows arched in a silent ‘what’s up?’

Starsky held up a finger for his partner to wait as Dobey filled him in.

“One of the shop owners called it in. Heard a commotion in the alley to the left of his shoe store. He went out to investigate and found a young girl wandering around dazed and crying, so he tried to talk to her, calm her down.” Dobey took a deep breath, then huffed it out. “She had a gun.”

Starsky closed his eyes. “And now we’ve got a homicide.”

“Right. Get over there, but put on some vests. She’s acting just like the other two. I don’t want you taking any chances. Got it?”

“Yeah, we got it. On our way.”

Hutch was already at the closet slipping into his holster as Starsky cradled the receiver. “That’s the third one this week.”

“Y’ain’t tellin’ me nothin’ I don’t already know,” Starsky muttered as he opened the door.

* * * *

The Torino lurched to a halt halfway on the sidewalk behind two black and whites. Starsky bolted from the driver’s side door and quickly opened the trunk. He extracted two heavy black vests and handed one to his partner. “Cap’n’s orders.”

Hutch made a face.

“She’s got a gun. Put it on,” Starsky insisted.

Hutch shrugged into his vest without further protest, then headed for the nearest uniform. “What’ve we got, Mike?” He crouched down next to the officer who was using the car to shield him from the armed girl in the alley.

Mike Gibbons removed his cap and smoothed back thinning brown hair. “Looks just like the others.” He shifted his weight onto the opposite foot. “She’s been screaming her head off, babbling incoherent mush and waving a piece around.” He tilted his head toward the alley. “We can’t get to the shoe store owner to check him out, but he hasn’t moved. I think he bought it.”

Hutch pursed his lips and nodded his head.

“Has anyone tried to talk her down?” Starsky asked quietly. He was squatting behind the rear bumper of a car parked a few feet from the squad car.

“Dobey said to wait for you guys,” Mike shrugged. “She’s all yours and you’re welcome to her.”

Hutch twisted around to face his partner. Their eyes met, Starsky nodded once, then the two of them broke cover. In the blink of an eye, Starsky was flat up against the shoe store wall to the right of the alleyway. Hutch hit the wall behind him a half second later.

Starsky started to lean toward the edge of the wall, opened his mouth, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Let me take it,” Hutch said.

It wasn’t their usual routine and Starsky was about to object, but something in his partner’s eyes persuaded him to step back on this one. “Be my guest.” He and his partner switched places.

“You, in the alley,” Hutch’s shout shattered the quiet night. “We’re police officers. We want to help you.”

His words were met with ringing silence. As he parted his lips to try again, the girl let loose with a blood-curdling scream filled with rage and desperation.

Hutch closed his eyes. “I know you’re hurting. Just put down the gun and let us help you,” he called into the darkness.

Silence.

Finally, a tiny mewling voice sobbed, “Help?”

Hutch chanced a look around the corner. The girl leaned heavily against the far wall, the gun hanging at her side in limp fingers. Illumination from the street light sliced through the shadows on the section of wall upon which she slumped, revealing her haggard features.

“My God, Starsk,” Hutch whispered, “she’s just a kid.”

Hutch let his gun hand drop to his side and raised his left hand in a placating gesture. “Hi. What’s your name?” He took a few steps toward the girl.

“Reg… Regina,” she gasped, wide eyed. Even twenty feet away, the tremors that shook her slight frame and the blood flowing down her face from her nose were easy to see.

“Regina. My name is Ken. This is my partner, Dave.” He motioned Starsky forward with his left hand.

“Hi, Regina,” Starsky said cautiously. He held his gun down at his side as well.

“We’re here to help you, sweetheart. Just put down the gun so we can help you.” Hutch took another step forward. The fair-haired girl was in jeans and an oversized grey sweatshirt, now dabbled with blood. Behind the anguish and the blood, her features were strikingly beautiful. And young. Very young. He guessed she was no more than fourteen.

“I killed… I killed…” She started to sob.

“It wasn’t your fault, Regina. We know that.” Hutch took another cautious step forward with Starsky on his heels. Now they were close enough to get a good look at the shoe store owner. He was lying in a pool of blood.

“He ain’t breathin’,” Starsky whispered after watching for movement of the man’s chest.

Hutch nodded once. He pleaded softly, “Please, Regina. Put down the gun. Let us help you. It’ll be all right.”

The sobbing girl sagged against the wall, then started to slide toward the ground.

Starsky reflexively took a step forward around his partner, seizing the only opportunity they might get to disarm the hysterical girl.

Regina saw the movement through her tear blurred eyes and raised the gun. Pulled the trigger.

Hutch’s six-foot frame shuddered with the sudden explosion of sound that echoed in the alleyway. He dropped to the ground and rolled behind some trashcans to his right. Starsky was on his back in the center of the alley, motionless.

“Starsky!” Hutch called in a strangled whisper. There was no answer.

The trashcans provided flimsy cover at best. Hutch glanced at Regina. She was sobbing with her face turned toward the filthy brick wall. Long, matted blonde hair covered her face. She was still holding the gun, but the barrel was scraping the ground.

He had to check on his partner. Crouching low with his gun trained on the girl, he scrambled to his side. Before he had the chance to check his friend for injuries, the girl’s high pitched voice ripped his attention away.

“I’m sorry,” she said plaintively. “So sorry.” She brought the gun up.

Hutch tensed, ready to pull the trigger.

She didn’t point it in his direction. Instead, she turned it toward her face.

“No! Regina, no! Don’t…” Hutch shouted.

The girl put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

He watched in horrific fascination as blood, brains and pieces of bone decorated the bricks behind the girl’s head. She sat hunched against the wall for several seconds before gravity asserted itself and pulled her lifeless body to the concrete. The back of her head was gone.

Hutch lurched to the right and emptied his stomach of the beef noodle casserole he’d had for dinner. There was a moan behind him. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath and turned to help his fallen partner.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah.” He coughed. “You okay?” His stomach was still doing flips. He could only manage a few words. “Where were you hit?”

“Dunno.” Starsky lifted his head and looked down at his torso. “My chest is killing me.”

Hutch managed to find the bullet hole in the dim light. “Thank God you were wearing the vest,” he said. The bullet was imbedded in the lead to the left of the breastbone. Relief washed over him. So did another wave of nausea. His stomach demonstrated to his fallen friend that it wasn’t quite empty after all. Not able to turn his head in time, Hutch vomited on Starsky’s chest.

“T’riffic,” Starsky grumbled. He let his head fall back onto the dirty concrete.

* * * *

The reflection in the mirror didn’t portray the image of herself that she carried in her mind. It made her angry. A twenty-eight-year-old shouldn’t have worry lines on her forehead, around her eyes, etched in her cheeks from an ever-present frown. She had been pretty once. Happy. Married. Ready to have children.

Jolene tore her gaze away from her reflection and measured out the third part of the mixture. White powder merged with white powder in the china bowl on the dresser. Satisfied with the concoction, she carefully measured out small amounts into little plastic bags. Finished, she snapped off the rubber gloves and threw them into the trashcan, inside out. It was her last pair, but she had enough stash for now. She’d make a trip to the store over the weekend to restock.

Jolene looked up. Her reflection was now wearing a wicked grin, temporarily smoothing the frown lines away. She removed the rubber band holding back her hair and let her long, dark tresses fall around her face.

* * * *

Starsky slowed the Torino to a stop in front of Hutch’s place. “You okay?”

Hutch had been silent during the trip back. “Yeah.” There was still a slight catch in his voice.

“Want me to come in? I haven’t cleaned up that casserole dish yet.”

“Nah. Thanks. I’ll take care of it.”

A moment of strained silence passed between them.

“You sure you won’t go to the hospital, let them check you out?” Hutch asked. He already knew the answer.

“No way. It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m not spendin’ the next five hours sittin’ in a hard chair just to have some doctor tell me what I already know. It’s just a bruise. I’m fine.”

Hutch sighed. “Dobey’s going to pitch a fit when he finds out you didn’t get checked.”

“Won’t be the first time, won’t be the last,” Starsky retorted with a lopsided grin. He could feel the tension and sadness emanating from his blond friend and tried to lighten the mood. “Hey, did ya see the face on Dobbins when I told him to take the ‘evidence’ back in the trunk of his patrol car?”

Hutch laughed through his nose. “Poor Dobbins.”

“Yeah, well, there was no way I was gonna put that vest in my car,” Starsky said, pinching his nose with thumb and index finger to illustrate his disgust.

The slight smile he had elicited from the blond drained away from his face. “Sorry, Starsk.” He put his hand on the door latch and shifted in the seat, embarrassed.

Starsky stopped him with a hand on his arm before he opened the car door. “Hey, no sweat, buddy. After all, what are friends for?”

Without comment, Hutch extracted himself from the car and walked slowly to his front door. Starsky watched as his friend and partner disappeared through the doorway. He sat there for several minutes, wondering if he should push his luck and go in anyway. Maybe I can make an excuse to use the john or something. I was unconscious when the girl blew her brains out, but Hutch saw the whole thing. He’s gotta be feelin’ like leftover shit. Finally, he decided that time by himself might be what his friend needed most for now. He shifted the car into drive.

* * * *

As he quietly pushed the door closed behind him, Hutch unzipped his brown leather jacket. He opened the closet and arranged the garment on one of the half dozen bent wire hangers he found there. Next, he slipped off his holster and hung it on the hook inside the door. He closed the door, then leaned his head against the wood as if to closet the images that cluttered his mind as well.

He opened his eyes a few seconds later, then wandered into the living room. In their haste to answer Dobey’s call, they had left the TV on. He slapped the button off on the way into the kitchen. The blue and white casserole dish peeked out through the grease slick in the sink. He rolled up his left sleeve in preparation for the task to come. As he did, his right hand brushed against the tender crease in the crook of his arm. Although the track marks had long ago faded from his flesh, they were indelibly imprinted in his memory. He hastily turned away from the sink, pushing his sleeve down as he walked away.

Although emotionally and physically exhausted, he couldn’t consider going to bed without a shower. He needed to get it off him. To wash the film of the night from his skin. He tried fiercely to block all thoughts from his tortured mind as the hot water rolled over his taut muscles, but soon his tears mixed with the spray. He finished washing quickly, toweled dry on his way to the bedroom, then crawled naked under the sheets. They felt cold against his skin and he shivered. Even while his mind would not shut down, his body had no choice. In minutes, sleep carried him away from the events of the evening.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, his short respite was ripped away as images from the alley invaded his dreams. The scene replayed itself, only this time the bullet from the teen’s gun pierced the soft flesh of his friend’s neck instead of imbedding in the bulletproof vest.

“No!” he screamed and tried to run to his fallen partner. His feet wouldn’t move. He looked down and saw that they were mired in a thick puddle of viscous blood. A trickle line of blood fed the puddle. His eyes followed it to the girl. She was sitting on a garbage can, smiling, injecting herself with a needle.

“This is some shit,” she told him happily. “It’ll really blow you away!” She stood and began to laugh, then turned to walk away into the dark throat of the alley. The street light glistened off the blood oozing from what was left of the back of her head.

The puddle grew, joined with the one under his partner and inched up over his ankles. His shins. The alley was filling with blood…

Hutch sprang up in bed, panting. He instinctively reached for the phone and dialed a number so much part of him that his fingers acted without conscious direction. By the third ring, he’d calmed down enough to realize what he was doing and started to hang up the phone.

“Yeah?” a thick voice answered.

Hutch brought the phone back to his ear and sat quietly.

“Hello?” Starsky was getting annoyed.

“Uh.” Hutch was torn between needing to hear his friend’s voice, healthy and alive, and being embarrassed about waking him in the middle of the night.

“Hutch, that you?”

Hutch had to smile to himself. Got him pegged in one syllable. “Yeah, Starsk. I’m… I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”

“Yeah, right. As if,” the dark-haired man grumbled. He softened his tone. “What’s a matter? Nightmare?”

“Yeah.” It came out as a breathy whisper.

“Want me to come over?”

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “No, no. I just needed to hear a friendly voice. I’m okay now.”

“Y’sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks, buddy. Now go back to sleep.” Hutch gently cradled the phone.

Starsky listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before hanging up on his end. Then he sighed and rolled over, back into the comforting embrace of sleep.

* * * *

The two detectives strolled into the office the next morning at nine, having been given permission to report to work later than usual due to the circumstances of the previous night.

Dobey leaned out of his office and gave them a look. It was all he needed to do. The two men headed straight for his office.

“Detective Starsky,” Dobey barked, stopping the shorter detective midway between standing and sitting. “What’s this I hear that you didn’t go to the hospital to get checked out last night? Dobbins brought back your vest with a bullet in it.”

“Cap’n, I’m fine. Really.” Starsky eased himself the rest of the way into the chair, careful not to wince from his bruised ribs.

“Aah,” Dobey dismissed the matter with a resigned wave of his hand, then settled his bulky frame into the leather chair behind his battered wooden desk. “Forensics found the same traces in last night’s victim as in the first two. And,” he paused for effect, waggling a pencil at his men, “we got lucky on this one. As you know, Forensics hasn’t been able to pinpoint the chemical composition of the drugs yet, but this Jane Doe had some of the stuff on her. They found it in her pocket.”

“Regina,” Hutch interjected. He kept his eyes fixed on the blotter on the desktop.

“What’s that, Hutchinson?”

“Her name was Regina,” he repeated. He brought his troubled eyes up to meet those of his superior, but broke the contact quickly and looked away.

“All right, Regina Doe,” the captain conceded, not unkindly. “The stuff she mainlined was a mixture of heroin, methamphetamines, phencyclidine and one other component as yet unidentified.”

Hutch shot up out of his chair and paced the small office. “Isn’t it bad enough that the victims are shooting up with heroin? What’s the point in mixing all that other shit in, too?” He pushed his fingers through his blond hair.

“Sit down, Hutch,” Dobey said quietly. He knew his man’s reaction had everything to do with his own forced addiction at the hands of Forrest.

Hutch stopped pacing and stood with slumped shoulders for a moment before returning to his seat.

“Whoever this psycho is, they’re not in this for the money,” Starsky thought out loud. “They’re obviously not tryin’ to build up a customer base. Their dope is designed for killin’ addicts.”

“Sounds like someone with a grudge,” Dobey added.

“A grudge against addicts?” Hutch asked. “I can understand the pushers, but addicts are the victims. Why would anyone…” He let his voice trail off, suddenly tired of talking about the whole thing. “We’re not finding out anything sitting in here,” he muttered.

“No, you’re not,” Dobey agreed. “So get your butts out on the streets and get me some answers before we get to number four!”

* * * *

It was Hutch’s turn to drive. Starsky eased himself into the passenger seat of the LTD, pressing his right hand against the upper ribs on his left side.

“You sure nothing’s broken?” Hutch asked.

“I’m fine,” Starsky grated through clenched teeth. “Just a bruise.”

“Why don’t we just…”

“Why don’t you just drop it,” Starsky snapped. “I’m not goin’ to the hospital. Forget it.”

Hutch rolled his eyes, then pulled away from the curb with a lurch. Starsky winced.

“Sorry,” Hutch muttered.

“I bet,” Starsky grumbled.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Hutch said, “We have to find the connection between the three victims.”

“What if there ain’t no connection?” Starsky asked sullenly.

“C’mon, Starsk. There’s usually a motive, and motives follow patterns. We have to find the pattern.”

“Okay. The first victim, Sandra Jenkins.” He began to tick off facts on his fingers. “Twenty-three, gainfully employed as a hooker, history of heroin use. Victim number two, Misty Owens. Nineteen. Also a hooker and a junkie.”

Hutch cringed inwardly at Starsky’s choice of words.

“Victim number three, Regina whoever, she had the track marks, but was she a hooker?”

“She was only fourteen, Starsk.”

“She still coulda been.”

Hutch took a deep breath, then whooshed it out. “We’ll have to dig up more about her. If she turns out to have been hooking too, then we’ve got someone with a grudge against hooker addicts.”

“As if their lives ain’t screwed up enough,” Starsky said.

Hutch pulled his wreck of a car to the curb near the corner. Three young females were congregating there, obviously looking for johns. He unfolded his tall frame from the car and sauntered over to them. “Ladies,” he said in greeting. He looked over the top of his sunglasses to get a better look at them, revealing his sky blue eyes.

“Hey, honey,” one of them said, smiling.

Starsky managed to pull himself out of his open car door, but not without a lot of grunting.

“Need some help there, handsome?” a lanky blonde called to him.

“Uh, no thanks. Almost there.” The curly-haired detective pulled himself to a standing position, then paused to catch his breath. His chest felt like it was on fire.

“We’d like to talk to you ladies about Sandra Jenkins,” Hutch said. He watched their reactions closely.

“Cops, right?” a short, ample-breasted brunette asked. Her brown eyes projected palpable fear and apprehension.

“That’s right, schweetheart,” Starsky answered, flipping open his ID. “We’d like to stop the same thing from happening to any of Sandy’s friends.”

A painfully thin girl with long tresses of golden brown hair took a step back from the group, hugging her arms across her chest. Hutch noticed immediately that she was wearing a long sleeved white blouse while the other two were in spaghetti straps to expose maximum flesh.

He advanced on her. “What’s your name?” He fixed his most charming smile upon his lips.

“Kelly,” the girl answered quietly.

“Kelly. I’m Detective Hutchinson. Do you know of any reason why someone would have wanted to hurt Sandra?”

The girl just shook her head and hugged herself more tightly.

Hutch took a card from his jacket pocket, then reached for the girl’s left hand. He had to exert quite a bit of steady pressure to pry her arm away from her torso. When he had her arm fully extended, he placed the card in the palm of her hand. “There’s a psycho out there, preying on women in your profession, especially those with a habit,” he told her gently. “If you hear anything at all, call the number on that card. It could save your life.” He folded her fingers around the small white rectangle then released his grip. She immediately hugged the arm to her chest. The fingers of her right hand unconsciously rubbed at the inside of her left elbow.

The two detectives returned to the car. As Hutch pulled away from the curb, he noticed that his partner had his eyes screwed shut in pain.

“Starsk,” he began.

“Let’s head on over to Ninth Street. I think that’s the second victim’s old territory. Somebody’s gotta know somethin’.”

Hutch shook his head. He knew Starsky was in pain, but pestering him to get an x-ray would get him nowhere fast.

* * * *

Jolene watched from across the street as the dilapidated LTD pulled away from the curb. Her eyes followed it until it was out of sight. Then she crossed the street, intent on the women on the other side.

“Hi!” she greeted them cheerfully, flashing a smile. “My name is Jolene. I’m new to town and just opened up a shop on Armand Street.” She handed each of the women her business card.

The leggy blonde snorted, “Hmph. This must be the day for business cards.” She took a closer look, then read it aloud. “Mistress Jolene, psychic and fortuneteller.”

Jolene picked up on her first comment. “Oh, did those two guys I saw over here give you their card, too?” When the brunette nodded, she asked, “What kind of competition are they?”

“They weren’t businessmen,” Kelly told her. “They were cops.”

A smirk came unbidden to Jolene’s lips. So, the game begins, she thought. Out loud she said, “They were some hunks. You sure they were cops?”

Kelly showed her the card. “See for yourself. The blond one gave it to me.”

Jolene read the card, memorized the information, then handed it back. As Kelly’s fingers grasped the card, Jolene caught her hand in her own. “I charge ten dollars a session, but my business card entitles you to half price.”

Kelly tried to pull her hand away, but the strange woman held fast.

The psychic’s dark eyes flashed in the sunlight. “I know your pain and I can help you.” She let her eyes travel down to the girl’s upturned arm. “You don’t have to be in pain.”

She’d had enough. Kelly pulled her hand out of the dark-haired woman’s grasp. “You don’t know nothing,” she said angrily.

Jolene’s eyes took on a far away look. “I know about the man who’s been tormenting you. The one with the rose tattoo.”

Kelly blanched. One of her johns had been stalking her. He had a rose tattoo on his upper left biceps.

Jolene smiled slightly and turned to walk away. “My shop isn’t far from here. Please, stop by.”

The three girls watched the odd woman as she walked to the end of the block, turned the corner and was gone.

* * * *

The radio crackled to life. “Zebra Three.”

Starsky reached for the mike, slowly, then brought it to his lips. “Zebra Three. Go ahead.”

“A Mickey called for Detective Starsky. Asked to relay a message to meet him ‘at the usual place’.”

“Roger that,” Starsky said. He let the mike drop onto the seat.

Hutch knew Mickey’s haunts as well as his partner, even though he was Starsky’s snitch. He pulled up in front of the Bayside Cafe and reached for the door handle.

Starsky tried to reach out with his left hand to restrain his partner, but the pain caused his arm to drop to his side. “What’re ya doin’?” Starsky asked through gritted teeth.

“Obviously, I’m going in,” Hutch answered.

“No way. Mickey hates you. If you come in, he’ll clam up.”

“Too bad,” Hutch said as he got out. “I’m going in.”

“Hutch!” Starsky scrambled to get out of his side of the car, causing himself considerable pain in his haste. “Wait,” he managed to gasp.

Hutch stopped half way to the cafe door and turned around. Starsky was hunched over the car door, sucking in air. “Starsk, I swear to God… When we’re finished here, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a request.” He grabbed the shorter man’s arm and helped him to the door.

When they reached the entrance, Starsky shrugged off his friend’s assistance and stood as straight as his aching ribs would allow. “Hutch, I’ll go in, you go back and wait in the car. Please.”

Hutch shook his head and pushed open the door. He saw Mickey sitting in the last booth and made a beeline for the man. Starsky trailed behind.

“Hello, Mickey,” Hutch said cordially as he slid into the seat across from the middle-aged snitch. From the looks of it, Mickey was wearing the same tattered tweed jacket and filthy white shirt he’d been in the last time Hutch had seen him.

“Hut… Hutchinson,” Mickey said in response. “Where’s Starsky?”

“Right here.” Starsky eased himself onto the bench seat next to his partner. “What ya got for us, Mickey?”

The little man looked nervously from one detective to the other and shifted in his seat. “Uh, you asked me about them girls,” he started. A shaky hand came up to scratch in his greased, thinning hair. Even at eleven o’clock in the morning, Mickey reeked of booze.

Hutch caught a whiff and wrinkled his nose. “What about them?”

“I… I might now something about the last one,” he said, turning pleading eyes toward Starsky.

The detective took his cue and reached into the front pocket of his tight blue jeans. The movement caused a hiss of pain.

“Hey, you… you okay, Detective Starsky?” Mickey stammered.

“Yeah, yeah.” He slapped a twenty onto the table. “Spill it.”

Mickey looked around at the other patrons before speaking. “Her name. I know her name. It was Regina Hawkins. A runaway. Hooking for dope.” Mickey smiled a nervous smile and placed his hand over the twenty.

Hutch slapped his large hand over the snitch’s. “That’s it? Is that all you’ve got?”

Panic settled in Mickey’s eyes. He had incurred the wrath of the Nordic detective in the past.

“Hutch,” Starsky said in a low voice, warning him to back off.

It was ignored. “I watched Regina Hawkins blow her brains out last night,” Hutch hissed in the cringing man’s face. “I’d like to stop that from happening to anyone else.”

Mickey looked imploringly at Starsky for help.

The detective swatted Hutch’s hand away. Then he pushed the twenty and Mickey’s sweaty hand across the table. “Thanks, Mickey.”

The snitch wasted no time and scampered away. Hutch tried to stop him, but Starsky blocked his way.

“Let him go. We ain’t gonna get no more information from him now. Thanks to you,” he said with disgust. He pushed against the table to lever himself out of the booth, then headed for the front door.

“He was holding back,” Hutch said in a half whisper behind him.

As they stepped onto the sidewalk, Starsky whirled around and pointed a finger in Hutch’s face. “I told you not to come in, but no, you always gotta have it your way.”

Hutch stopped dead in his tracks.

Starsky’s nostrils flared with anger. “Mickey probably had something more to say, but now we’ll never know, will we? Can’t you ever, ever play it my way?” He stalked over to the car and yanked the door open, flopped down into the seat, too angry to feel any pain. “Christ, you can be such a pain in the ass!”

Hutch got behind the wheel and slammed his door.

“And I’m not going to the fucking hospital,” he added.

The muscles in Hutch’s jaw worked overtime as he ground his teeth to keep from saying anything to further upset his fuming partner. Instead, he eased the car into traffic and headed toward the center of town.

Hutch headed for Starsky’s favorite Mexican restaurant in an attempt to make peace. When they pulled up in front of the place, he could see his friend was still livid. He cut the ignition and sat for a moment, listening to the click of the engine as it cooled down. Finally, he said, “Starsk, I’m sorry. You were right. Why don’t you let me treat you to lunch and make amends?”

The sulking man was already in enough pain and the added stress of being angry with his friend was more than he cared to handle. “Fine,” he mumbled. “I hope you brought a lot of money.”

By the time three burritos and a taco disappeared down the gullet of the ailing detective, all was forgiven. Hutch made due with some lettuce and tomato from the top-it-yourself taco bar and fashioned himself a salad. When they returned to the car, Hutch took the only chance he knew he’d get and pointed the LTD in the direction of the hospital. Starsky noticed when they were a few blocks away.

“Hutch,” he said in a menacing tone.

The fair-haired detective just turned his head to make eye contact and held up his index finger.

Starsky sighed heavily and threw his head back against the seat.

“Zebra Three to Central, signing off for medical,” Hutch said into the mike.

“Roger that, Zebra Three.”

Hutch turned in his seat to face his partner. “So what’s it gonna be? Will you go quietly, or do I have to drag you in kicking and screaming? Either way, you’re going in.”

Starsky didn’t look at him or grace him with a reply. Instead, he worked his way out of the car, then slammed the door as hard as he could. He trudged toward the hospital entrance.

* * * *

Two hours later, the men walked silently back to the vehicle.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Hutch said. “Two hours is nothing. Must be a slow day.”

Starsky said nothing. He just stared straight ahead.

“Good thing we went, though, huh?” Hutch said in an I-told-you-so tone.

Starsky reached up with his right hand and rubbed at the tight bandage that bound his chest and held two cracked ribs in place. He clamped his mouth shut, afraid of what might come out.

Hutch sighed and headed back to the precinct to catch up on paperwork. Their time on the streets was over for the day. They stayed a few extra hours to make up for coming in late and the time spent at the hospital. Starsky claimed he couldn’t type due to his injury and spent the afternoon sulking at his desk while Hutch typed up the reports. At the end of their shift, Hutch tried to help his friend into the car, but the shorter man shrugged off his hand.

“Aw, come on, Starsk. You can’t still be mad?” Hutch asked in his best little-boy voice. “I had to take you to the hospital.”

“Let’s just go home, ‘kay?” Starsky grumbled.

Hutch slapped the roof of the car lightly and went to his side of the car. After a few moments of stony silence, he offered, “Wanna come over to my place for dinner? I’ll make sloppy joes.”

“Nah.”

Hutch regrouped. “Buddy, your chest and arm are going to be hurting pretty badly for the next day or so. Why don’t I come over and…”

“Why don’t you butt out.”

The words hit like a slap in the face. “What…?”

Starsky shifted in his seat and turned his head to look out of his side window. “Look, I’m tired, I’m hurtin’, and I’m sick of…” He stopped himself. “I just wanna go home, alone. Can I at least do that much?” He turned to stare daggers at his partner.

“Y… yeah, okay. No problem.” Neither of them spoke for the remainder of the trip.

* * * *

Kelly fingered the card, considering. She had a rare night off and thought about using it to have her fortune told. The strange woman seemed to know about Jake, the john who’d been stalking her. And there was something else—the woman had hinted at being able to ease her pain. Curiosity and need took over and Kelly began her stroll toward Armand Street.

Armand was a small street off the main drag and the shop she sought was the second one in on the left. A single neon word in the window told her all she needed to know: PSYCHIC. Hesitantly, she turned the knob and entered the dimly lit interior.

“Welcome,” Jolene said from the shadows. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Kelly walked toward the woman and handed her the card. “Half off, right?”

“Absolutely.” Jolene stashed the card in the pocket of her smock. She indicated a chair across from a cherrywood desk with a flourish of her hand. “Please, have a seat.”

Kelly sat on the edge of the wicker chair and fingered the piece of cardboard still in her front jeans pocket. She’d brought an extra one of Jolene’s business card from one of the other girls, just in case she could also get half off what she hoped the woman would offer to ease her pain. Happily, it turned out she didn’t need it.

* * * *

Dobey was on them as they stepped into the squad room at eight the next morning. “You two, in my office, now.”

Hutch sat in one of the chairs across from Dobey’s desk. Starsky remained standing and pretended to examine the only picture on the wall. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet during the ride in.

“I’ve looked over your reports,” the captain said disdainfully, “and you’ve got nothin’. What am I paying you turkeys for?”

“We’ve got feelers out, Captain. We just have to wait…” Hutch offered.

“Wait! Detective, bodies are dropping in my precinct. I want whoever is doing this caught yesterday. Now get out of here and get me some damn answers!”

With downcast eyes, the two detectives exited Dobey’s office.

“Starsky!” the captain bellowed as the dark-haired man was halfway out the door. He turned to raise his eyebrows at his superior. “It’s about damn time you got to the hospital.”

Starsky nodded his head a couple of time and backed out through the door, thankful to put the thin wood between himself and the big man.

Hutch was already in the Torino rubbing his temples when Starsky showed up at the car. He gingerly slid behind the wheel.

Hutch opened his mouth to ask his partner if he’d rather have him drive, seeing as how his ribs were still very painful, but the dark mask over his friend’s face gave him pause and he closed his lips without a sound.

They spent the morning and early afternoon grasping at nothing. There were no leads and none of their informants had anything for them. By four o’clock, frustration and pain were etched on Starsky’s face.

“I’m hungry,” he announced. Without asking Hutch for a preference, he drove the car to a nearby diner. Diners were always a safe bet. They usually had a large menu, offering something to placate both of their tastes.

Hutch was relieved and upset when his partner parked in the diner’s lot. Relieved because he was starving and upset because whenever Starsky selected a diner, it meant they were on shaky ground. He bit his tongue and got out of the car.

As Starsky reached for the mike to sign off for dinner, a call came in from Central.

“Zebra Three.”

“Go ahead, Milly,” Starsky responded tiredly.

“Captain Dobey requests that you meet him at 1412 Fenimore Street immediately.”

Hutch heard the call through the open car window and returned to the car. “Looks like dinner will have to wait.” He got back in and his partner squealed wheels back out onto the street.

They arrived at the designated address in ten minutes. Dobey was hard to miss, pacing in front of three parked black and whites.

“It’s about time you got here,” he griped when he saw his men. “Get up to the third floor. We’ve got victim number four!”

Both men’s stomachs dropped to their toes. They gave their captain a wide berth and entered the building. Hutch glanced at a worn plate on the door as he went in. Almost illegible with wear and age, the placard read “Hotel Bren…” The last few letters were faded to oblivion. The old, beige brick building now housed some of the city’s less desirables. Hutch unconsciously tried not to breath in the stale mustiness of the place as he ascended the stairs. They went to the third floor and looked for the uniforms.

“In here,” one of them said needlessly.

Starsky went in first. His eyes took in the room and its contents, the arrangement of same, then he stooped down to peel back the sheet from the corpse. “Ah, man,” he sighed, seeing the familiar face framed with golden brown hair. “It’s, uh,” he snapped his fingers a few times, “Kelly. It’s Kelly.” He looked up at his partner.

Hutch glanced at the girl whose dead eyes stared at the ceiling, then turned quickly away.

“You know this chick?” one of the officers asked.

“You might say that,” Starsky answered distractedly. He pulled down the sheet and checked the girl for obvious injuries. And track marks. Aside from the blood that had dried after leaving her nose, there were no other apparent wounds. The syringe lying a few inches from her stiff fingers negated the need to roll up her sleeve. He was about to pull the sheet back over her when he noticed something white protruding from the young woman’s front jeans pocket.

“Hey, Jenkins,” he called, snapping his fingers at the man.

“What’s with that?” Jenkins asked. “I’m not your trained dog, you know.”

“What?” Starsky didn’t have a clue what the man meant. His mind was focused on the object in the victim’s pocket. “Jenkins, you got tweezers?”

Jenkins snorted. “No, I stopped plucking my eyebrows long ago in favor of the natural look. I’m not Forensics, Sergeant.”

“Never mind,” Hutch said, stepping over the girl and Starsky to get to the bureau at the far wall. “I see some right here.” He retrieved the tool from amongst the clutter of toiletries and make up and handed it to his partner.

Starsky grasped what looked like a business card and slowly slid it from her pocket.

“It’s probably mine,” Hutch reminded him.

Starsky read it, then held it up for his partner to see. “Nope.”

“Mistress Jolene,” Hutch read aloud. “Psychic and fortuneteller.” He looked down and his eyes conveyed a clear message to his partner: It’s not much, but it’s something.

Hutch plucked the card from the tweezers and deposited it in his shirt pocket.

“Hey, that’s evidence,” Jenkins reminded him.

“Evidently,” Starsky echoed as he followed the blond through the door.

Dobey was waiting for them on the sidewalk. “What’ve you got to say for yourselves?” he demanded with hands on hips.

They ignored his ranting. They piled into the car and sped away from the scene.

Dobey grabbed a handful of his own hair and tugged. One of these days…

* * * *

“A psychic, huh?” Starsky said on the way to Armand Street. He shifted in his seat. “Those people always give me the creeps.” It was the most he’d said all day. Hutch didn’t interrupt. “There’s only two kinds, y’know. The first kind is a fake. They just tell you general stuff and take your money. But the other kind,” his eyebrows inched up his forehead, “the other kind has what they call the ‘third eye.’ They’re for real. They can actually see stuff.”

They arrived in front of the shop in a matter of minutes. Starsky swallowed hard and reached for the door handle. “I hope she’s the first kind,” he muttered.

“Wait, Starsk,” Hutch said. “You stay here. I’ll go in. I have an idea.”

“Don’t you think we should both go in?”

Hutch laughed humorlessly. “What, and have her put a spell on both of us?”

Starsky let his hand fall from the door latch. “Okay. What’s your plan?”

Hutch got out, then leaned back in the window. “I plan to say very little and listen a lot. Be back in fifteen minutes or so.”

Starsky watched nervously as his friend crossed the street then disappeared into the gloom of the psychic’s lair.

* * * *

Jolene was watching, unseen, from the window. A smile spread like hot wax across her face. It’s about time, Detective Hutchinson. I’ve been waiting for you. She moved away from the window and took her place behind the desk. The tinkle of a bell on the doorjamb announced the blond’s arrival.

“Come in,” she called in a soothing voice.

“Uh, hi,” Hutch said, feigning nervousness. He used the ruse to dart his eyes around the room, seemingly paranoid but in reality taking in his surroundings. “I was, I mean a friend told me I should check you out.” He offered her the card.

Jolene came close to acting surprised, but fought to keep her face expressionless. Each card she had handed out so far had been collected at the time of her “reading” for the intended victim. This was an unforeseen twist in the plot. She smiled up at him. “Please, have a seat.”

As Hutch shuffled to the wicker chair, she asked him to give her his right hand. Hutch sat on the edge of the seat and complied, reaching his arm across the desk. His large, callused hand was easily twice the size of hers.

“Now, let me have a look at you,” she said, focusing on the lines in his palm. “Mmm. Yes.”

Hutch laughed through his nose. “I’m a little nervous,” he said. “I’ve never been to a fortuneteller before.”

“Yes, you have,” Jolene said matter of factly without looking up.

“No, I don’t…”

“When you were seven. You went to Coney Island with your uncle.”

Hutch paled slightly when the memory surfaced. His uncle had insisted he have his palm read while they were in the park. He’d forgotten all about it.

Jolene stopped examining his palm but held his hand firmly in hers. She looked now into the crystal ball that occupied the center position on the desktop. “I see your mother, father, one sister… and a brother? No. This other one, he is like a brother, but not of your blood.”

Hutch unconsciously tried to pull his hand away, but she held fast.

She laughed—a short, mirthless sound. “Of course. This one has dark, curly hair. The rest of your family is fair.” She squinted her eyes. “This friend who is like your brother — you hold him close to your heart, closer than your true family.”

“Well, I…”

She cut him off. “You share a special bond. Yes. It’s easy to see the bright aura of friendship that surrounds you both. But the aura is tainted.”

“Tainted?” Hutch was fascinated despite his best intentions to keep a level head.

“The friendship is waning. The dark one has been viewing it more and more as a burden than a comfort. A wedge has developed, and the gap between you is widening quickly.”

Hutch thought about how he’d gotten on Starsky’s nerves the last few days and his stomach knotted. Then he remembered that they often got on each other’s nerves and shook himself out of it.

“There is more,” she said, straining forward to see into the glass globe, “but I’m not sure I should tell you.” She released his hand.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling kindly at him. “I’ve given you nothing but bad news since you arrived. Let me look for something more positive. Please, sit back, take a deep breath and clear your mind.”

Hutch took a shallow breath and pushed back into the chair. “Ow!” Something sharp stuck him just below his left shoulder blade and he lurched forward.

“I’m so sorry,” Jolene said. “That’s one of the hazards of wicker furniture.”

Hutch started to twist in his seat to examine what stuck him.

“You have questions about girls in trouble,” she said quickly to draw his attention back to her.

Hutch snapped his head around to face her. He perched himself on the edge of the seat. He dropped the act and became deadly serious. “What about them?”

Jolene suppressed a grin. She was really enjoying the power she had over this man. “I see pain and death all around you. You are searching for a thread amongst the blood.”

Now Hutch’s eyes were wide and his cop instincts were in full swing. “Maybe you could tell me what that thread is?”

She looked hard into the depths of the crystal ball. “It’s murky. Unclear. But some of the pain is yours.” Her eyes left the ball and settled briefly on his left arm. “You think that finding the thread will stop the pain, but you know there’s only one thing that can do that.”

Hutch played a hunch. “Maybe… maybe you might have a ‘potion’ or something? To help me with the pain?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning back in her chair away from the ball. “I have no more for you, officer.”

Hutch’s eyes widened. He couldn’t help it. He jumped up from his seat and fished his wallet out of his jeans pocket. “Thank you for your time,” he said icily. “How much do I owe you?”

“Ten dollars, please.” She held out her dainty hand for payment.

Hutch placed two fives in her hand then turned to leave. When he reached the door, he stopped and turned toward her. “One more thing. There was something you said you weren’t sure you wanted to tell me. I’d like to know what it was.”

Jolene stood. “As you wish. I see great pain and suffering for your friend.”

Hutch swallowed. “What kind of suffering?”

She closed her eyes. “Something borne of your friendship.”

“You’re saying it’ll be my fault?”

“I’m sorry. Perhaps another time we can have a better session.” Jolene sat back down.

Like hell, Hutch thought as he hurried through the door.

Starsky had trouble reading his friend’s expression as he got in the car. “Well? Was she the first kind, or the second?”

Hutch looked at him for a long moment before answering. “The first. Let’s get out of here.”

Jolene watched the red car with white stripe pull away from her shop and smiled. Then she went over to the wicker chair and carefully removed the needle she had wedged into the weaving just before the detective had arrived.

* * * *

“So, did you find out anything?” Starsky asked. Hutch had been silently brooding since returning to the car.

“Hm? Oh. No. Dead end.” He went back to examining the dashboard.

A few minutes of silence descended upon them as Starsky headed back to the station to file the necessary reports.

“Hey!” The sudden outburst from the blond made the dark-haired man jump.

“What?”

“I’m still hungry,” Hutch said enthusiastically. “Let’s go eat.”

“Well, okay. Where…”

“I don’t care. You pick the place. I’ll even pay. Sorry I’ve been such a crank lately. Let me make it up to you.” He smiled and slapped his friend affectionately on the arm.

Starsky made a face at his suddenly animated partner. “You feelin’ okay?”

“I feel fine,” Hutch said. “Just hungry. Find a place quick, will ya?”

The first place they came upon was a pizza parlor. “There! Let’s stop there!” Hutch said, pointing like a little kid.

Starsky laughed despite his concerns. “Okay, okay. Boy, you must be hungry.”

Hutch was out of the car before it came to a complete stop. Starsky caught up with him at the counter.

“One large pizza, everything on it. Oh, no anchovies,” Hutch said.

Starsky’s eyebrows arched toward the ceiling. “Everything on it? All of it? Ain’t you gonna get half with veggies or somethin’?”

“Nah. Life is short. You’ve got to live a little.” He fixed his friend with a strange look, then turned to find them a table.

It might have been the lighting, but Starsky could have sworn Hutch’s eyes looked funny. And he was walking oddly. I need food and rest, he concluded, shaking his head. He went to join his fidgeting partner in the booth near the front door.

“Pizza’s ready,” the young man said from behind the counter a short time later.

“I’ll get it.” Hutch jumped up and snatched the pizza off the counter.

He is walking funny, Starsky thought. And acting weird.

The pizza was placed in the center of the table. Hutch grabbed a piece and took a big bite before he even touched down on the seat. “God, I’m hungry.” He devoured the slice in minutes. Starsky looked on, dumbfounded.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?” he mumbled through a mouthful of his second slice.

“You’re worryin’ me.”

“Huh?”

“You’re actin’ weird.”

Hutch threw the slice down onto his plate, suddenly enraged. “Christ, Starsky. There’s no pleasing you! I said I was sorry for being a jerk lately, and now I’m trying to be more pleasant. Look where it gets me!” He shoved his plate away, sprang up from the table and out the door.

Starsky whistled through his teeth and followed him out to the car as quickly as he could.

“You didn’t eat your pizza,” Hutch pointed out when Starsky plopped into the driver’s seat.

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

“I paid for it. You should go eat it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Well, what do you want?” Hutch yelled in his face. Oh no, it’s happening. The thought hit him like a fist in the gut. I’m destroying our friendship. More of a burden than a comfort. He doesn’t like me anymore.

Starsky was taken aback. “Hey, Hutch,” he said quietly. “Talk to me. What’s eatin’ ya?”

The anxiety contorting Hutch’s face smoothed away, leaving him expressionless. “Take me home,” he said blandly. I’ve got to get away from him before I do any more damage.

Starsky checked his watch. Their shift was over twelve minutes ago. “Zebra Three to Central. Logging out.” He steered the Torino toward his friend’s home, sneaking sidelong looks at him along the way.

When they arrived, Hutch got out of the car and walked toward his front door without a word.

“Hey, uh, Hutch?” Starsky hustled to get out of the car, grimacing with the pain it caused him. “Wait up.”

“See you in the morning,” the blond said stonily without turning around.

“Uh, can I come in and use your john?”

Hutch paused with his key in the lock. “Don’t you have a toilet at your place?”

“It’s an emergency.” Starsky was now standing just behind him.

Hutch sighed theatrically and pushed open the door, indicating that his friend could go in.

“Thanks.” Starsky hurried to the bathroom and locked the door. Safely inside, he whispered to his reflection in the mirror above the sink. “Somethin’s wrong. I’m not leavin’ ’til I find out what.” He really did have to urinate, so he used the facilities then listened at the door for a few moments. There were sounds of movement coming from the kitchen. He took a steadying breath and opened the door.

“Hey, whatcha doin’?” he asked when he saw Hutch pulling things out of the cabinets.

“Making dinner,” Hutch said pleasantly. “Want some?”

Starsky’s mouth dropped open. “Yeah, sure,” he said quickly, seizing any opportunity to stay. “You still hungry after the pizza?”

“Pizza?” Hutch looked up at him and grinned.

Now he was really worried. Hutch was acting like… like someone who wasn’t Hutch.

“Can I help?” He sauntered into the kitchen.

Hutch was happily chopping celery on the cutting board. “Nope. Got everything under control. Everything under control.”

“Swell. Um, why don’t you tell me what Madam Jolene said while you’re doin’ that?”

“Mistress Jolene,” Hutch reminded him. He let out a laugh.

Starsky fought the mounting panic over his friend’s odd behavior. “What’d she say?” he pressed.

“You know, stuff,” Hutch sliced down and nicked his thumb with the knife. His blood mixed with the celery, but he didn’t seem to notice it or react to the pain.

“Jesus! Hutch, you cut yourself!” Starsky grabbed the dishtowel off the refrigerator handle and wrapped it around his friend’s thumb.

“I did?” Hutch looked down at his hand, confused. “Can’t be that bad. Doesn’t even hurt.” He smiled.

Starsky got a good look at his baby blues. His pupils were definitely dilated. “Hutch, come in here and sit down for a minute, will ya?”

Hutch pulled away. “I can’t. I have to finish making dinner.”

“In a few minutes. I want you to come sit with me on the couch for a minute.”

This is it, Hutch thought, his chest constricting with dread. He’s going to tell me he’s sick of me. He wants a new partner. Tears sprang to his eyes and he started to sob. “I’m sorry, Starsk. Please, don’t get a new partner. I’ll try harder, I swear.” By the time they’d reached the couch, Hutch had broken down completely.

“Hey, hey! Who said anything about a new partner?” Starsky asked as he helped Hutch settle back onto the cushions. When his back made contact with the couch, the blond winced. Starsky switched on the table lamp and pushed his sobbing partner forward so he could check his back. A tiny brown stain that looked a lot like dried blood stood out on Hutch’s yellow shirt. He yanked the shirttails out and checked him. There was a tiny puncture wound surrounded by a large ugly welt just under his left shoulder blade.

“Hutch?”

The sobbing man couldn’t hear him through the noise he was making.

“Hey, buddy? We’ve got to go for a ride.”

“A ride?” he sniffled.

“Yeah, pal. Looks like Lady Jolene did more than read your future. I’ve got to get you to the hospital.”

Starsky watched his partner’s face go from bewilderment, to comprehension, to anger.

“Hospital?” Hutch shoved Starsky with all his might, sending him sprawling across the floor. “You’re still mad I took you to the hospital?” he squeaked.

The sudden crash to the floor caused stabs of pain through Starsky’s chest. He laid there, panting, and waited for it to subside. Finally he managed, “No. Not mad. It’s just…”

“It’s just that you’re sick of me, right? I’ve been getting on your nerves lately.”

Starsky rolled slowly onto his right side. “What the hell are you talkin’ about? It ain’t that at all.”

“What then? Huh?” Hutch shouted.

The dark-haired man propped himself up on his right elbow. “There’s a mark on your back. A puncture wound. I think you might’ve been drugged.”

“Drugged.” Hutch’s shoulders slumped. “You think I’m using again, don’t you? DON’T YOU!”

“No, Hutch. Listen…”

“Shut up!” Hutch backed away toward his bedroom. “Just shut up! I don’t want to hear anymore!” He pushed through the door into his bedroom and closed it.

Starsky heard the click of the lock. “Aw, Hutch.” He got to his knees, then painfully got to his feet. Swaying slightly from the pain, he headed for the bedroom. “Hutch, open the door.”

“You’re going to tell them,” came the muffled reply. “You’re gonna tell.”

“Hutch, I ain’t gonna tell nobody nothin’. Just open the door.”

“No.”

Starsky put his right hand to his forehead, desperate for a plan of action. Hutch was obviously drugged and his behavior was unpredictable. In the silence, he heard the click of a gun being cocked inside the bedroom. “Hutch!”

There was no answer.

“Hutch! What’re you doin’ in there? Open this goddamn door!”

Quiet sobbing from the other side.

“Fine,” Starsky said to himself. He kicked open the door. “Are you happy now? I’m gonna have to buy you a new doorknob.” He found Hutch huddled against the wall under the window. His gun was pointed to his right temple.

“Don’t look, Starsk,” he whispered.

“Oh, God! Hutch, please, put the gun down.”

“You don’t like me anymore,” the blond said in a little voice. “I’m a burden.”

“Hutch, that’s crazy! Can you hear yourself? Give me the gun.” He took a step forward.

The blond’s expression changed and he turned the gun to point at his partner’s chest. Starsky stopped in mid step.

“Whoa. Hey, what…?” He started to back track through the doorway.

Hutch wiped at his eyes with his left hand. His face was now a grimace of anger. “If I can’t be your partner, no one will.” His finger tensed on the trigger.

Wide-eyed, Starsky dove for cover behind the wall outside the door. Hutch squeezed off one shot. The sound made the dark-haired detective grasp at his cracked ribs. An agonized wail came from inside the room and Starsky chanced a look around the doorjamb. Hutch had his eyes tightly closed and the gun to his temple.

Quickly and quietly, Starsky crossed the room in three steps and grabbed the gun from his friend’s shaking hand. Hutch looked up, surprised to see him, surprised he hadn’t killed his best friend. The tears flowed, then Hutch lurched to his right side and gave up his dinner for the second time that week.

Starsky tucked the gun into the back of his waistband and rubbed Hutch’s back. “It’s okay, buddy. You’re gonna be okay.”

When Hutch finished emptying his guts onto the bedroom floor, Starsky used his remaining strength to pull him up and steer him out of the apartment to his car. He strapped him in with the seatbelt, locked the door and sped to the hospital.

* * * *

Dobey met Starsky at the hospital. By the time they got Hutch onto a stretcher, he was screaming and thrashing at the people around him and had to be restrained.

“What’s the matter with him?” Dobey groused.

Starsky filled his captain in on their afternoon rendezvous with the psychic and the puncture he’d found on Hutch’s back.

“Hanselman,” Dobey called to one of the uniforms that had driven him to the hospital. “I’ve got a job for you.” He told them the address and sent him and his partner to arrest the fortuneteller.

An hour passed before a doctor came to tell them of Hutch’s condition.

“Gentlemen. I assume you are here for Detective Hutchinson?”

“Yeah, he’s the captain and I’m his partner. What?” Starsky’s eyes sparkled with fear.

“He has definitely been drugged. A mixture of phencyclidine, which you may know by its street name, Angel Dust, and another component we haven’t been able to identify. In any case, he’s in no danger of permanent impairment, although he could suffer the effects of these drugs, especially the Angel Dust, for a day or two. During that time, he could be a definite danger to himself or others. I suggest keeping him here under strict observation.”

“But he’s gonna be all right, right?” Starsky wanted to confirm. “As soon as that junk works its way out of his system.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Starsky didn’t hesitate. “Well, he ain’t stayin’ here. No offense, but Hutch hates the hospital almost as much as I do. I’ve got some vacation time coming. I’ll watch him.”

“Detective, I’m sure you have good intentions, but I’m not sure you know what you’re getting yourself into,” the doctor warned.

Starsky opened his mouth, but the captain answered for him. “He knows.”

The doctor could see he was outnumbered. “Very well, but he stays the night. I’ll release him in the morning.”

“Can I see him?” Starsky asked.

“He’s in a very agitated state right now,” the doctor began to explain. The look on the detective’s face convinced him that “yes” was the only viable answer. He sighed his defeat. “We’ve moved him into a private room on the second floor. Room 208.”

Starsky started off at a jog toward the elevators. He found the room with no problem: it was the one from which profanities were streaming.

“Hey,” Starsky said loud enough to be heard over his friend’s rantings.

“Fuck you!” Hutch hurled back.

Starsky clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Hutch pulled with all his might against the restraints. “Get these off me. Get them off!” He thrashed wildly in a cold panic.

Starsky grabbed the man’s shoulders and tried to hold him still. “Easy. Easy. You’re gonna mess your hair.”

Hutch finally sank back onto the pillow, exhausted. His eyes met the sapphire blue gaze of his friend and momentarily cleared with recognition. “Starsk?”

“I’m right here. Just try and relax.” He released his hold on his friend’s shoulders and rubbed at his own aching chest. He pulled a chair up close to the bed and laid his left hand on Hutch’s arm. “You’re gonna be fine, Hutch. You just need to rest. I’m stayin’ right here ’til you’re better.”

Hutch’s eyes fluttered shut and he entered a fitful sleep.

Dobey came in and tapped Starsky on the shoulder forty minutes later and signaled for him to follow him into the hall. “How is he?”

Starsky ran a tired hand through his disheveled curls. “Whacko. His mood’s got more swings than Babe Ruth.”

“Hanselman and Jones radioed back a few minutes ago.” The big man paused to take a deep breath.

“And?”

“And she’s gone. Lock, stock and psychic sign. There’s no trace of her.”

“T’riffic. Now what?” Starsky kicked at a chair in the hallway.

“I put out an APB. We’ll find her.”

“Right,” Starsky snorted. “I don’t even know what she looks like, what kinda car she drives.”

“We got a pretty good description from one of the last victim’s, uh, coworkers, back at the crime scene. Have a little faith, Dave.” Dobey rested his meaty hand on his man’s shoulder for a second before he sauntered off down the hallway toward his home and a warm bed. “Keep me posted on his condition,” he called over his shoulder as he turned the corner.

* * * *

Jolene stopped for the night at a cheesy motel on the interstate sometime around midnight. She hefted a single suitcase out of the trunk and checked into room 111. Inside, she immediately stripped and took a hot shower. She sat naked on the bed afterwards with a single photograph in her hands. The picture showed a smiling couple dancing at a party. She traced the edge of Bruce’s face with her fingertip. My handsome husband. Everything was so right. So perfect. Until I found you with that slut. The hooker she’d seen him with hadn’t been on drugs when she’d confronted her. It was a bit of a trick to knock her out long enough for the injection. But then Bruce moved on to another hooker, and another, until finally she had to put a stop to it.

Her eyes misted as she recalled arranging his body carefully in the bed after he’d died. It was the beginning of the running. She knew she’d never be able to stop. This was her ninth relocation in six months. Still, it was worth it to rid the planet of the scum that had ruined her marriage, taken away her life. Wasn’t it?

She was so tired. The lines in her face felt deeper, her frown heavier. She extracted one of the plastic bags she’d filled with powder and squished it gently between her fingers. It was a soft, soothing feeling. Without conscious thought, she took out her other paraphernalia as well—the candle, syringe, spoon. Using the nightstand as a counter, she quickly whipped up a large dose and sucked it into the needle.

No more running.

* * * *

Starsky was fixing some soup for himself and Hutch when the phone rang. “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Dobey announced. “How’s Hutch doing?”

Starsky turned to look at his partner who was curled into a ball on the couch. “He hasn’t thrown anything or cursed at me in the last hour.”

“I suppose that’s a good sign,” Dobey said. “Listen, I’m calling for a reason.”

“Yeah?”

“They found Jolene. Or I should say, her body. She OD’d in a motel room out on the interstate.”

Starsky blinked, taking the information in.

“Forensics confirmed that the substance she OD’d with was the same stuff that killed the other four victims.” When there was no response, Dobey grouched, “Starsky, you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Any clue as to why she did it?”

“Just a photograph of her and a man dancing. You can fill in the blanks from there as well as any of us can.”

“Thanks, Cap’n. I’ll keep you posted.”

“You’d better,” Dobey said gently and cut the connection.

“Starsk?” a small voice called from the couch.

“Yeah, Hutch. I’m right here.”

“Did… did I try to shoot you?”

The doctor had explained that Angel Dust seriously impaired the user’s memory. “Shoot at me? What’re you, nuts? Why would you try to shoot your best friend in the whole world?” He made a mental note to have Huggy find and spackle the bullet hole in Hutch’s apartment.

Hutch trembled and sank further into the cushions. “I… I’m sorry. I guess you… you really want a new partner now.”

“I never wanted a new partner. You’re the only partner I’ll ever have, Hutch. It’s me and thee, all the way.” He sat down next to his friend and smoothed the tangles of blond hair away from his perspiring face. “It’s all over now, buddy. We’re gonna be okay.”

The End