Table of Contents
After several actors in a theater company’s production of Hamlet are killed by a mysterious assailant, Hutch has to take on the oddest undercover role of his life, while Starsky can only back him up secretly and at a distance.
Author’s Notes: “Bird on A Wire,” Words and Music by Leonard Cohen.
All chapter introductory passages from Hamlet by William Shakespeare.
For Sarah, who helped get me into this, and Paula, who helps get me out (of writer’s block).
And for Bob, for understanding.
PROLOGUE
What am I doing here?
It must have been the 100th time in the last 24 hours he’d asked himself that question.
The answer?
I can’t think of a way out.
He stood in the darkness, his blond hair glinting from the light ten feet ahead of him. Tugged at his clothes. Felt unaccustomedly light near his armpit, where a hunk of steel would normally be… and at his side, where his partner would normally be.
I gotta be crazy.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. The case was supposed to have wrapped before he got to this point… long before. But it hadn’t… and here he was. Dressed in white from head to toe, sword strapped to his side, with Shakespeare ricocheting through his head at breakneck speed. Palms sweating. Heart racing. More anxious, it seemed, than at about any other moment in his undercover career.
Well, any non-life-threatening, no-tires-squealing moment, anyway.
Maybe he’d been more anxious that time when he’d been chasing his partner down at the old zoo, sure he’d never get there in time. Or when he’d been neatly tumbled down a canyon and come to rest with his car on top of him. Maybe then…
Hey. Hutchinson. Back to business, huh?
He strained to hear what was happening out on the stage, and breathed a slight sigh of relief. He still had a while before his entrance.
What the hell am I doing here?
He knew, of course. There was something shady going down at this very sophisticated professional theatre, and the director was getting scared. First, one of his cast members had disappeared, and then, the lighting designer had been found shot in the alley behind the theatre. He had ended up in Captain Dobey’s office, who had, in turn, summoned Starsky and Hutch.
“Oh, no. You’re not gettin’ me out there. No way!”
Starsky’s protests had been vehement, and his face and voice had warned that the issue was non-negotiable. Hutch had to admit that his partner, as adept as he was at undercover, was wholly unsuited for the role the director was looking to cast. Whereas Hutch, with his blond hair, elegant features, and resonant cultured voice, fit the bill perfectly. Throw in the unfortunate circumstance of high school theatre, and a double bachelor’s degree in criminal justice and theatre… and well, he was stuck.
Except he hadn’t acted in years except when he was undercover. And that was different.
Somehow.
And it wasn’t just that the facts of the case, he argued with himself as he checked the action on the stage again. It was more puzzling than some, and even after four weeks of rehearsal they still didn’t have all the pieces in place. As an unknown face, he was vulnerable to suspicion, and as an actor he was vulnerable to the same fate the other two company members had met. Worse, he couldn’t bring his gun inside—his costume fit him like a second skin, and the dressing room he shared with three other guys had no lockers and no privacy. There was nowhere he could put it where he wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Worse still, there was nowhere to stash Starsky—the crew was full, and Starsky wouldn’t have known upstage from downstage if the proverbial gun had been at his head.
Nope. It was more than that. It was the sheer, gut-wrenching terror of going out there and making a total ass of himself.
The stage manager leaned forward and whispered to him, breaking his reverie. “Ready, Mr. H?”
Hutch nodded, took a deep breath, and ordered his lunch to stay in his stomach. The cue came. He slipped onto the stage, and hung unobtrusively to stage left corner as the director had envisioned, watching as the Queen and King held court. Despite the brilliance of his costume, he was lost in the shadow… until the appropriate moment when the King turned to him and spoke.
“How is it that the clouds still hang on you?”
“Not so, my lord,” Hutch responded. Part of him was amazed at the strength of his voice and the sudden calmness he felt. “I am too much i’the sun.”
The audience seemed to lean forward in its seat in a collective “Ah.” The moment they had been waiting for had arrived.
Hamlet was in the house.
***
Elsewhere in the theatre, two pairs of eyes watched the action onstage, both intently, but for different reasons.
When Hutch began to speak, one audience member in the back of the house seemed to lean forward more anxiously and watch more closely than the others around him. Starsky may not have been a Shakespeare fan, but this was his best friend and partner, so he knew what was expected of him. Even if it did mean sitting through this boring “cultural” crap; give him a hot dog, a can of beer, and a good baseball game over this stuffy nonsense any day of the week.
After a few moments, however, he was reluctantly interested… then frankly amazed. How long had he and Hutch known each other? Six years? And he’d had no idea that his partner had this in him. Hutch was—well, it was like watching another person up there on that stage.
He could hear Hutch’s voice, saying wryly in his head, “That’s kind of the point, Starsk.”
Despite himself, he sat back to give the production his full attention. He’d never admit it to Hutch, but he was starting to enjoy himself.
***
Shrouded by darkness, the expression was indecipherable, but there was little to see, anyway. Other than an occasional twitch in the cheek, the facial muscles were completely immobile. No one watching would have had a clue what was going on inside the mind… unless they looked up into the eyes. There, a malevolence shone that was at startling odds with the passive flesh.
The eyes flicked over the characters on the stage, while the brain registered the facts it had absorbed about each of the actors. The gaze lit briefly on the golden-haired figure in white, then fixed on the actor portraying Claudius, who was trying to persuade Hamlet to put aside the grief over his father’s death, accept Claudius as his mother’s husband, and remain in Denmark. As Gertrude joined her husband in his pleas, the facial muscles moved almost imperceptibly. Eyes narrowed minutely. The lips moved ever so slightly into a bloodless, humorless smile, then murmured, too softly for those around to hear:
“The play’s the thing… wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.”
***
The production proceeded, and before long Hutch made his first exit. As he left the hot, brilliantly-lit stage for the cool darkness of the wings, he felt his legs trembling. So far, so good, but could he pull the whole thing off? With a nod of thanks, he accepted the bottle of water offered by the actor playing Horatio, and carefully patted some of the perspiration from his face and neck. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and again found himself thinking,
“What the hell am I doing here?”
CHAPTER 1
“A hit, a very palpable hit.”
— Act V, Scene II
“All right, people, all right! Let’s just get settled, shall we?”
As the hands clapped, the people milling around the stage began to take their seats. Talking dwindled to a few low murmurs and laughs, then ceased altogether as they caught sight of their director, waiting to address the company. He appeared to be standing there patiently, but the finger tapping on his belt was a dead giveaway.
Wayne Drake had good reason to be antsy. The set was behind schedule, one of his actors apparently had disappeared on an alcoholic binge, and his costumer had lost four seamstresses in as many weeks. And that was just the icing. The cake was that he was four weeks away from his opening night and he had no Hamlet. Was he mad?
When he had agreed to return to the Shakespeare Company for their ten-year anniversary and revive his modern-day version of the Bard’s classic, he had never dreamed it would be like this. The thing had been crazy enough the first time around, with the company just getting on its feet, but this… this was a hundred times worse. A thousand. He wrapped a hand around his aching forehead and waited, waited, waited, as his cast and crew settled down.
Finally, they did, and he was able to announce the agenda for the day’s rehearsal in fairly short order. He then turned the floor over to his stage manager, who began to drone on about the building schedule and what would be going on in the scene shop at the back of the theatre. Drake sighed as he listened. Grand, he thought. Hammers and power saws in the background all day. Just what I need. Unable to bear any more stress at the moment, he allowed his eyes to drift over the people seated before him.
Something was wrong.
Drake could feel it. He prided himself on sensing intuitively his company’s mood and balance and things were feeling decidedly askew. He looked around the assembly again, more closely this time, and realized what was wrong.
Someone was missing, and it wasn’t just Gretchen, one of the supporting players who hadn’t bothered to appear for the last four days. Drake counted heads and went through the cast list in his mind; no, it appeared all his actors were present and accounted for. It must be a crew member… where was Carl?
He looked through the company again, to be sure he hadn’t missed the lighting designer the first two times around. No. The distinguished man with the gentle demeanor, and the best eye in the business for light and shadow, was nowhere in sight.
Drake turned and gestured to the lighting operator, who was at his side in an instant. “Have you seen Carl?” Drake whispered; the stage manager was still prattling on about watching for nails and screws in the wings. As if the actors were going barefoot or something… this wasn’t Hair, for heaven’s sake.
The young woman shook her head. “Not since last night. I think he stayed late to hang some instruments… he wanted to get started on some of the more complicated cues after you were done today.”
Drake frowned. “Please see if you can locate him. Perhaps he’s out back having one of those hideous cigarettos he’s so fond of. And ask him to join us as soon as possible.”
The girl nodded and slipped away, past the chairs of actors and the other, restless crew members. She was grateful for the chance to escape Lowell Abbott’s apparently never-ending speech about the set build. She glanced up at the booth and the catwalk as she reached the back of the stage, just in case her soft-spoken mentor was taking care of business in his usual unobtrusive manner. Nothing. She continued to the back of the theatre and pushed open the stage door.
The alley wasn’t the prettiest place in the world, but to Sarah the outside air felt like a benediction. She’d been here with Carl until midnight, and then with her boyfriend in some stuffy, smoke-filled bar. In addition, they would be in the theatre all day and this may the only daylight she saw for the next 24 hours. She intended to take her time finding her boss; she knew just where he was by the smell of the slender cigars he couldn’t resist.
She leaned against the wall for a moment, letting the sunshine warm her face and thinking about the things Carl was teaching her about lighting. He’d been a hero of hers since high school, and she couldn’t believe she was here, working with him—
BAM!
Sarah started violently at the sharp report. What on earth, she thought, as her eyes flew open and she stared frantically around the alley to learn what had happened. For a moment, the air seemed quiet and still, then her senses noticed a thin swirl of smoke, different from the one Carl’s cigars emanated, and heard the rapidly retreating sound of soft footsteps.
Something turned in her stomach and before she knew it, she was running. Behind the dumpster, she found Carl, the cigar still smoldering in his hand, and blood pouring from his head. She reached out—pulled her hand back—then forced herself to reach down and touch his neck. There was nothing. He was dead.
She opened her mouth and began to scream.
CHAPTER 2
“To be or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them.”
—Act III, Scene I
All things considered, it was a fairly normal morning. The sun was shining, the birds were doing their thing, and for once the smog wasn’t too bad. His partner was in the seat next to him, and they were on their way to work, to another day of makin’ the world safe for other living beings.
Dave Starsky tapped his hands on the steering wheel of the bright red Torino, enjoying the power of the car beneath him, and whistled somewhat off-key. He was feeling expansive and somewhat foolish—”safe for other living beings,” my ass—and glanced over to share his silly mood with his companion.
Ken Hutchinson, however, did not appear to be in a humoring vein. He was watching out the window as he usually did, but Starsky knew his partner’s face about as well as his own, and he would have bet his socks that Hutch wasn’t seeing a thing that the car passed by.
“Hey.”
There was no answer from Hutch, whose frown seemed permanently rooted between his eyebrows. Starsky cleared his throat, much more loudly than necessary. Still nothing.
“HEY!”
Hutch didn’t even jump. He just looked over at Starsky with one raised brow.
“Why are you yelling at me?”
“Man, you are a hundred miles away,” Starsky said. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Hutch said briefly, and turned his gaze back out the car window.
“Car broken down again?” Safe bet, since Hutch’s series of dilapidated vehicles spent as much time in the shop as they did on the street.
“No.”
“Mold collection die?” Trying a joking tone, thinking of Hutch’s apartment. Hutch apparently only heard the questioning tone in Starsky’s voice, for his answering “No” was automatic, with no sign of the words actually penetrating.
“Woman trouble?”
Hutch sighed. “Look, Starsk, I told you it’s nothing. Give it a rest, huh?”
Starsky shrugged. Clearly Hutch was in no frame of mind to discuss the matter, and Starsky wasn’t in the mood to have his day ruined by the famous Hutchinson temper. Not this early in the morning.
They rode in silence for a while, Starsky continuing to whistle tunelessly, Hutch gazing at something only he could see. The traffic around them was heavy but not unbearable, and they arrived at the station in a reasonable period of time.
Still thoughtful and not sharing why, Hutch preceded Starsky into the squad room and sank onto his chair. Starsky sat down across from his partner, studying him closer now that he didn’t have to keep an eye on the road.
As usual, Hutch’s blond hair was tidily trimmed and meticulously combed into place. Somehow it managed to stay that way, even with the car windows open. He was freshly shaved. He was wearing a black turtleneck under his black-and-white jacket, and blue jeans that looked clean, possibly even pressed, since Hutch’s fastidious grooming was a sharp contrast to his “leisurely” housekeeping habits. Starsky chanced glancing under the table. Nope. Even the boots had been shined recently, though God knew why Hutch even bothered with the beat they worked.
Starsky, on the other hand, generally looked like he just rolled out of bed, tugged a few times at his dark curls, and yanked on whatever was lying on his floor. Today that meant jeans that had seen better days, a faded T-shirt, and his beloved Adidas, all topped off with a battered leather jacket that had belonged to his father. To further support the “opposites attract” adage, he was a model of cleanliness when it came to his home, and often couldn’t restrain himself from tidying up a bit—a lot—when he visited Hutch’s apartment.
Starsky squinted his eyes at Hutch. He could detect nothing from his partner’s appearance. Now what?
Hutch realized he was being scrutinized. “What?” he said, with a slight edge to his voice.
“Nothing,” Starsky responded. Tit for tat.
Hutch sighed. Sat back, crossed his arms for a moment, then seemed to come to some decision. He reached for his phone, and was just beginning to punch numbers in when the door to Dobey’s office flew open. Somehow, the stocky black man could never summon his two detectives in a normal tone—or, God forbid, via the telephone.
“Starsky, Hutchinson!” he barked. “My office.” He didn’t wait for an answer, just turned and went back inside.
Hutch hesitated for a moment, looking as if he would rather complete his call first, then resigned himself to the impossibility of that. He joined Starsky in the captain’s office, where both detectives dropped into chairs in front of the captain’s desk.
In a third chair sat a man who made Hutch looked slovenly. From tasseled, highly polished loafers to knife-creased slacks and crisp white shirt, the man looked like he’d stepped out of an aftershave commercial, Starsky thought. Dobey nodded at the man, then at Starsky and Hutch as he made introductions.
“Mr. Drake, these are Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson. Mr. Drake is a director at the Bay Shakespeare Company.”
Drake extended a hand toward Hutch and, of course, said, “Pleasure to meet you, Detective Starsky.”
Starsky took the proffered hand. “That’s me,” he explained, then nodded toward his partner. “He’s Hutchinson.”
“My mistake,” Drake said, shaking hands with Starsky, then Hutch. “I apologize… but you look so much alike.”
“No harm done.” Starsky grinned. Despite his appearance, the man was no stuffed shirt, and Starsky kind of liked him.
Hutch didn’t crack a smile.
This was typically the part where Dobey explained to them what this gentleman wanted and what part they were supposed to play. Instead, however, there was a long silence.
Again, Hutch got the sense that he was being scrutinized. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the director eying him thoughtfully and thoroughly. He bore it for several seconds, then shifted in his seat and flicked a glance at Starsky. Starsky shrugged. You got me, pal, the gesture said.
Finally, Drake moved his gaze from Hutch and switched it to Dobey. “Well, he certainly looks right,” he murmured, half to himself and half to the rest of the room, then directed his next question to the captain. “And you say he has the appropriate history for the job?”
Dobey nodded. The director examined Hutch again for a moment, then nodded slightly, coming to some decision. “Very well. I’ll have to hear him read, of course, but this might work out very nicely on a number of fronts.”
For the first time, Hutch assumed a facial expression that actually communicated something: compete bewilderment. “What?”
At last, Dobey chose to explain what was going on. “As I said, Mr. Drake is the director at a local theatre company—”
“Allow me, Captain, if you please?” Drake requested politely. Dobey grunted and gestured in affirmation. Drake turned back to the two detectives. “You see, gentlemen, some years ago, I directed a production of Hamlet at the Shakespeare Company. The company’s premiere performance, as a matter of fact. They have asked me to return and revive my version, in honor of their anniversary… however, things are not going as planned.” He paused, clearly troubled, and added wryly, “To say the very least.”
The detectives waited expectantly.
“First off, I have been plagued with difficulties in the set and costuming. Then, to make matters worse, one of my actors—a small role, to be sure, but annoying nonetheless—left rehearsal four days ago and never returned.” He sensed the detective’s growing impatience and hurried to continue: “Then yesterday, at rehearsal, my lighting designer was killed. Murdered in broad daylight, in the alley behind the theatre.”
Professional interest kicked in, the weird conversation about Hutch momentarily forgotten. Starsky leaned forward. “How?”
“He appears to have been shot, but it’s the oddest thing,” Drake replied. “Whoever killed him shot him precisely through the ears.”
Well, Starsky thought, that’s one we haven’t heard before.
Hutch was beginning to have a growing suspicion that he didn’t much like. “So where do we fit in?” Despite his trepidation, his tone was gentle; he could see the director’s distress.
“Oh, yes, of course, I’m so sorry,” Drake apologized, composing himself. “Well, on top of my other troubles, I seem to be short a very important actor in my production. When your captain and I were discussing your—cover? Is that the word?—it seemed the perfect marriage of my needs and your—unique background.”
Hutch’s suspicions were growing. “So you want me to go under as an actor in his show,” he said bluntly to Dobey, who confirmed it with a nod. He turned his attention back to Drake. “All right, I guess I can do that,” he conceded. “Which role?”
Drake’s expression became almost reverent as he responded. “The role every actor dreams of. The Danish prince himself.”
Hutch’s eyebrows shot practically to his hairline. Starsky was completely lost. He glanced from the director, to Dobey, to Hutch, as his partner sank against the back of his chair.
“That’s a bit much, isn’t it?” Hutch said. “I haven’t acted in years…”
“Well, as I said, I would have to read you first,” Drake interrupted, regaining his director’s posture. “And I pride myself on my casting ability. I assure you, if I am not confident you can be believable, I will place you elsewhere.”
Hutch puffed his cheeks, blew out the air.
“Please, Detective,” Drake said persuasively. “Your look is correct, your carriage is good, and your voice seems excellent. This may not work, but if it does you would be doing me twice the favor.”
Starsky was still looking back and forth between the two, feeling like he was watching two aliens play ping-pong. “What’s the big deal?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity. “We’ve been doin’ undercover for years. Isn’t that kind of like acting?”
Hutch ignored him—why should now be any different than the rest of the day?—and rose to his feet with a skeptical expression but an accepting sigh. “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll read for you. But I’m not promisin’ a thing.”
The director’s smile was genuinely grateful as he handed Hutch a slim, cardboard binder. “This is my version of the script, with appropriate cuts,” he said. “The original production was over four hours long,” he explained unnecessarily, “and no audience will endure that these days.”
No one was heeding him. Hutch was gazing at the script with an unreadable expression, Starsky was still frowning in confusion, and Dobey was watching Hutch to see what he was going to do. Drake stopped himself and managed a somewhat embarrassed smile.
“Well. At any rate. Shall I see you at the theatre at 2:00 this afternoon, Detective? Will that give you time to review the script?”
“Uh…sure.” Hutch shrugged. What the hell. He’d probably fail the audition, anyway, so what did he have to lose besides a few hours.
“Very well.” The director turned his attention to Starsky, who endured the man’s measuring gaze for a moment until it dawned on him what he might be thinking.
“Oh, no,” he said warningly. “You’re not gettin’ me out there. No way!”
“Forgive me,” Drake apologized, blushing slightly. “I understood that you and Detective Hutchinson came as a team.”
“We do,” Starsky retorted, indignant at having this outsider tell him the obvious. “But I’m still not doin’ any acting.”
“My crew is full at the moment,” the director mused. “Except the lighting designer, and it would take weeks for one to learn enough to even bluff one’s way through it. Still, I suppose with Sarah’s help—”
“We’ll figure something out,” Dobey cut in. “In the meantime, you’d better get back to your rehearsal, Mr. Drake. And remember what we discussed: no one is to know Detective Hutchinson’s true identity. No one.”
“Oh, of course.” Drake turned to leave, then paused at the door to address Hutch. “I suppose I should have something else to call you, then, shouldn’t I? Your—character name, as it were?”
“I’ll messenger a dossier to you before he comes this afternoon,” Dobey interjected before Hutch could reply. “The officers usually prefer to keep their first names and initials, so if you refer to him as Ken, that should be fine.”
“Very well,” the director repeated. He looked again at Hutch. “I know the prospect makes you uncomfortable, Detective, but I do appreciate this. And I have an instinct about these things; I sense that you would make an excellent Hamlet.”
He took his leave. Starsky cocked his head, examining his partner and the cover of the script. “Hamlet… Hamlet,” he mused. “Hey, isn’t that the—”
Hutch’s eyes met his, and he knew his next move should probably be silence. He obliged. Dobey sank back down behind his desk with a sigh. “Well, this one could be interesting,” he muttered.
“No shit,” Hutch said with a snort.
“Go on, get outta here,” Dobey commanded. “Drake said rehearsals are five days a week from ten to four, so you’re effectively off the street until this thing is wrapped up. You’d better get your paperwork in order before this afternoon.”
He waved the two detectives out and, uncharacteristically, they immediately obeyed. Starsky was still trying to absorb what had occurred as they returned to their respective sides of the table in the detectives’ bullpen. “Hamlet?” he said. “That’s the ‘to be or not to be’ one, isn’t it?”
Hutch again looked distracted, only this time the pucker between his brows was clearly concern. He sat down, flipping through the script, then closed it deliberately. Glanced at his watch, picked up the phone, dialed. Listened for several seconds, then dropped the receiver back just short of a slam. Startled, Starsky decided enough was enough.
“Hey.” This time, Hutch looked up at him. “Really. You wanna tell me what’s botherin’ you?”
Hutch opened his mouth, closed it. Looked away, down at the script, then back up at his friend. Something imperceptible shifted and he made up his mind. “It’s my parents,” he said.
“Your folks?” Starsky again was startled; this hadn’t even entered his mind. Hutch nodded. “What about ’em?”
“I’m not really sure,” Hutch admitted, leaning back in his chair and tapping a pencil thoughtfully on the script. “This weekend’s their 40th wedding anniversary, and I was thinking about going to Minnesota, you know? Try to make it a pleasant occasion for once, instead of the usual command performance because I’ve disappointed them again.”
His face and tone were wry, but his expression quickly became sober as Starsky asked, “So what’s the problem?”
“I’ve been trying to reach them for a week to see what their plans are,” Hutch explained. “No answer. I just get the machine, and I’ve left a half-dozen messages.”
“Maybe they’re just busy and can’t get back to you,” Starsky offered. Hutch shook his head, indicating he’d considered that possibility and dismissed it.
“You know my dad,” he said. “If I don’t return a call in 24 hours, he acts like I personally insulted him. There’s no way he’d let this go this long, even if he were pissed off at me.”
“Call your sister?” Starsky asked.
“I tried that, too, and she doesn’t know where they are either.” Hutch sighed. His relationship with his parents was strained, but he still cared what happened to them, and this was weighing on his mind. “I don’t get it, Starsk. They have a clockwork routine that never varies, and they never go anywhere if they can’t be back in their own beds at night.”
“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” Starsky said reassuringly. “If something had happened, wouldn’t they have notified you and your sister?”
“Yeah, that’s a good point,” Hutch admitted. He ran his hands through his hair, took a deep breath, and forced himself to get down to business. He picked up a folder, then changed his mind and opened the script. “Guess I’d better refresh my memory on this thing.”
“Thought Dobey wanted you to finish your paperwork.”
“It’s done,” Hutch said simply, and Starsky was not surprised. “Even if it weren’t, I’d rather get the ‘late report’ lecture a dozen times than walk into this audition without knowin’ what I’m doin’.” He paused, then went on with a decidedly woebegone expression, “Hell, I’d rather face a loaded gun than go there at all.”
CHAPTER 3
“For this relief much thanks; ’tis bitter cold,
And I am sick at heart.”
—Act I, Scene I
The apartment was dark and silent. In the distance, thunder had begun to grumble quietly, but it would be a while before the storm moved in and made it necessary to close the windows. For now, the ocean of greenery basked in the soft, damp wind and enjoyed itself.
There was a scratching sound of someone fumbling above the doorsill, then the door opened and Hutch stepped in. Not bothering to turn on the lights, he returned his spare key to its “hiding” place and closed the door. He dumped his jacket on the couch, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and went out into the greenhouse to commune with his own little homage to Mother Nature.
The plants welcomed him, waving in the breeze. A particularly enthusiastic fern brushed across his cheek as he sat down. The thunder moved a little closer, but he didn’t hear it; his mind was elsewhere. In fact, between his parents and this new assignment, it was a miracle he wasn’t experiencing one big astral projection.
By Drake’s definition, the audition had been a success. Hutch had done his best—it seemed to be an uncontrollable part of his nature—and Drake had actually been enthusiastic about his skills. Hutch had to admit he had been somewhat flattered, but as he had driven home the reality had kicked in and he began to wonder just what he had gotten himself into.
He looked at his watch. Six o’clock. He was tired and he was hungry, and he really didn’t feel like eating alone.
Starsky picked up the phone on the first ring. It was like that sometimes.
“Hey.”
“Hey, what happened?”
“He wants me to do it.”
“Good news or bad?”
“Ask me later.” Hutch swallowed the last of his beer. After I’ve had something to eat and a few more of these, he thought.
As if reading his partner’s mind, Starsky said, “You wanna come over for dinner? I’m makin’ my specialty.”
Which meant pasta and his aunt’s tomato sauce. Hutch opened his mouth to agree, then stopped as the clouds outside delivered up a sharp clap of thunder. The sudden, sweeping rush of pouring rain followed, and he remembered the dubious state of his ancient car. “Damn,” he said. “Can you bring it here? My floorboards aren’t what they used to be.”
“Only for you, pal,” Starsky said. “See you in about twenty.”
They both hung up.
In the car on the way to Venice Place, Starsky considered Hutch’s current mood and how he’d had to pry the reason out of him—again. No doubt about it, Hutch was a brooder. Starsky loved the man and would willingly lay down his life for him, but even he couldn’t deny the fact that Hutch had a hard time letting things go.
He knew the pattern, which was why he’d pushed the issue today. Hutch would get quiet and distant, then increasingly preoccupied and short-tempered. If nothing intervened—like Starsky or his own good sense—the balloon would burst, and not always at the appropriate time or target. Starsky had seen that white-hot temper flare up; so had Captain Dobey. So, he thought with a slightly guilty snicker, had a few unfortunate suspects who had had the stupidity or bad luck to cross Ken Hutchinson when he was having a bad day. No doubt about it though, there was nothing like facing those intense and icy blue eyes across an interrogation table or behind a gun to loosen up a pair of lips.
Starsky had no desire to be on the receiving end himself, and after a few close calls and a little practice, he’d learned how to defuse the situation. Most days, humor or genuine concern could bring his partner around to sharing what was going on inside that busy blond head and putting it into proper perspective. If it couldn’t, Starsky knew it was time to steer clear, and let Hutch come around in his own time.
He’d never resented taking the time to figure out either the situation or the solution. He figured Hutch occasionally had his hands full with him, and his own tendencies. There was never a question about whether Starsky was angry or at what. But he tended to pop off and then forget about it, and was prone to rail about something and slam out of the room, only to return five minutes later with a corny joke or a stupid song.
Maybe because he’d learned—and relearned—that far worse things could happen than having someone cut you off in traffic.
He was on Hutch’s block now, and parked near the old storefront below Hutch’s apartment. The rain was pouring down in sheets, but Hutch had seen him coming. He propped open the door as Starsky hurried through the deluge. Neither Starsky nor the dinner got too wet, and they went up the steep staircase to Hutch’s apartment.
Hutch had turned on the lights and even made a half-hearted attempt to clean up a little. Much of the clutter was now piled in a chair to the side of his living room. His apartment was never really dirty—he was too compulsive not to keep it at least sanitary. He was just always sort of preoccupied, and so things tended to remain where he dropped them—books, clothes, music. Somehow, he never quite got around to putting them back where they belonged.
As he did every once in a while, Starsky wondered if his partner’s absent-mindedness, which was unheard of in every other aspect of his life and work, weren’t some type of unconscious rebellion against his past. Hutch’s parents were pretty straight-laced—Starsky had met them a time or two and knew for a fact that he positively horrified them—and Hutch had definitely been their progeny when Starsky first met him at the Academy. Time, friendship, and the freewheeling approach of his partner had loosened Hutch up in many ways, for which Starsky was eternally grateful. He couldn’t imagine being partners with the rigid college graduate he’d been assigned to that day.
“Hutchinson, Starsky. Front and center!” the voice barked. Trained like Pavlov’s pets to respond immediately to this man’s dulcet tones, the two young men hurried to where the instructor stood. “Got a special assignment for you two,” Sgt. Morris advised them. He explained the project and the expected timeframe, and then added, “You’re going to need to spend a lot of time working on this, so we’ve made arrangements for the two of you to be roommates. Administration’s working on the paperwork now.” He handed each of them a folder. “All right, that’s it. Dismissed.”
Starsky turned and examined the tall, blond drink of water he had just been metaphorically handcuffed to for the next several weeks. Terrific. From head to toe, the man was perfect, a WASP wet dream. His hair was trimmed and combed, his uniform clean and pressed, and everything that could be was polished to an eye-piercing gleam. Starsky was willing to bet that even the hat under his arm was tilted at the regulation angle. His gaze returned to Hutchinson’s face. The cool blue eyes gave away nothing but Starsky was pretty sure that the other man was not exactly thrilled to be here either.
Great, Hutchinson was thinking as he returned Starsky’s once-over. I drop out of grad school, I tell my parents to go to hell, and this is what I get in return? One eyebrow cocked as he took in the not-quite-right uniform, the hat perched at a decidedly unofficial angle, and the casual stance of the man before him. Oh, no. I’ve given up too much to get here, and I’m not going to throw it away, not even because the Sergeant says so. He met eyes with Starsky again, and without breaking the intense blankness of his gaze, he spoke.
“With all due respect, Sergeant, I object.”
Stung, Starsky thought, Hey, I try. I just don’t get what half this stuff has to do with real police work. Somehow, no matter how many times he washed it and had it pressed, his uniform always ended up looking like he’d slept in it, and his hat would never fit properly on those unruly dark curls. The only thing that seemed to get clean and stay clean was his gun.
“This isn’t a court of law, Cadet Hutchinson; what I say goes.” Morris was unfazed; he had thought Hutchinson would respond precisely this way. “And there are no appeals,” he added, as the blond cadet opened his mouth to continue arguing. Damned college-educated kid, he thought, as Hutchinson shut his mouth but looked disgruntled. He’d argue his way through the Second Coming… and probably win, too.
Morris watched as the two returned to measuring each other for a long moment. They’d heard about each other, of course—how could they not? Though they’d barely spoken five words since they had begun their studies, they had consistently emerged at the top of the rankings in every category. If it wasn’t Hutchinson leading the pack, it was Starsky, and they left everyone else in the dust. Hutchinson’s education and affinity for deductive reasoning gave him one kind of edge, while Starsky’s intuitive sense and considerable street smarts gave him another. They were both formidably intelligent and they were passionate about learning the law. They had yet to work together, but despite their obvious differences, Morris had a feeling about these two, and he wanted to see if it panned out.
For the moment, however, he had to end this staring match, since clearly neither of them intended to.
“Hey,” he said sharply. The two young men shifted their gazes to him, perhaps grateful for the excuse to end in a draw. “You got a lot to do. I suggest you get started.”
From the start, it went about as he had predicted. Hutchinson was a stickler for procedure and wanted to do things by the book he knew frighteningly well, while Starsky was more comfortable thinking outside the box. There were reports and sightings of the two of them arguing fiercely, oblivious to others around them, often late into the night, once almost coming to blows. The other cadets complained about the noise. Other instructors told of having to intervene. The boys upstairs inquired about Morris’ tactics and wondered if the fledgling partnership should be immediately dissolved and the two assigned as far away from each other as possible. Morris knew his boys pretty well, though, and he simply smiled patiently as the two snarled through their differences. To his superiors, he said just one word: “Wait.”
Slowly, the growling ceased. People who had seen them in the library now also saw them elsewhere on the campus, sharing notes about the case, but also just strolling or sitting on the lawn, always talking, talking, and occasionally—miracle of miracles—laughing. Gradually, it became clear it was the team of Starsky/Hutchinson against the world, and woe betide anyone who tried to contradict them, in or out of class. Together, they were even more formidable than the individual parts had been, the two minds clicking together in near-perfect and ferociously intelligent harmony.
To general surprise and envy, the two cadets completed the assignment in two-thirds of the allotted time, and with an innovation and thoroughness that few had equaled.
Sgt. Morris was not surprised at all.
As the years went by and the partnership became all but legendary, word occasionally traveled back to Morris about the progress of his experiment. Inevitably, he would smile with that patience, and a touch of smugness thrown in. He knew, and he was justifiably proud of knowing—even before the partners themselves.
“—Starsk?”
Starsky shook himself out of his reverie at the sound of Hutch’s voice. “What?”
“I said, should I put together a salad?”
“Only for yourself,” Starsky replied, predictably. “You know I don’t touch that stuff.”
“I know, but I keep hoping.”
Starsky got busy in the kitchen while Hutch selected a bottle of red wine. He slipped the cork out and poured two glasses, which he set on the dining room table to breathe. Then he dug out his cutting board and an appropriate knife, and began slicing tomatoes.
Dinner was a routine with which they were both familiar, idle conversation and teasing banter interspersed with the comfortable silences that marked a long-term friendship. Hutch was still mulling over the case and his part in it. Starsky, having had his deep thoughts for the night, was just losing himself in the enjoyment of making his favorite meal. Now that he knew what was bugging Hutch, he figured the best next step was to sit back and let his partner decide what he wanted to talk about and when.
They polished off the pasta in fairly short order, then adjourned to the greenhouse to watch the last remnants of the storm. Starsky finished his obligatory glass of wine, then got up to grab a beer from Hutch’s refrigerator.
“Something’s weird,” he said as he rejoined his partner. Hutch glanced at him inquiringly. “The lighting designer,” Starsky went on, and Hutch realized that his companion had also been thinking about the case. “I mean, shooting someone through the ears? Where the hell does that fit?”
Hutch shrugged. “You got me, pal.” He took another sip of wine. “I got this feeling I should know, but it’s too far away at the moment to be more than that. I guess we’ll just have to wait until we dig some more.”
Starsky nodded. “Dobey wants me to check out the cast and crew. I think I’ll try to run some things down on the street, too, see if anyone knows about some freak shooter with this kind of pattern.”
It was Hutch’s turn to nod, and then both men were silent for a beat or two.
“Hey,” Starsky said at length. “You wanna play Monopoly?”
“You gotta be kidding me… Don’t you ever learn?” Starsky was hopeless at Monopoly, despite repeated games and even a book of tips from Terry.
“Well, it looks like we’ll be goin’ our separate ways for a while. Thought I’d leave you with a happy memory.” He knew it was a lame and transparent excuse and he knew that Hutch knew it. “Besides, I’m feeling generous tonight on account of your folks.”
That was closer to the truth, Hutch knew. “All right, Gordo. But be prepared to lose your shirt.” He got up and went to get the board.
***
After Starsky left, Hutch tried to call his parents again. There was still no answer, and he hung up without leaving a message—something else that would drive his father crazy.
What now?
He wandered around the apartment for a while, actually putting some things away. Typically, however, he came upon a book he’d left half-finished and flipped it open to the bookmark. Before he knew it, his original mission was forgotten as he became engrossed in the text.
Two hours later, he glanced at his watch and winced. It was after one a.m. He’d had a somewhat weird day, and the next several didn’t promise to get any calmer.
He turned out the lights and headed for the bedroom. Before long, the apartment was dark and silent again, except for his even breathing and the whisper of the plants waving in the breeze.
CHAPTER 4
“There are the players.”
—Act II, Scene II
Other teams with essentially separate assignments for the day probably would have gone off on their respective tasks without seeing each other, maybe touching base later in the day, maybe exchanging information through indirect avenues such as their captain or a written report left on the other’s desk. For Hutch and Starsky, this would have required a change in their basic functioning—something along the lines of changing how they breathed or digested food. Years of experience had shown them that, even when assigned to separate tasks, they worked best when they met first thing in the morning to review their plans for the day, then again after their shift to rehash and pose questions for consideration overnight. As often as not, they ended up going out to dinner afterward, sometimes to continue discussing the case, and other times to forget about it.
So the next morning found both men in the squad room as usual. Hutch had about an hour before he had to be at his first rehearsal. Starsky was facing several hours of paperwork and running down information about the cast and crew members, before he could hit the streets and start asking questions about murders similar to the lighting designer’s. Hutch planned to join him as soon as his day’s activities were complete, so they could run down some leads together and also continue showing a united front on their beat.
Hutch knew he needed to study up on the resume Dobey had sent over to Drake. As usual, it was thorough; it was also as close as possible to the truth, so he didn’t have too many new facts to learn. Bachelor’s degree in theatre (the criminal justice part omitted for obvious reasons) at the University of Minnesota, a string of community theatre and semi-professional productions, newly moved here after a regional theatre closed in the Midwest.
There were only two areas of difficulty: his name and the union. He couldn’t get on that stage as Ken Hutchinson; if there was any advance publicity, he would be opening himself up to any number of creeps he’d busted who held a grudge. So he took the last name “Hyde,” appropriate credentials were created, and everyone hoped that no one tried to confirm facts at the University.
The actors’ union started out as an even tougher issue. On the one hand, it would be highly unusual for a non-Equity actor to be playing the lead role in a professional theatre, and it would be easy to disprove if he falsely claimed he were a member. On the other, it seemed important to limit the number of people who knew his true identity. Having the union in on the deception at any level seemed to open a myriad of “blown cover” possibilities. Finally, they convinced Drake to use his clout and sponsor “Kenneth Hyde” for a provisional membership.
Thinking about it made Hutch tired already, but having inflicted his moods on his partner the day before, he tried to be more pleasant this morning as they discussed their plans. Then, business completed, the conversation turned to more personal matters.
“So, are you nervous?” Starsky asked, as he polished off the last of his coffee cake and chased it with a gulp of coffee. Despite his best efforts, his partner was fidgeting more than usual, moving things around on his desk, tapping his fingers, and glancing every few minutes at his watch.
“You know, I am,” Hutch admitted. “Damned if I know why, but there it is.”
“Didn’t you do this stuff in school?” Starsky fired his napkin at a nearby wastebasket and missed.
“Constantly,” Hutch replied, talking more to the pen he was running through his fingers than to Starsky. “But it’s been a long time, and this is a huge role. I’m not sure if I’ve still got the chops to handle it.”
“Hey,” Starsky said. “If you can convince a suspect that I’m gonna send you out for coffee and then tear his head off, you can do this.” Despite himself, Hutch laughed. Trust Starsky to try the wiseass way to reassure him.
“I think that speaks more to your acting than mine,” he pointed out.
“This is true,” Starsky said, trying to look modest and failing. He leaned his chair at a seemingly impossible angle to retrieve the napkin ball and try his shot again. This time, he sank it, but nearly lost his balance in the process.
“Watch yourself,” Hutch cautioned. He was paying close attention to Starsky’s actions now, probably to distract himself from his own thoughts.
“No sweat.” In a move borne of years of practice, Starsky smoothly up-righted himself and returned the chair to its intended position. When he spoke again, his tone was gentler. “Hear anything from your folks?”
“Not yet,” Hutch sighed. “I’m going to let it rest for a few days—” Starsky inwardly snorted at the unlikelihood of that—”then try again. I think my sister’s getting sick of talking to me.”
Starsky couldn’t restrain a sour look. He’d only met Kimberly Hutchinson-Munroe once, but that was enough to peg her for the egocentric, priority-challenged suburban matron she was. He could easily envision her response to Hutch’s insistence that she care about someone other than herself, her children, or her pampered dogs.
Hutch glanced at his watch—for the hundredth time, Starsky thought—and felt his palms go suddenly damp. Taking a deep breath, he rose and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Well—” He couldn’t quite find words to describe his next steps. A part of him felt vaguely silly about this assignment, but that was how it was.
“Knock ’em dead,” Starsky said encouragingly.
Hutch managed a slightly sickly smile, squared his shoulders, and started out the door.
At that moment, a demon clearly took hold of his partner, as someone resembling Starsky called after him: “Hey. Blondie!”
Hutch glanced back over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.
“Can’t wait to see you in tights!”
Hutch closed his eyes and prayed for patience. He knew the squad room was staring and he could feel the blush creeping up his cheeks. Just turn around and walk away, he told himself. You can kill him later. He finally convinced his legs and his feet to carry him into the hallway and down the stairs to the street. As he climbed into the battered Ford, he raised his eyes and asked whatever spirits protect fools, children, and undercover detectives to please, please spare him the ignominy of tights.
***
Beginner’s luck. One of the first things Drake did when Hutch arrived at the theatre was whisk him off to Teresa, the costumer. The embarrassment of being asked to immediately remove most of his clothing was offset by her designs—not a set of tights in the bunch; rather, simple, nondescript clothing that resembled nothing so much as a fencing outfit. As Teresa pinned and tucked his white first-act costume, nattering all the while, it dawned on Hutch that there was nowhere in that outfit for his gun—not even for a second in an ankle holster. For purposes of his cover, he was grateful he’d thought to lock the Magnum in the concealed compartment in his trunk, but he felt lopsided and somewhat vulnerable without its comforting weight at his side.
And that was only half of it.
We’d better find somewhere for Starsk, he thought uneasily, because right now I’m going in cold.
Teresa expertly inserted one last pin and stepped back to examine her handiwork. She nodded in a self-satisfied way, then reached behind her for a short jacket made out of white velvet and trimmed with elaborate embroidery, also in white.
“You’ll be wearing these types of jackets for the formal court scenes,” she told Hutch briskly in her lilting Welsh accent. “But we’ll get you out of them as soon as possible as they’re fairly constraining.” She held the jacket up for Hutch to shrug into, then smoothed it across his shoulders. Turning him back to face her, as if he were nothing more than a mannequin or a twelve-year-old boy, she closed the fasteners on the front, smoothed the jacket across his chest, and tugged at the sides to smooth out the line. Then she helped him buckle on the scabbard and sword, and stepped back again to get the full effect.
Her eyes swept from Hutch’s blond hair, which was sun-bleached almost silver at this time of year, to his tanned, expressive face with its classic features, and down the lean frame. Well, she thought, he certainly looks the part. Now if he can only act…
Somewhat uncomfortable under her scrutiny, Hutch felt the blush begin again.
“Boots,” Teresa mused, then ended her internal inventory and stepped toward him, unfastening the jacket and slipping it from his shoulders. “Now, I’m not one to tell actors to go on a diet,” she said in an authoritative tone, “but I wouldn’t go on any tremendous eating or drinking binges.”
Hutch agreed silently; the costume fit like a glove, and he was grateful for the many hours he’d spent attending to his eating habits and working out at the gym.
“And you’ve probably noticed this, but I’ll say it anyway to give myself peace of mind,” she went on. “This costume is white. That means no eating and no smoking while you’re wearing it, and don’t ever let me see you with a cup of coffee or soda when you’re anywhere near it.” She fixed him with an imperious gaze, and he stifled the urge to laugh.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, instead.
“Thank you,” she said. “You can go ahead and change—try to dislodge as few of those pins as possible.”
Costume fitting completed, Drake led Hutch to the stage and introduced him to his fellow actors. He made a particular note of the actors playing Horatio and Ophelia, since he would have the bulk of his scenes with these two, but did his usual thorough job of memorizing names and faces as quickly as possible. He guessed that would be readily accepted—and even appreciated—since being a quick study was an asset for actors as well as detectives.
“Jim Harrison,” Horatio introduced himself, taking Hutch’s hand in a firm grip and shaking it decisively. The other man was about Hutch’s age, a few inches shorter, with straight, dark brown hair that kept falling into his large, expressive eyes. Hutch guessed the “Good night, sweet prince” couplet would play to the back row with ease. “Damn, I’m glad to see he’s filled this part… I’ve been getting tired of acting with the stage manager.” He glanced out at the house, barely visible beyond the harsh glare of the worklights. “No offense, Lowell,” he called.
“None taken,” came back.
“And this,” Drake said with obvious fondness, drawing forward a young woman with auburn hair that tumbled down her back, “is Rosalind Berry, our Ophelia.”
Hutch raised an eyebrow. “Rosalind, eh? Don’t see many of those around.”
The tall, slender redhead rolled her eyes and laughed, a surprisingly hearty and infectious sound that put Hutch more at ease than he’d been since he walked in the door. “Ain’t it the truth?” she said mockingly. “As you can guess, my father had a Shakespeare fixation. Most people just call me Roz.”
“Rosalind’s father was one of the founding members of the company,” Drake said. His arm around the young woman’s shoulders, he beamed like the proud father himself, then his demeanor became sober. “He unfortunately died of cancer before he could see what a chip off the old block she is.”
Roz leaned her head on Drake’s shoulder, and it was clear the man’s affection was freely returned. “Wayne’s been my surrogate uncle ever since Dad passed away,” she explained to Hutch. “He’s a great guy. I think you’ll really enjoy working with us. At least I hope you do.”
“Me, too,” Hutch responded, thinking, you don’t know the half of it.
To Hutch’s relief, the first rehearsal was relatively painless. The entire play was already blocked, so Drake’s first priority was adding Hutch in. The director worked confidently and efficiently, beginning with the large crowd scenes and working down to those with just two or three actors. The company, too, was professional and efficient. While they were clearly enjoying themselves, they kept their eyes and ears on Drake and rarely let outside conversations interrupt the task at hand.
By the lunch break at 1:00, the scenes involving the entire company had been completed, and many of the actors had been dismissed for the day. Drake seemed to think things were going well, and Hutch was pleased to see that he seemed to have retained many of his skills. Of course, this was only a walkthrough, which didn’t require too much in the way of acting at this point. But Drake had set aside time each day, and some evenings, to work with Hutch individually and polish anything that wasn’t working.
The other actors were generally friendly and welcoming. He answered a few questions with the history he had memorized from his resume (luckily, most of the credits involved shows he had done in college), and they seemed satisfied that he had the credentials for the role. After some initial—and understandable—apprehension, they seemed to accept him, and invited him to join them for lunch at the deli down the street.
As they were walking back to the theatre after lunch, Roz dropped back from the rest of the group to talk with Hutch. “So,” she said amiably. “You’re the knight in shining armor, coming in just when we were wondering if this were going to happen after all.”
Hutch half-grinned. “Don’t say that until you’ve actually seen me act,” he warned.
“Oh, I trust Wayne’s instincts completely,” she assured him. “He says you can do it, and he’s usually right.” Her smile faded then, and she squinted off into the bright afternoon sunshine. “Except for Gretchen.”
“Who?”
“Gretchen Talbot. She’s the woman who disappeared last week.” Hutch apparently managed to look sufficiently mystified, because she went on, “Oh, that’s right, you don’t know about that.” They turned the corner and started down the last three blocks to the theatre. “Well, there’s not much more to tell, really… She was here for the first three weeks of rehearsal, and then suddenly, she just didn’t show up. Wayne called her apartment, and a couple of us even went by there, but nobody’s heard from her since.”
“Any ideas where she might’ve gone?”
“Well,” she said, somewhat reluctantly, “it’s not very nice, but some people think she just went off on a bender and is somewhere drying out. She did have a bit of a drinking problem.” They were at the stage door of the theatre now, in the alley where Carl Windsor had been shot. The actors, who had been talking and laughing the rest of the way, were suddenly quiet and subdued. Roz blinked several times, and Hutch could tell she was holding back tears. “I don’t understand why anyone would want to kill Carl, of all people,” she said fiercely. “He was a really great guy, and a master lighting designer.”
“Sounds like it was a big loss for all of you,” Hutch said sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, what do we care anyway? We’re just egomaniacal actors who only care about themselves and the size of their roles,” she said sharply. “It was bad enough when Gretchen disappeared, but then this…” She trailed off, then shook herself with a short laugh. “Sorry. You’re new to the place, and here I am, bringing you down.” She pulled open the door. “Come on, let’s get back to work. Just don’t whistle in the dressing room or say the ‘M’ word. We’ve had enough bad luck as it is.”
Hutch grinned as he followed her into the dark wings. He remembered how he and his fellow students had thumbed their noses at the old acting superstitions, assiduously wishing each other “good luck,” and standing on the balcony after opening night, shouting “MACBETH” at the top of their lungs. Most times, nothing untoward came of it, but occasionally something weird would happen and they’d be roundly scolded by their fellow performers. Which, of course, only incited them to repeat the ritual, mostly to torment the others.
Come to think of it, it was kind of like him and Starsky.
CHAPTER 5
“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”
—Act I, Scene IV
The room was dark and still; no daylight could penetrate the thick black curtains that hung over every window. On the walls hung posters from hundreds of productions, the first dating thirty years earlier. The bookcases overflowed with scripts, newspaper clippings, scrapbooks, and books about acting and the theatre. Otherwise, the room was like any other in the seedy long-term motel, with a narrow bed, a scarred breakfast table with two rickety chairs, a battered but still somehow stately wingback chair, and a single naked lightbulb hanging in the center.
The phone rang, and a hand reached from the depths of the wingback chair immediately.
“Yes?” The voice was smooth and cultured, widely at odds with the surroundings.
“It’s me.”
“Hello, me. What new news do you have today?”
“You have to think of something else to do.” The other voice was pressed and irritated, and lips twisted slightly into an indulgent smile.
“Oh, I have, have I? Have we lost sight of just who is in charge on this project?”
“Of course not, but I’m telling you, what we’ve done so far isn’t working. They’re still on.”
“What do you mean?”
“Drake managed to find a Hamlet.”
The eyes narrowed and the smile disappeared. There were several seconds of silence as one brain ticked furiously and the other waited to hear the results. “Well, now,” the cultured voice said at length, “that is fortunate for them, isn’t it?”
“But—”
“But really I don’t see how it changes our procedures.” The man paused, lifted a glass of wine from the floor, and took an appreciative sip. “Whom did he find?”
“I don’t know,” the voice on the other end replied. “I’ve never seen him around here. He says he’s from some regional theatre in the Midwest—name’s Ken Hyde.”
“Hyde, Hyde… No, rings no bells for me either.” Another sip of wine. “Well, I suggest you keep a bit of an eye on Mr. Hyde… perhaps see what you can find out about him. But otherwise our plans remain unchanged. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Fine. I’ll expect to hear from you at the usual time tomorrow.”
***
After rehearsal, Hutch headed back to the station to meet up with his partner. His head was spinning with acting details, not the least of which was learning a massive quantity of lines in just a week. He pulled into the station parking lot with a yawn and got out of the car, remembering to retrieve his gun from the trunk before he went inside. He was going to see if Starsky just wanted to go for dinner and a beer—he figured he deserved it, after this day. He planned to make his partner pay the tab, as penance for that stunt this morning. The thought revived him somewhat and he took the steps to the second floor two at a time.
To his surprise, Starsky wasn’t in the bullpen. There were stacks of records and an ominous note from Dobey about getting them refiled, but no Starsky. Judging by the time on Dobey’s note, Starsky hadn’t been there for a couple of hours.
Oh, well. Hutch shrugged and headed toward his own side of the table they shared, donning and snapping his holster to his belt as he went. Starsky was probably still out tracking down information about the theatre company, or following some other lead that Hutch didn’t know about yet. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sank down into his chair, then spotted another note, this one on his desk blotter. It stated that things had been slow, and Starsky had gone home early, since they planned to work late that night. Hutch was instructed to head over to his partner’s when he got the message, and a postscript added that Starsky would order a half-pepperoni, half-veggie pizza for dinner, if Hutch was up for it.
Sounded as good as anything, Hutch thought, abandoning the cup of coffee and retracing his steps to his car. Besides, he was anxious to hear what Starsky had turned on the members of the company.
***
“Nothin’,” Starsky grumbled around a mouthful of pepperoni. He and Hutch were sitting on the floor in his apartment, the pizza and two half-emptied glasses of beer between them. “I never saw such a squeaky-clean group in my life. Are you sure they’re not the Osmonds in disguise?” He swallowed, then leaned back against his couch with a satisfied sigh. “How about you? Find out anything during rehearsal?”
Hutch nodded but also rocked his hand in a “comme ci, comme ca” gesture. “Sort of,” he said. “Roz—the actor who’s played Ophelia—said that the woman who disappeared had an alcohol problem.”
Starsky tilted his head, and Hutch knew his partner’s sharp mind was mentally flipping through the pages of records he’d scoured that day. “What was her name again?”
“Talbot. Gretchen Talbot.”
“Oh, yeah—I do remember her,” Starsky said. “She was the only one of the bunch who had any priors. Mostly minor stuff—public intox, that kind of thing—but a coupla DUIs, too.”
“Hmm.” Hutch frowned, trying to make some kind of connection but having no luck. “You know, sometimes I hate this part,” he complained. “It’s like dusting off miles of solid rock, trying to find the two-inch crack, that leads you to the clue, that might actually tell you something.”
“I know,” Starsky said sympathetically. Though he kind of enjoyed the early stages of an investigation, he knew that his results-oriented partner found the wide-sweeping arc of “possibles” and “maybes” occasionally frustrating. “But look at it this way. At least we’ve done some eliminating.”
“Yeah.” Hutch took a contemplative sip of his beer and considered things from another angle—mainly, with his eyes closed and his head tilted back on the seat of Starsky’s easy chair. He didn’t understand why he was so tired; they’d worked these kinds of shifts before, and he usually didn’t feel it until well after midnight. Of course, he generally tried to get more sleep the night before when that was the case.
“Hey,” Starsky said, brightening a little. “I remember one other thing, too—about Talbot and the guy that got burned the other day—”
“Windsor,” Hutch supplied, not moving from his relaxed position.
“Yeah. Anyway, she and Windsor were both founding members of the company.”
Hutch opened his eyes, interest renewed. “Yeah? Interesting. So was Roz’ father.”
“That might be something,” Starsky thought out loud. “Maybe I’ll nose around and see if there’s been any other mysterious disappearances.” He downed the last of his beer and reached for Hutch’s arm.
“What?”
“What time is it?” Hutch rolled his eyes as Starsky grabbed his wrist and looked at his watch. As usual, Starsky declined to look at the perfectly good wristwatch on his own arm, not to mention the two or three clocks that were scattered around his living room. “Almost nine—come on, we gotta go meet Huggy.” He rose, gathered the corpse of the pizza, and went into the kitchen to throw it away.
Hutch unfolded his long frame from the floor, and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. He yawned again and passed one hand over his face, trying to shake himself into some semblance of alertness. Starsky returned and saw the weary gesture.
“Hey,” he said, “you OK?”
“Yeah. I’m just tired.”
“I can do this alone, if you want to go home and get some Z’s.”
“Nah, I’d probably just stay up reading until the wee hours again.” Hutch shrugged into his jacket. “Come on. You know how Huggy gets if we keep him waiting.”
***
Huggy Bear’s restaurant was hopping, as was typical for this hour of the night. Two attractive waitresses were handling the floor duties, and greeted the two detectives as they entered. Huggy was behind the bar, so they headed there first. As usual, he was resplendent tonight in denim and a brightly colored shirt and hat. He acknowledged Starsky and Hutch, asked what they would have, then nodded toward a booth in the back of the bar.
The two detectives seated themselves first, then Huggy joined them with a cup of coffee for Hutch, a soda for Starsky, and a beer for himself. “Evening, gentlemen,” he said genially, sliding into the booth next to Hutch and across from Starsky. “Haven’t seen much of you today. Aren’t you protectin’ us citizens like you’re s’posed to?”
“We’ve been lookin’ into a murder, Hug, and it’s kind of a weird one,” Starsky said, by way of opening explanations.
Huggy raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “Aren’t they all?” he queried, then grinned. “At least the ones you come to me with.”
Starsky grinned. “Yeah, you got a point there,” he said.
“Huggy, this guy got it with a bullet through his ears,” Hutch broke in.
Huggy let out a whistle. “Well, you’re right. That definitely makes the Weird Hit Parade.” He moved a toothpick to the other side of his mouth, and somehow managed to take a sip of his beer without swallowing the sliver of wood. “Whereabouts did this happen?”
“At a theatre—live, not movie,” Hutch replied. “The Bay Shakespeare Company performs there, and they’re having their ten-year anniversary this year, so they’re reviving the first production they did.”
“And so far they’ve been having a great run… of bad luck,” Starsky chimed in. Huggy looked from one to the other with a quizzical expression on his face.
“I know you know this, but I’ll say it anyway. That ain’t exactly my neck of the woods.”
“Yeah, we know,” Starsky said. “But we thought you could maybe ask around, see if anyone knows about some nut with a burn pattern like this.”
Huggy shrugged. “Never heard of it, but I’ll do my best.” He drained his beer and rose from the booth, indicating Hutch’s cup and Starsky’s glass. “You guys gonna eat or just drink the kiddy stuff?”
“Nah, we ate at my place,” Starsky said. “Just the kiddy stuff for now.”
Huggy left, and the two detectives sat in silence for several seconds. Finally, Hutch sighed, reached into his wallet, and threw a few singles onto the table. “Well, sittin’ here isn’t going to get us anywhere.” He rose to his feet. “Come on, let’s go see and be seen.”
They knew what would happen if they didn’t show a regular presence on their beat. Someone would nose it around that they had been transferred, or wasted, or kicked off the force. Wishful thinking, for the most part, but the gossip on the street was worse than any girls’ school, and they didn’t want to deal with the crime spree that inevitably would follow. Fortunately, the Torino was visible enough, and distinctive enough, that a few hours of cruising would get the message across that it was business as usual.
It was a quiet night, and they got back to Starsky’s before midnight. Hutch declined one last beer for the road, and headed home. Starsky sat down on the floor of his living room and began to sift again through the notes he’d taken during his investigation that day. Maybe something would hit him now, maybe later. Maybe something Hutch would find out or say would send them both down the right track, as it had so many times before. Or maybe Hutch would be puzzling over a hole and Starsky would know how to fill it.
He knew how they worked. He wasn’t worried.
CHAPTER 6
“…an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning.”
—Act II, Scene II
Drake sat in the house, finger to his lips, eyes intent on the action on the stage. It was the end of the second week of rehearsal with his new Hamlet, and for the most part he was inordinately pleased. If this actor had shown up on his doorstep with his current resume (the real one, not the one that had been “doctored” to go on file) and asked to play the role, he probably would have been gracious, and polite—and turned him down flat. As it was, the unfortunate introduction had given him a wonderfully talented and complex Hamlet. Ken’s work as a police officer seemed to have given him a different layer than Drake had seen before—a sadness, or perhaps a world-weariness. Though making a living as an actor could be a difficult struggle, it probably wasn’t nearly as bad as the sights a homicide detective faced as part of his daily routine. But whatever the element was, Drake genuinely was enjoying helping Ken incorporate it into his performance, and had been consistently satisfied with the results.
Tonight, however, things were not going well, as they were working their way through the all-too-famous “To be or not to be” soliloquy. Hutch knew it was rough, and he felt lousy about it, and the worse he felt, the harder it became to deliver the lines with any kind of meaning. He knew he was pushing it, and he wanted to stop, but he didn’t know how to ask the director to let him rest.
Fortunately, he didn’t need to. After a final, strained effort, Drake rose from his seat, and walked down to the front of the house. “Let’s take a break, Ken, and have a chat.”
Hutch came downstage and sat on the lip, feet dangling into the orchestra pit.
From the back row of the house, Roz watched with interest. As her father’s daughter, she was sort of an honorary founder of the company, so she had an additional investment in seeing the show succeed. She and Drake had worried for weeks when no suitable Hamlet would accept the role, and when Ken had shown up it had seemed miraculous. Wayne wouldn’t tell her how he had stumbled across this guy, but she was glad he had.
She watched now as Ken spoke animatedly to the director, then bent his head to listen closely to the response.
“This can be a very intimidating soliloquy,” Drake was acknowledging. “Too many actors see the specter of Olivier before them and want to either imitate him or be as different as possible.” He gestured to Hutch. “Suppose you tell me what you think, Ken. I sense that you’re torn about what to do.”
“Exactly,” Hutch said. “I’m of two minds on this, and I’m not sure which one is right.”
“Tell me,” Drake encouraged.
“Well, one is fairly obvious—at least to me—and I’d rather not go that way. But on the other hand, I don’t want to discard the obvious choice, if that’s the right one.”
“I tend to eschew the obvious myself,” Drake said with a wry smile and a sigh. “But audiences and critics have certainly disagreed with me on that. Look, why don’t you start with the one you think is obvious? Remember, you’ve been studying Hamlet for a while now, so what seems banal to you may be startling to an audience.”
“All right.” Hutch gazed off, unseeing, into the house. “The obvious choice is that he’s considering suicide. He’s saying that he can no longer find a reason to live—and in fact, he’s seen enough despair and bleakness that he doesn’t understand why anyone would want to. But, he’s ambivalent—essentially, it’s to die or not to die—and torn between the relief of death and what he sees as his—obligation to avenge his father. In other words, the sole reason that he has to live is also the very thing that makes him want to die.”
“Very good analysis of the situation,” Drake said. Inwardly, he was delighted at his stroke of luck in finding this man. There weren’t many professional actors he had met who could understand the nuances that Hutch had expressed so well. “And what’s the other?”
“I think—that he’s trying to decide whether or not to be what he is expected to be.”
“Tell me more.” Drake leaned forward, intrigued.
Hutch frowned, searching for the words to articulate what was in his head. This one was harder because it wasn’t quite so obvious, but it wouldn’t leave him alone when he rehearsed the lines, so he had to give it some attention. “Well, he knows his father has been murdered,” he said at last. “That gives him a certain mandate, like I said before, to live up to the expectation that this society has of him to avenge his father’s death.” He paused and his frown deepened as he stared down at his hands. “But I think there’s more to it than that. I think Claudius has put this burden on him of how he ‘should’ behave as the Prince of Denmark—a particular role he is supposed to be playing, doing the ‘proper’ thing—and he doesn’t like it, it doesn’t fit. And a future of doing nothing but what Claudius and everyone else thinks he should do is pretty bleak, too, so—”
He stopped, struck by the parallels between this analysis of the soliloquy and his own history.
Drake waited for a moment, then when nothing else was forthcoming, he said thoughtfully, “Do you have to choose? Or are both relevant to what is going on?”
Hutch sat back, considering, then shook his head in frustration with himself. “Yes, of course both are relevant. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”
“Detective—” Drake began without thinking, then stopped short, literally stunned by the transformation in the man in front of him. In less time than it took to blink, Ken had changed from actor to cop, his gaze level, hard, and blank. Not wanting to draw any more attention to them if they had been overheard, he held himself completely still, while his eyes flicked around the stage, the first few rows of seats, and the wings. Tilting his head ever so slightly, he took in the area behind him, and was relieved to see that no one seemed to be nearby. Roz was too far from the stage to have heard; so he thought, perhaps, they were safe.
Drake had the good grace to look abashed, though he followed Hutch’s cue and was careful not to overreact. “I apologize, Ken,” he said, in the same gentle, professorial tone he had been using during their discussion. “I assure you, it won’t happen again.” Hutch relaxed, and Drake was intrigued to see how quickly and readily the actor returned. “Now, where were we?”
“Trying both choices,” Hutch said. Though the director’s mention of his title had given him a nasty start, there was nothing to be gained by dwelling on it, and this was work that needed to be done.
“Ah, yes,” Drake said. “I think every actor who plays Hamlet has a love-hate relationship with this speech, because there is a fear that it has been done so much that one is obligated to create something new and startlingly different. But if you do that, then you are up there as the actor, not as Hamlet… and that’s not we’re here for.” He paused and took a sip of his coffee, appreciating how intently Hutch was listening to his words. “If all else fails, just say the words as simply and honestly as possible, and trust this marvelous text to get the message across. Don’t fight it—work with it, and it will help carry you where you need to go.”
Hutch nodded. Despite himself, he was getting caught up in the discussion—and this assignment. The murder investigation aside, he had been given the opportunity to play one of the most coveted and challenging roles in all of theatre. For the sake of his cover and his own high standards, he wanted to do the best possible job; it was an unexpected bonus that he was enjoying it so much.
***
Roz watched from the back of the theatre, leaning her folded arms on the seat in front of her, and then resting her chin on them. Though she couldn’t hear what they were saying, she loved watching Drake at work. He was the quintessential actor’s director, knowing when to chide or cajole or praise, and possessed of an adept ability to do all three with genuine courtesy and respect for his actors. Most of all, he seemed to intuitively understand the dichotomy that dwelt in many actors’ egos—that vacillation between supreme confidence and almost-crippling insecurity. From the way he and Ken were talking, she could imagine the kind of in-depth character discussion that was taking place. She could easily envision how much richer Ken’s performance would be because of it.
And she had to admit to herself, she was becoming drawn to the lean blond man, and in more than a professional way. Though he was understandably nervous about stepping into so large a role on short notice, in an established company with a reputation for tight relationships, he was handling it with aplomb—and, incidentally, doing a beautiful acting job.
Where did you come from, Ken Hyde? she thought, then dimpled playfully to herself. And where are you going after this is all over with?
***
“You might want to try something that has been successful for other actors,” Drake said now to Hutch, who had his script in his hand again and was reviewing the soliloquy. “Examine each line and see how it applies to the different intents and choices we’ve been talking about, and how it relates to what will happen next for the character.”
“OK.” Hutch nodded. The advice appealed to his studious, meticulous side, and he began to plan how he would accomplish the task.
“Then, when you’ve done that, forget about it.”
Hutch looked from his script to the director, one eyebrow raised. “Forget about it?” he echoed, bemused.
“Yes.” When Hutch still looked puzzled, Drake went on. “You won’t really forget about it, of course, because you’ll have formed in your mind a—structure for how the lines fit into the big picture. But while you’re actually saying the line, you can’t be thinking at each minute, ‘And this one means this, and this one that, and this is the foreshadowing…’ As I said, if you do that, it’s the actor up there, and not the character.”
Again, Hutch understood, and the rightness of the approach was immediately apparent to him.
“Very well.” Drake glanced at his watch and mentally calculated how much time they had left. “Let’s—take this from the top of the scene, shall we… to give you a running start? Then we’ll run through this once more and wrap up for the night.” He turned out to the house. “Lowell, would you please call Ophelia, Gertrude, Polonius, and Claudius to the stage please… and read Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?”
Hutch prepared to take his place in the stage right wing as the stage manager gathered the other actors together. As he rose to his feet, however, Drake called him to the apron again. His expression was very serious.
“I think it’s important for you to be aware of just what you have accomplished here, Ken. You have done an extraordinary job in this role… particularly given the short amount of time you have had to prepare. I know this is a very difficult passage, but it will come. Don’t fret.”
Hutch chuckled to himself. Was he that obvious to everyone? He thought only Starsky knew him that well. “Thanks, Wayne,” he said sincerely. “I’ll do my best.”
“Of this, I have no doubt.” Drake smiled, then backed up the aisle, calling as he went. “All right, ladies and gentlemen, from the top of Act III. Please proceed when you are ready.”
CHAPTER 7
“A little more than kin, and less than kind.”
—Act I, Scene II
Driving home an hour later, Hutch felt like a huge weight had lifted from his shoulders. Drake’s advice had been the perfect antidote for his turmoil over that stupid soliloquy—only the most famous line in Shakespeare, he told himself, rolling his eyes—and the last run-through had gone beautifully. He had put the image of every other actor who’d given this speech out of his mind and simply lost himself in the beauty of the words.
It had been one of the purest moments of his life, and he wanted to share it with someone. But a call to Starsky proved futile; his partner was probably out on a date.
Oh, well. He picked up his guitar, strummed a few experimental chords, and winced. It was badly out of tune after gathering dust the last couple of weeks, something that heretofore was all but unheard of. He tuned it quickly, then played a few songs, relishing the feeling of the strings under his fingers, and the sound of the music drifting through the still apartment.
The phone rang. He set the guitar aside and answered it quickly, thinking it was probably Starsky—but it was his sister, returning one of the five calls he’d placed to her yesterday. He felt his mood decline sharply.
“I wish you would stop calling, Ken,” Kimberly said. “I told you I would let you know when I heard something.”
“It’s been over two weeks, Kimberly—”
“I’m fully aware of that,” she replied coldly. “But I’m sure everything is fine.”
Hutch bit back a sharp retort. He’d love to let it rest at that, if for no other reason than to end this unpleasant conversation with his sister. But he truly was concerned about his parents, and he knew himself—he wouldn’t have any peace of mind if he weren’t doing something to try to find them.
“Look, can’t you call up some of the neighbors, or their bridge club, to see if they mentioned something to somebody?”
There was a small sigh at the other end of the line. Hutch envisioned his sister, probably touching up her nails, gazing at her perfect features in her bedroom mirror, and experiencing mild annoyance at her brother’s persistent requests. Mild annoyance, nothing more; it would not do for Kimberly Hutchinson-Munroe to show exasperation or any other strong emotion, to her brother or any other person. It just was Not Done.
“Ken, I really don’t understand,” she said at last, with that infuriating note of condescending patience that reminded him of his father. “We never hear from you, and now all of a sudden you’re so worried about Mother and Father? Honestly, they’re adults. They can take care of themselves.”
Hutch restrained himself again, this time from telling her just what he thought about her indifference. It wouldn’t do any good, and would only make him angry. Instead, however, he found himself repeating an old refrain: “Come on, Kim, let it rest, huh? I don’t exactly keep regular hours, and Mom and Dad aren’t partial to calls in the middle of the night.”
“Don’t call me Kim,” she said stiffly. Hutch smirked at the phone. He’d known that would get to her; she hated being addressed by the diminutive of her name. Then he heard a voice in the background. Kimberly covered the phone but Hutch heard her response to her husband’s query: “No, it’s nothing important, Drew, it’s just Ken. Again.”
It’s just Ken. For some reason that comment stung, and stung hard. When he’d been growing up, leading the tennis team in high school, and graduating as valedictorian, he’d been the golden child. When he’d won fencing trophies in college and made the dean’s list every semester, he’d been “his father’s son.” And when he had been admitted into a doctoral program in criminal justice, his father couldn’t say enough about how proud he was of his brilliant son. They’d indulged him in his theatre pursuits, as long as they didn’t interfere with the main course of his studies, and even found them an amusing anecdote to relay to their friends at the club.
But then he’d grown tired of academics, of studying the criminal justice system in the abstract, and decided that he wanted to taste the “real world” before earning his Ph.D. He had researched the topic thoroughly during his first year of graduate school, learning that California had the top-notch police academy, and a rich variety of assignments where he could eventually do detective work. He trained himself physically, did extra reading, and used his own money to fly cross-country and take the admitting exam. He’d passed with flying colors and even been awarded a small tuition remission. Flushed with pride at his accomplishment, he’d gone home that Christmas to let his family know their son was going to be a cop in L.A.
Their reaction blew him away. When his father instantly and icily insisted that he drop his “ridiculous idea” and go back to graduate school, Hutch realized just how much he wanted this. For the first time, he openly defied his father—and ended up reeling from his father’s backhand. His mother stayed out of it, his sister watched her brother’s fall from grace with ill-disguised satisfaction, and his father informed him that if he wanted to pursue this, he could do it with his own money. This he did, packing his bags and leaving that very evening.
Things had never been the same between him and his parents, and he knew Kimberly relished that. She had been just the marriageable daughter, ignored while the Hutchinsons lavished their attention on their favored son, but all that changed after Hutch took his father’s challenge and left the family home. And he knew her dismissive attitude—it’s just Ken—generally was echoed by his father, who had little time to waste on a son who persisted in defying him, and who had the additional audacity to be both good at it and happier for it.
When the elder Hutchinson did call, it was generally, as Hutch had observed to Starsky, “a command performance,” with Hutch expected to hop and answer to some new query about what he thought he was doing with his life, and didn’t he think it was time this nonsense stopped?
Only his mother tried to maintain some kind of civil contact, but she was completely dominated by his father, and her letters and calls were sparse and brief. Hutch had visited a few times, but the atmosphere was always strained and disapproving, and he felt he lost himself in the house after only a few hours. He guessed it had been two years since he had been there last.
However, he didn’t seem able to give up hope completely, especially at a time like this. Hence, his thought about traveling there for the anniversary; hence, his worry about not being able to reach them. He didn’t hate his parents, and he certainly didn’t wish them any ill. He just wanted them to treat him like an adult man, not some prized poodle who was only good enough for them if he performed according to their directions.
“Ken?” Kimberly said, and by the tone of her voice it wasn’t the first she had said it. “Ken, I have things to do. Is this all you wanted?”
“Yes, Kimberly, that’s all I wanted,” Hutch answered tiredly. “Go back to your nails. Just call me if you hear anything, huh?” He hung up the phone without waiting to hear her response, and sat there for a moment, thinking about his family. Then he got up, got a beer from the fridge, and prowled restlessly around the apartment for a few moments.
Eventually, he wound up at his piano. It was in better shape than the guitar, as he always, no matter what other area he had to sacrifice, managed to get the money together to get it tuned on a regular basis. It had belonged to his grandfather, perhaps the one individual in the Hutchinson family who had accepted him for who he was. Hutch gently lifted the cover from the keys and lovingly ran his hands over the smooth ivory that was worn by hours of playing, and thought about Robert Hutchinson. He couldn’t remember how old he had been when his grandfather had sat him on his lap and taught him his first set of scales, then his first song. He only remembered how that felt, to learn that song by heart and play it, his eyes closed, his fingers dancing over the keys.
It was something like the way he’d felt at rehearsal tonight.
His fingering began to take on purpose now, and he played the opening chords for a Leonard Cohen song that had always been one of his favorites. Luckily, he didn’t have to worry about the late hour, as his neighbors—a retail outlet that shut down at dusk and a jazz club—were not likely to complain. He closed his eyes again, as he had when he was a child, and let his fingers dance over the keys again as he sang.
Like a bird on a wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir,
I have tried, in my own way, to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
Like a knight in an old-fashioned book,
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
And if I…if I’ve been unkind,
I hope that you will let it go by.
And if I…if I’ve been untrue,
I hope you know, it was never to you.
And so I swear, by this song,
I swear, by all I did wrong,
I will make it—I will make it—
All up to thee.
Like a bird on a wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir,
I have tried, in my own way, to be free.
He let the chords and the echo of his voice die away, thinking how apt the words were… and how, in a way, they applied to Hamlet as well as they did to Ken Hutchinson.
CHAPTER 8
“Season your admiration for a while.”
—Act I, Scene II
Hutch was right. Starsky was on a date—but not the kind his partner would have envisioned. No, his companion this evening was a tiny, birdlike woman with piercingly bright eyes and a warmly enveloping smile, and at this moment, he was pushing himself back from the table with a happy sigh and a decidedly straining belt.
“Aunt Rosie,” he said with utter satisfaction, “That was, without a doubt, the finest meal you have ever prepared for me.”
Rose Starsky sniffed, not entirely displeased by the compliment, but also knowing her nephew far too well not to wonder about an ulterior motive. If she hadn’t married into the Starsky family years ago, she would have been continually amazed at the ability of this thoroughly Jewish boy to throw the blarney around with the best of them. Just like his father… and his uncle, she thought.
“Like I couldn’t tell you were enjoying the meal, David,” she said, touching his shoulder and smiling at him affectionately as she picked up his empty, almost-licked clean plate.
Starsky helped her clear the table, put dishes in the dishwasher, and clean up the kitchen, before they both settled in the living room with cups of coffee. “So,” Rose began, delicately adding several lumps of sugar to her cup; Starsky, of course, followed suit. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”
“Just pinin’ away for your good cooking,” Starsky teased her. He had an agenda, of course, but he loved this aunt with every fiber of his being and so his remark wasn’t complete malarkey.
“Pish,” she scoffed. “Now that you’ve tried—unsuccessfully—to turn my head, what do you want?”
Starsky took in a deep breath, put down his coffee cup, and took her hands in his. He gave her the full power of his dark blue eyes—the one that had melted a thousand female hearts since he’d been in grade school—and said, with the complete seriousness the request demanded, “I want you to teach me the recipe for your wonton soup.”
“David Michael!” she said in exasperation, snatching her hands back and busying herself with her cup. “Don’t you ever learn? How many times have you asked me for that?”
“Oh, I don’t know… couple hundred,” Starsky replied, enjoying himself mightily. He got a tremendous kick out of his Aunt Rosie; he really did. She was like a little furnace, a microcosm of the warm, happy, chaotic home of his childhood, where everybody tumbled over each other like puppies and ended up sleeping in a contented, loving jumble. She recharged his batteries like nobody else. Except Hutch, of course.
Which was exactly Starsky’s goal with this request—except in reverse, of course. Though Hutch complained of nothing other than being tired (and apologized constantly for that) Starsky could see just how the many aspects of this case were wearing on him. They hadn’t had a chance to socialize since Hutch had started rehearsals, and Starsky sensed that his partner wasn’t just skipping dinner with him—he was skipping it altogether. He had every intention of changing that, by enticing his friend with the best homemade dinner the Starsky recipe collection had to offer—beginning with his aunt’s indescribably delicious wonton.
“And what do I always say?”
“No.”
“So what makes you think I am going to change my mind this time?”
“How many tries do I get?” It was an old familiar game and they loved playing it.
She pursed her lips and examined him carefully. “Today I think… three. But three strikes and you’re out.” Her hand emphasized the point with a gesture any umpire would envy.
“OK.” Starsky leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs out in front of him and pretended to ponder. In actuality, he had pretty much mapped out this entire conversation on the way to his aunt’s house. “Because… you love me.”
“True, but that has nothing to do with this.” She nudged his legs. “Sit up straight… do you know what that’ll do to your back? Come on. You’ll thank me some day, you’ll see.” Obediently, Starsky scooted up in his chair; teasingly, he folded his hands in his lap and again fixed her with the full wattage of his best pleading expression and his most winning smile. “Try again,” she challenged him.
“How about, you can’t resist my incredible charm?”
“I was married to a Starsky for 49 years, David; don’t you think I’m immune to the Starsky wiles? There’s not a weapon you got that I can’t handle.” She preened a bit at her ability to spar with her much-younger nephew. “Try again; you’ve got one last chance.”
“Okay… how about this one?” Starsky leaned forward and allowed his expression to become serious again. “It’s not for me.”
She tilted her head, and again Starsky was struck by how much she resembled a bright, busy little sparrow. He could tell he had her interest. “Oh? And just who is it for, if I may ask?”
“Hutch.”
“Oh.” She sat back in her chair, picked up her cup, put it back down, folded her hands, unfolded them, and then picked the cup up again. “Well…”
He had her, he knew he had her. His aunt adored Hutch; had from the moment Starsky had first brought him over for dinner. Half the time she spent flirting shamelessly with him, pinching his cheek, and batting her eyelashes as if she were half her age. At first, Hutch had been embarrassed and nonplused, but as time went on he had learned to tease her right back, offering to take her dancing and kissing her cheek until she was flushed with pleasure and happiness.
The rest of the time, she simply opened her heart and her tiny arms and enfolded Hutch into her metaphorical and literal embrace. Like Starsky, she had seen that behind Hutch’s reserve, behind that demeanor that others called aloof, lay a heart that hungered for kind nurturance and unconditional acceptance. She was constantly fussing over how little he ate and how slender he was, no matter how much he tried to convince her of his healthy diet and his rapid metabolism. She shared his and Starsky’s triumphs and sympathized over their unwieldy cases, and she had offered beautiful, tender comfort after Gillian was killed and Hutch had discovered her true line of work. Most of all, she simply sat and beamed at him with enormous affection, and treated him like Starsky… like one of the family.
So Starsky knew he had her. She could resist him, but never a plea of behalf of Hutch.
He couldn’t quite hide his satisfaction at knowing he was going to pry this out of her at last; and she caught it, of course. Her expression became wary and she again put down the cup. “All right, tell me,” she ordered. “What’s the matter with Ken?”
“He’s sort of working two jobs right now, and he’s lookin’ pretty run down,” Starsky began, but stopped when Rose shook her head.
“No good. Start from the beginning and tell me what’s the matter with my favorite boy.”
“You just like him because he’s blond,” Starsky teased. “It’s the mystery of the goy, come to getcha at last.” She fixed him with a stern gaze, and he sobered. “OK, OK.” He told her about the Shakespeare company and the murder they had been assigned to investigate, and how the director had also had a huge hole in his cast list… one that Hutch just happened to fill nicely.
“So he’s been comin’ in to meet with me as usual in the morning, then rehearsing for six hours straight, then hitting the streets with me for another six hours. Then after that, he goes home, rehearses his lines or looks at his notes and maybe, just maybe, he gets some sleep. To top it all off, he’s been trying to reach his parents for two weeks, and he has no idea where they are.”
He paused, then went on, his tone now genuine with concern for his friend. “He hasn’t been eating too well, so I thought I might make dinner for him tomorrow, and add something a little special to cheer him up.”
His aunt’s expression was nearly liquid by now, and Starsky knew he had won at last. Rose Starsky was incapable of withholding anything from those she loved, especially when they were hurt or weary. Starsky had been at the receiving end of that philosophy many times, and he had known that she would give it freely to Hutch, as well.
“All right,” she said at last. “But you’d better do it right, David… and you better never tell your sisters that I gave it to you first.”
He kissed her soundly and swept her from the chair in a crushing hug. “Thanks, Aunt Rosie,” he murmured into her sweet-smelling shoulder. “I promise, it’ll stay between you and me.” She wriggled out of his arms and tried to look stern, then gave up the effort as a lost cause. Instead, she reached up and laid one hand on his cheek.
“You know something, David Michael Starsky?” she said, her eyes shining with her love for him. “You’re a good boy, to take such good care of your friend.”
“It’s what we do for each other, Aunt Rosie,” Starsky said. “It’s what we do.”
CHAPTER 9
“How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world.”
—Act I, Scene II
Hutch was exhausted, weary to the bone exhausted. Between the case and the show, he was working eighteen-hour days during the week. His weekends, normally times when he got out of the city or at least got to stay home and relax, were eaten up by six hours of rehearsals each day. There was still no word about his parents, which was one more thing that chipped away at the few hours of sleep he was getting each night. Even someone in his excellent physical condition needed rest and fuel, and he was getting precious little of either.
Worse, he was feeling strangely ineffectual. So far, all their digging efforts had yielded little, and those pieces they did have were like widely spaced pieces in an enormous jigsaw puzzle. Accustomed to being able to solve even the most difficult problem, his self-esteem was taking a bit of a beating, one that was only relieved by his hours at the theatre. And the stage work was satisfying, but even that was tempered by his steadily increasing guilt over leaving the bulk of the investigative work to Starsky. So he pushed as hard as he could, trying to pack a day’s worth of work into the few hours in the morning and the evening, but he was running out of psychological and physiological resources.
He dragged himself into the station Friday night, the week before the show was to open, to find that Starsky was not yet in the squad room. That was fine with him for the moment, as he wanted a few minutes with a good strong cup of coffee and his own internal bracer, a good brisk self-talking to. The brutal schedule was only temporary, and he knew he could handle it. He just needed some time to regroup. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped its warmth gratefully (Minnie must have made this batch, because it was actually drinkable). Then he sank into his chair and opened a folder—but did nothing else with the papers inside, instead staring down unseeing at the typed words.
Come on, Hutchinson, he told himself firmly. You’ve been through worse than this before and you’ve made it just fine. There’s nothin’ different about this than any other high-intensity assignment. Your parents are probably fine… and your father would just roll his eyes and give you a lecture about neglecting your work. Now come on, focus.
Starsky arrived about twenty minutes later, to the unfamiliar sight of his partner, head propped on his hand, apparently having dozed off just seconds before. He half-grinned, then tapped Hutch on the shoulder as he came around the end of the table.
“Morning,” he said as Hutch started awake. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” Hutch said with a sigh. “Nice to know you care.”
“Like always,” Starsky said. He detoured to the coffee machine, to pour a cup for himself and his clearly exhausted partner, then dropped into his chair. “So… what’s up?”
“Nothing new,” Hutch replied, accepting the cup of coffee with a nod of thanks, and widening his eyes in an effort to wake himself up. “How about you?”
“Ditto,” Starsky replied. “A whole lotta nothin’.”
“Dammit,” Hutch burst out, startling his partner—and frankly himself—with the vehemence of the oath. “When is this thing going to break? I mean, here we are—or you are, actually—busting tail on this and nothing is turning! Maybe we oughta just give it up and try getting kittens out of trees.”
“Hey,” Starsky said with a frown, genuinely concerned at Hutch’s disgust. “Take it easy, huh? It’s not like this is the first time we’ve drudged through the swamp for a few weeks before we came up with something solid. This isn’t TV, you know—we don’t always get the bad guys at the end of the hour.”
“I know that,” Hutch snapped, then reined himself in and just stopped talking. He knew if he said anything else, he would just end up doing more complaining, which would be fruitless and only frustrate both of them more.
“Hey, why don’t we knock off early and go over to my place?” Starsky suggested. “I got a dinner surprise that’s gonna knock your socks off—” He stopped. Hutch had glanced at his watch and was shaking his head with a regretful expression.
“I can’t,” he said. “I have to be back at the theatre in an hour, and it’s a thirty-minute drive from here—” It was his turn to stop, at the tight look on Starsky’s face. “What?”
“You have any idea how long it’s been since we got a chance to have dinner together?” Starsky said, half-teasing. He intended to sound like a petulant child, but he was truly disappointed that his special plans had been thwarted. His partner missed the teasing half of the comment and honed in on the petulance; his eyebrows shot up in disbelief, and his voice took on that cutting tone it got when he was tired and feeling pushed against the wall.
“Do you have any idea,” he retorted sarcastically, his voice a snide and exact echo of Starsky’s tone, “how much you sounded like my ex-wife just then?”
He got Starsky’s back up with that, and they glared at each other for a moment. Starsky opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. They both took a deep breath.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’re beat, and we’re both frustrated. I guess I’m just used to having you around, you big lug, and it feels weird this way.”
“Yeah, for me too, buddy,” Hutch said, his tone noticeably calmer. “I haven’t been sleeping very well, and I’m still worrying about my parents… but that’s no reason to take it out on you.”
“Happens,” Starsky said with a shrug. “On a scale of 1-10, this was pretty low on the Hutchinson meter.” In spite of himself, Hutch chuckled; it was one of the many times when he was grateful for their ability to defuse each other’s tension with just the right twisted remark.
Starsky’s phone rang; after answering, he listened intently for several seconds. Then he grabbed a pencil and his pad. His eyes flicked briefly at Hutch, and just that fast, Hutch knew that something important was coming over the horn. Starsky wrote furiously, throwing in a few grunts and “Uh-huh’s” over the line, then hung up and dropped the pencil to the table.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Hutch prompted, keenly aware of his desire to have something—anything—break on this case.
“That was the boys in the morgue,” Starsky said with some satisfaction. “A Jane Doe they found yesterday turned out to be that actress who disappeared from the theatre.”
“Gretchen Talbot?” Hutch said. “What happened?”
“Well, according to the coroner’s report, she died of alcohol poisoning,” Starsky said, consulting his notes. “They said her BAL was so high, her blood could have stocked a small liquor cabinet.”
“Poisoning,” Hutch mused, with a ferocious frown between his brows. His brain was turning, ticking away at something, but it was happening in the background and he just couldn’t get it to come forward. “Dammit, that means something… why can’t I get at it?”
“‘Cause you’re tired and you got too many things on your mind,” Starsky said succinctly and not unkindly. “Look, you go home and try to get some rest. I’ll ride the streets tonight, touch base with Huggy, and check out this lady’s apartment.”
“Starsk, I appreciate the offer, but it’s not fair—”
“Sure it is,” Starsky said reasonably. “Your brain’s not much good to us when it’s mush, and I got you snapping at me, besides. Catchin’ up on your sleep’ll do us both good.”
Hutch had to admit that he was in pretty bad shape when Starsky could out-logic him. “Yeah, OK,” he agreed, rising to his feet and pulling his jacket from the back of his chair. “But you call me if you need anything, hear me?”
“Roger, wil-co,” Starsky assured him with a wink and a small salute. “Now go on, get outta here.”
Hutch shrugged into his jacket and headed toward the exit. At the door, however, he paused and turned back. “Hey,” he called.
Starsky glanced up.
“Let’s do dinner tomorrow night, huh?”
Starsky smiled. “Sure,” he said. Hutch turned to walk out, then turned back again.
“And Starsk?”
In mock exasperation, Starsky looked up again. “What?”
“Thanks,” Hutch said simply.
“You’re welcome, you big dope,” Starsky responded. “You’d do the same for me, and you know it.” And have, many times.
“Yeah,” Hutch said, with a remembering chuckle and his first genuine smile of the day. “Yeah, I know. See you tomorrow.”
“Scram,” Starsky said firmly, and refused to go back to his work until his partner was out of sight. He shook as his head as he bent back over the paperwork strewn across his desk. It was a good thing they had each other, he thought with amusement, because sometimes they didn’t take care of themselves worth a damn.
***
Once back at his apartment, Hutch stretched out on his couch with every intention of reviewing his lines with a cue tape he’d made. Within minutes, however, he was dead to the world, and the tape recorder ran without response. He didn’t wake until his phone rang an hour later; it was Drake, wondering why he wasn’t at the theatre.
“Damn,” Hutch muttered, peering at his watch with sleep-bleared eyes. “I’m sorry, Wayne… I was going over my lines and I must have fallen asleep. Let me just grab some things together and I’ll be right there.”
There was a beat of silence at the other end as Drake absorbed what Hutch had said, and took a moment to recall how the young man had looked at rehearsal that day. “No, I tell you what, Ken, why don’t you take a break tonight,” he suggested matter-of-factly. “You’re looking somewhat peaked, and we’re going into tech week on Sunday, so things will only get more stressful. It’s probably best that you have some reserve of energy; otherwise, we’ll lose you before opening night, and what good would that be?”
Hutch shook his head, thinking he was surrounded by mother hens tonight; but he was grateful for the respite. “Thanks, Wayne. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
He hung up the phone and contemplated his script for a moment. Reached out a hand to rewind the tape recorder—then noticed it was trembling with fatigue.
That’s it, he thought. He knew his limits, and he’d just reached them. He turned off the recorder, stripped off his clothes, and took his tired self to bed.
CHAPTER 10
“And for my means, I’ll husband them so well
They shall go far with little.”
—Act IV, Scene V
Impossibly, the next day turned out to be even worse than the one before.
Though it may vary somewhat according to director, most stage productions follow a fairly similar path from beginning to end. After casting, and an initial meeting to read through the script, the production typically moves into blocking rehearsals, where the director provides each individual or group of actors with the movements and stage positions for each scene. While this part of the process can be tedious, as the director blocks the scene, then reviews it and makes adjustments, it is also fairly low-key, with little strenuous acting involved.
For the next phase, Drake—like many other directors—utilized a process known as “French-scening.” This involved breaking the show and the rehearsal schedule down according to the sets of characters involved, to begin working intensively on each scene. In a typical night of rehearsal, for example, Drake might begin with all the scenes involving Hamlet, Gertrude, and Claudius, in addition to various courtiers and lords, rather than working on, say, the first three scenes of Act I. As the rehearsal moved forward, the number of characters involved gradually declined, so at the end of the evening, he might only be working with Gertrude and Hamlet, or just Hamlet alone.
With this method, actors would not be called for rehearsal only to sit for three hours and then act for ten minutes. In addition, they could go home when their portion of the evening was done. In most productions, this afforded everyone, including the leading actors, a few nights off during the rehearsal period.
The company had moved through single scene “working” rehearsals, which involved attention to every passage in the script, even the most apparently minor. They spent hours focusing on and adjusting details, attending to matters of motivation and relationships, and doing the scenes over and over to get the rhythm and emotions just right. It was a draining process, and a lengthy one, especially as the single scene rehearsals gave way to those covering entire acts.
Today was perhaps their last opportunity for a full working rehearsal, and Drake planned to make the most of it. He knew that once tech week began, he would be distracted by issues of lighting, sound, props, and costumes, and would not have the same energy to give to his actors. Thus, they were scheduled to work the entire show this Saturday, and the company braced itself for a day that could extend into the wee hours.
Seeing how the rehearsal was going, Hutch was grateful for the ten hours of sleep he had gotten the night before. Thanks to Drake and his insistent partner, he had woken that morning feeling much more rested and mentally alert. The rehearsal was proving to be grueling but somehow satisfying, and he was looking forward to relaxing that night at Starsky’s.
When they came off stage just before the climatic fencing scene, however, he glanced at his watch and winced. It was already after six, and the final scene promised to take at least a couple of hours to work, with its elaborate combat choreography and strong emotional elements. The odds of his making it to his friend’s at any kind of reasonable hour were looking like slim to none.
Drake called a dinner break before they moved into the final phase of the rehearsal. Hutch glanced around surreptitiously, saw that his fellow cast members were engaged in various occupations and conversations, and decided he could probably risk a quick call. He slipped backstage, then out the side door to the house, and made his way through the theatre to the lobby pay phone.
He didn’t notice the figure that followed at a discreet distance behind him.
“—probably at least another couple of hours,” Hutch was saying as the figure slowly and silently cracked open one of the lobby doors, then remained in the dark to watch Hutch and listen to his conversation. “So unless you’re planning on a midnight supper, I think we’re out of luck for tonight.”
Nothing, the listener thought. Just telling some girlfriend he won’t be home for dinner. The door began to close, then froze.
Hutch had glanced around the dark and empty lobby; seeing no one, he decided he owed it to Starsky to talk about the case a little bit before he hung up. Lowering his voice, he asked, “You go into the station today?”
“Nah,” Starsky responded. He was looking at the ingredients spread out before him, debating his choices for the evening, and then shrugged. Hutch or not, it was great wonton, and he figured he deserved a helping of it—or two. “Hug came up with a few possibles, but he says there’s nobody out there who fits this exact description. Hang on, I’ll get my notes.” He put the phone down, went quickly to the other room to grab his notebook, then returned to the kitchen. He dropped onto a chair at his kitchen table and propped his feet up on the one opposite.
Hutch glanced again around the empty lobby again. The figure at the door held stock-still, melted into the shadows under the balcony overhang. There was no indication that Hutch was not alone. He relaxed enough to sit down on the floor beside the phone booth.
“OK, class, let’s review,” Starsky’s voice came onto the line again, and Hutch could hear him flipping pages in the notebook. “There’s Lenny Henderson—he got out five months ago after a few years in the joint.”
“Yeah, I can see how he might fit,” Hutch said thoughtfully. “He is pretty screwy, and he had a real fetish about guns.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll pay him a visit later tonight,” Starsky said, pleased to hear the two of them were on the same wavelength as usual. “See if that jailhouse shrink did him any good.” Hutch laughed a characteristic short, deep-throated laugh that was half-amused and half-cynical. Starsky flipped a few more pages. “George Carson,” he said. “Also freshly sprung, and from a nice little assault charge at that.”
“Carson?” Hutch echoed, frowning. “I don’t remember firearms being his weapon of choice… wasn’t his M.O. carving his victims up with expensive knives?”
“Give the man a cigar,” Starsky said. “But he was also bent on taking a souvenir or two with him… and guess what they were.”
Hutch searched his memory, but while he vividly remembered the particularly grisly attacker, this fine fact eluded him. “I can’t remember… you’d better tell me,” he admitted.
“Occasionally a finger or two,” Starsky said, in a neutral tone that conveyed just how inured they had become to the gross details of their job. “But his favorite was to bring home an ear and put it in a jar at home.”
Hutch sighed. “So we got a guy with a thing for guns, and another one who obsesses over ears,” he mused. “I gotta tell you, Starsk, it feels like we’re stretchin’ it.”
“Yeah, me too,” Starsky agreed reluctantly. “But at least it’s somethin’. How about you, anything there?”
“Nah, just a rehearsal that I’ll probably be at until next week,” Hutch said, with an attempt at humor. “I still get the feeling there’s some connection based on what we already know—”
“Whenever you get hold of it…”
“You’ll be the first,” Hutch assured him. He paused, then said apologetically, “Listen, Starsk, I’m sorry I can’t make it tonight. What was the surprise?”
“Nope,” Starsky said firmly. “You gotta pay if you wanna play. Next time—if you’re not too busy signin’ autographs and soakin’ up all that glory and fame.”
“Very funny,” Hutch said. “Maybe it was just the fact that you were actually cooking instead of heating up a box.” Starsky laughed. Hutch glanced at his watch, and pushed himself to his feet. “Listen, I’d better get back there. How about Huggy’s for lunch tomorrow, so I can hear what you found out from crazy Lenny.”
“Okey-dokey,” Starsky said. “Be careful out there—we still don’t know who’s doin’ this.”
“Yeah…you too,” Hutch responded. “Remember how fast Lenny can be when he wants to—especially since I won’t be there to watch your back. Frisk him before you lock yourself in a room with him.”
“Yes, Ma, I promise.” Starsky grumbled, rolling his eyes. “See ya tomorrow.”
Hutch grinned, then hung up, glancing around one last time. He was relieved to see that the lobby remained dark and silent. The figure at the door had allowed it to close quickly and quietly when the apology had started, so by the time Hutch strode back into the house, there was no one in sight. The stage manager was taking orders for sandwiches, to refuel the hungry and tired actors before the final leg of the rehearsal. As Hutch went down to join the small group, the figure mimicked Hutch’s actions of ensuring he was clear, then slipped into the lobby for his own phone call.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Well,” the familiar cultured voice said somewhat peevishly. “You have certainly taken your time contacting me. What’s it been, over a week?”
“Hey, take it easy! I told you I’d call when I had something; nothing’s been happening.” The caller paused, craning his head around the lobby to be sure he was still alone.
“And?” the voice at the other end prompted, still piqued. “Am I to assume by that remark that something now has happened?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ve got a funny feeling,” the caller whispered. “We might want to check it out.” He paused again, and the listener wait for a moment and then sighed with exaggerated patience.
“Don’t be so damned melodramatic,” he said crisply. “Just tell me what has occurred.”
“Well, I just overheard that Ken Hyde on the phone, and he wasn’t talking like an actor.”
“Overheard?” The listener’s voice raised slightly in pitch. “Are you mad? Don’t you remember how important it is that no one suspect you are involved in these events?”
“He didn’t see me,” the caller said indignantly. “What do you think I am, an idiot?”
“Very well,” the listener snapped briskly. “Tell me what he does sound like, if not an actor. What a ridiculous observation.”
“I’m telling you, there’s something wrong here. I swear, he sounded like a cop.”
There was an extended silence on the other end of the line. When the listener’s voice returned, it was calmer, and deadly serious. “Well, that is an interesting development, and one that must be pursued immediately. Have you any suggestions for how to proceed?”
“We start tech tomorrow,” the caller replied, his tone indicating that he had been thinking about precisely this detail. “That means full costume on the second go-round. I’ll look around the dressing room, go through his clothes, see if I can find out anything.”
“Excellent.” All trace of impatience was now gone from the listener’s voice. “Hear me, young man. I have been planning this for too long not to see it through to the end. If he is a police officer, we will need to deal with him accordingly, but not hastily. Tell me what you learn, and we then will prepare our next steps.”
“Got it.”
“Now, you had better return to your rehearsal before you are missed,” the listener instructed.
“Right,” the caller agreed. “I’ll call sometime tomorrow evening.”
“Very well.”
Both hung up, and the figure in the lobby looked around one last time, then returned to the house. Like Hutch, both his presence in the lobby and his absence from the theatre seemed to have gone unnoticed. Particularly by the tall blond man he now watched more closely than ever.
CHAPTER 11
“If he steal aught the whilst the play is playing,
And scape detecting, I will pay the theft.”
—Act III, Scene II
The second half of the tech rehearsal was in full swing—or as close as tech rehearsals get when a company first puts acting together with lights, sound, and props. Hutch was onstage, poised to kill a hidden and eavesdropping Polonius, but at the moment joking through the curtains with the actor playing his soon-to-be victim. In the house, Drake and Sarah discussed the position of the Hamlet follow-spot, positioned and gelled to constantly bathe Hutch in a soft glow that lit his blond hair to a halo. Hutch didn’t know what the effect looked like from the house; he did know that it seemed to raise the temperature wherever he was by about ten degrees. He shifted his feet, resisted wiping his sleeve across his forehead, and hoped that his stage powder held out.
Not to mention his antiperspirant.
“Hey, Ken.” Jack Perry’s voice caught Hutch’s attention again from behind the curtains. “How much longer, do you think?”
“Before what?” Hutch said. He shifted the sword in his hand and eyed again the preset hole through which he would “stab” Polonius.
“Before they go on, dummy,” Jack hissed back. “It’s hot as hell back here… if they look to be a while, I’d like to come out.”
Hutch glanced at Sarah and Drake, and saw no sign that they would be breaking up their little conversation any time soon. “I think you’re safe, man,” he responded. “C’mon out and let me practice this while you’re not back there.”
Jack Perry slipped from behind the heavy drapes and welcomed the relative coolness of the stage with a grateful sigh. He watched as Hutch checked his position, then repeated the thrust that would signal Polonius’ death. Hutch sank his sword tip into the six inches of Styrofoam that had been placed behind the curtain, so the sword strike would look as realistic as possible. “Glad to see you’re attending to that little detail,” he said, dead-pan. “I’d hate like hell for you to miss.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Hutch said somewhat absently, concentrating once more on the movement, and shifting his position so he could put his full weight and Hamlet’s fury behind it. “Fencing team, four years in college. Besides, look—” He tucked the sword under his arm and spread the folds of the curtain. Unseen from the house, but clear to his eyes, was a small black target, painted in a moment of whimsy around the hole in the cheap material. “There’s one on your side too, so as long as you don’t get anywhere near it, you should be fine.”
Jack snickered and mopped his forehead with his hand. “I’ll be to the right of it, so just remember that, all right?”
Hutch grinned. “Your right, stage right, or my right?”
“My—” Jack stopped, pondered. “No, your—” Momentarily perplexed, he turned to face the house, then Hutch again. “Very funny,” he chided Hutch. “Just—”
“All right, let’s get started again!” Drake’s voice came from the house, interrupting the good-natured teasing. “Ken, Jack, let’s take it from the top of the scene if you don’t mind. Ken, I think I’d prefer that you enter from stage left this time… That will give you time to build up a good head of steam before you reach Gertrude.”
Hutch signaled his acknowledgment, dropped his sword back into his hand, and walked quickly across the stage to the left wings, disappearing into the darkness.
“Crew ready?” the stage manager called. There was a chorus from the follow-spot operators and the backstage running crew, followed by a similar refrain over the headset, from the booth. Lowell turned to Drake and nodded.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen, let’s proceed.”
Hutch delivered his offstage lines, paused for Gertrude’s response, then strode onto the stage, the very picture of mad and righteous indignation.
A silent figure took Hutch’s entrance as a cue, and moved away from the wings, noticed and acknowledged but not perceived as unusual in any way. He nodded to the other members of the cast and crew, then made his way downstairs and into the dressing room Hutch shared with two other male actors. At the door, the figure paused and looked around.
The corridor was empty. Everyone was either onstage, preparing to make an entrance, or watching the show from the house. There hadn’t even been anyone in the greenroom when he passed by. He knocked on the door as he normally would.
When there was no answer, he poked his head inside and looked around the empty room, then entered and went directly to Ken’s station at the makeup table. Debating with himself for a moment, he picked up the jeans draped over the back of Ken’s chair and took them with him to one of the bathroom stalls at the end of the room. He didn’t know how he would explain having them with him in the john if someone walked in, but it gave him a little more protection than standing there rifling the pockets in full view of the door.
Digging through Ken’s pockets proved fruitless. Everything in his wallet read “Ken Hyde” …credit cards, miscellaneous pieces of paper, even the driver’s license. The figure sat back with the jeans in his hand, and forced his frustration down so he could think. You’re a cop, he said to himself. You’re undercover… of course you have all the credentials to back that up. So where’s your real stuff?
Where?
He tapped the hand holding the jeans against his own leg, trying to drive his thoughts… and heard the jingle of keys.
Bingo.
He knew that Ken drove an ancient brown Ford—but of course, that fit the description of half a dozen cars in the actors’ parking lot. He tried two other light brown sedans before he found the correct one, and by this time he was sweating, glancing at his watch. He had selected this particular scene knowing Ken would be on stage for a lengthy period and he himself would not be required, but this was all taking time.
Be calm, he told himself. Don’t mess this up by being in a hurry.
He attempted to be careful while searching the glove box, then realized that he needn’t have bothered given the chaotic state of the compartment. He found the car’s registration buried under a pile of cryptic notes; it gave the owner’s name as Hutchinson, not Hyde. That proved nothing, as many actors changed their names in the course of their careers. The Venice address was also inconclusive; it was a somewhat bohemian neighborhood, and a number of performers made their homes there. There was nothing in the glove compartment or in the mass of newspapers, magazines, and other material in the back seat, to give him any of the answers he sought. He popped the trunk.
This was by far the cleanest area in the entire car, since Hutch had removed everything but the jack and a small toolbox. The man lifted the carpet and searched the wheel well, finding nothing more than the spare tire and a rusted lug wrench. He swore to himself and was about to slam the trunk lid when he spotted a small, locked compartment to the right of spare tire. Custom, has to be, he thought, his excitement rising. Never saw one of those in a car like this. He flipped quickly through Ken’s keys until he found one that looked like it might fit, and inserted it into the lock.
Well, look here.
Gun, .357 Magnum; nice piece, too, with a customized grip to help dampen the recoil. Too expensive, and too serious, for an actor. He picked it up with an edge of his clothing, and peered underneath. Ah, there it was—the final piece of the puzzle, and just as he had suspected. Badge and ID in a flipout wallet, identifying one Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson, of the Metropolitan division of the BCPD.
Jackpot.
He glanced at his watch, then hurriedly returned the badge and the gun to their places and relocked the compartment. He replaced the jack and the tool box to their original positions, and slammed down the trunk lid. Then he walked back to the theatre, purposefully, but not fast enough to attract attention. Calmly, as if he had just gone out for a mid-act smoke, he went through the backstage door and down to the dressing rooms, where he returned Ken’s keys.
Outside the dressing room, he paused, trying to determine the best place for his phone call. The greenroom seemed best, if it were still empty, because ceiling speakers broadcast from the stage and would enable him to keep track of the action. He headed down the hall to the large room, which was in actuality painted a warm cream, and furnished with an array of cast-off furniture, a soda machine—and, in the corner, a telephone booth.
The man cocked an ear to the speakers, and was somewhat surprised to learn the scene was not as far along as he had thought. Nerves, he decided. Making me think I’m moving slower than I am. As he was listening, he had a further stroke of luck: Drake stopped the action so he could confer with the lighting crew about the ghost effect.
At this rate, it’ll be an hour before I have to be back up there.
He closed himself into the booth and began to dial the number, then paused. The gun and the ID were fairly indisputable evidence, but his colleague was both meticulous and suspicious. A doublecheck would save him time and trouble.
He hung up, dialed zero, and asked the operator to connect him to the BCPD.
“Dispatch,” a crisp female voice said in the middle of the first ring.
“Yes, I’d like to speak with Detective Ken Hutchinson please.” The caller pitched his voice high and gave it a quaver.
“One moment.” There was a series of clicks and whirs, then another ringing sound. This time the phone rang several times before it was answered by a weary male voice.
“Squad room.”
“Yes, Detective Ken Hutchinson please.”
“Uh…I think he’s off duty today,” the voice said. “Hang on a second and I’ll check.” The phone dropped with a clunk that made the listener wince, then the voice returned. “Yep. Won’t be back until tomorrow evening. Can I take a message?”
“No, thank you, young man,” the man said politely. “I’ll just try back tomorrow night. Thank you so much.”
“Sure.”
The caller hung up, chuckled at himself and his small ploy, then inserted another coin and dialed the number he knew by heart. As usual, it was answered immediately, with a decidedly tense-sounding hello.
“It’s me.”
“Well, hello, me,” the cultured voice said, seeming to relax a little. “This is fast work indeed; what have you learned?”
“I was right,” the caller said grimly. “Hyde’s a cop. Real name’s Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson, from Metro.”
There was a long silence from the other end. “How much time do you have?” the voice said at length. Its typical amused resonance was gone; the tone was hard and urgent.
The caller cracked open the booth door and listened. There was no acting going on up there; he could hear actors’ casual conversations and the occasional sound of Drake calling a question up to the booth.
“Plenty, I think,” he replied.
“Good,” the voice said crisply. “Listen very carefully. Take no notes; I want nothing in writing to incriminate either one of us. This is what I want you to do.”
CHAPTER 12
“A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”
—Act V, Scene I
It was opening night.
Well, technically it was eight hours before opening night—but Dave Starsky was already vastly entertained.
He knew his partner did not have rehearsal today, and he knew from his conversations with Hutch that most of the actors were taking the day off to relax, meditate, and indulge in whatever superstitions each had before going onstage.
But Starsky was well acquainted with his partner’s patterns, and as soon as Hutch had walked in the door of the squad room, he had a pretty good idea of how Hutch’s morning had gone. Body clock wakes him up at 5:30 or 6:00, he rolls out of bed, runs a couple miles, then hits the shower. The fact of the day begins to nag at him, and breakfast looks less and less appealing. He whips up a container of that nauseating “health elixir” and brings it in, because he knows he needs the fuel but doesn’t want to risk anything embarrassing at work.
Even from across the room, Starsky could fairly feel the butterflies racing around in Hutch’s midsection. And there were still hours to go before he actually had to step on a stage.
Starsky felt genuine sympathy for Hutch’s anxious state, and he tried his best to hide his amusement and just be alternately supportive and distracting. Eventually, however, it was no use. This man who could fence and ski with unbearable grace and scale curtains with confidence was a complete klutz under these circumstances, and he now was on a roll unparalleled in Starsky’s experience. After Hutch knocked himself out of his chair, winged Minnie with the squad room door, and sent a thick file full of paper snowing all over the bullpen, Starsky intervened, trying desperately to keep a straight face.
“Hey, buddy, calm down,” he coaxed. “Have a seat and try some of those ‘deep cleansing breaths’ you’re always pushin’ on me.”
Hutch obeyed without even commenting, sitting down at his side of the table and reaching for his cup of coffee.
Which he promptly knocked across not only his own files, but those of the two detectives next to him.
That was all Starsky could stand. He felt for his friend, but the laughter escaped him and he collapsed in a fit of mirth that eventually left him helpless in his chair, wiping tears from his eyes.
Across from him, his partner did not join in. He was too busy mopping up coffee and apologizing to his colleagues, his face flushed with embarrassment. Occasionally he flicked deadly glances at Starsky, but held his tongue for the time being. Starsky tried to pull himself together but every time he looked at Hutch, he set himself off again. The other detectives tried to ignore his unusual outburst, but there were amused smiles all around.
Hutch’s blush deepened.
“Thanks, pal,” he said wryly to Starsky, handing him a tissue to wipe his streaming eyes. “Nice to know I can entertain you before the show even starts.”
“Aw, Hutch, come on,” Starsky said teasingly, finally able to enter the conversation. “You gotta admit, that was a classic, even for you.”
Hutch took in a deep breath and let it out, trying to relax his unbearably tight shoulders. “Yeah, I guess I’m a little nervous,” he admitted.
“‘A little’?” Starsky echoed. “You’ve been calmer facing a crime boss wearing nothing but a towel, a holster, and your devastatingly handsome smile.”
Hutch winced. “Starsk, you know I love you, but you’re not helping, you know?”
“OK, OK, I’m sorry,” Starsky said contritely. “What can we do?”
“I don’t know,” Hutch said, in a voice that was so unfamiliarly uncertain that Starsky nearly lost it again. “Maybe if I can focus on some of this stuff…” His voice trailed off, and Starsky nodded his head once, very soberly. In tacit agreement to give it a try, they both turned to the folders and papers on their desk.
They were trying to track down all the founding members of the company. However, actors are a notoriously transient lot; thus, it had been a tedious process, with printouts and tidbits of information filtering in with agonizing slowness. Both detectives had been trying to organize the data into something they could work with, follow up on the few tenuous leads they did have, and fit new pieces into the still mystifying puzzle. They were both growing uneasy with the passage of time; their instincts told them the killer wasn’t finished, and each passing day increased the odds that another murder was going to occur.
Hutch opened a file. Skimmed its contents. Closed it with a slap, then began to dig through a stack of notes. He got to the bottom, made an annoyed sound, and started over. When he still couldn’t find what he was looking for, he went to another pile of notes and began shuffling through that.
Starsky reached across and stopped his partner’s hand.
Hutch raised his eyes to Starsky’s. “Sorry,” he said.
“Look, what say we get outta here?” Starsky suggested.
“Starsk, I appreciate the thought, but we’ve got a ton of work to do and—”
“And you’re in no shape to do it right now,” Starsky pointed out. “Come on, let’s grab some lunch.”
Hutch turned slightly green, and he waved a hand toward the thermos he’d brought in that morning. “I don’t—that’s why I—it’ll—” he stammered.
Phase two, right on schedule. Time to get him on his feet and moving.
“Huh-uh,” Starsky said firmly. It wasn’t often that he got the chance to good-naturedly bully his partner, but when he was in this condition it was all too easy, and Starsky intended to enjoy it while he could. “You gotta lot to do tonight, and you can’t do it on that desiccated wheat and liver germ oil whatsit you brought in here.” He came around the side of the table and nudged Hutch, but gently. “Come on. I’ll take you to that health food joint you been wantin’ to try out.. I’ll even treat.”
Hutch’s brows shot up. “Am I dying and you haven’t told me?” he managed to quip.
“Yeah, of idiocy,” Starsky shot back, but with a grin, “On your feet, blondie. We’re gonna get some fresh air and clean out that head of yours.”
Hutch sighed and finally gave in. He didn’t have much choice; once Starsky got something like this into his head, there was no dissuading him.
Once out in the Torino, Hutch seemed to relax somewhat, though his expression still vacillated between thoughtful and slightly panic-stricken. They began to discuss the facts of the case from memory, as they often did when they were stuck. As was their habit, Hutch reviewed the info Starsky had provided him and vice versa, to see if the opposite perspective offered anything fresh.
“Well, so far we’ve found about half the founding members,” Hutch said when they were finished.
“Yep,” Starsky agreed. “And all of those are happy and healthy.”
“Except the ones doing dinner theatre in Florida.”
Starsky snickered as they pulled up to the Organic Marketplace, where he left the engine running and instructed Hutch to stay put. “I’ll grab something for you, we can swing by a burger place for me, and then we can go somewhere else to eat.”
Hutch looked dubious. “You’ll get something for me,” he echoed.
Starsky shrugged. “I’ve been watching you eat this glop for a long time, Hutch,” he pointed out. “I think you can trust me just this once.”
Hutch still looked skeptical, but he agreed.
Food procured, Starsky steered the Torino toward Venice, thinking that his partner might relax even more near his beloved beach. He pulled onto a narrow, private stretch they both knew well, and turned off the engine. In the silence, the cooling engine ticked and pinged.
The tension from Hutch was nearly tangible.
After a beat or two, Starsky glanced at him, and saw that his face was pale and the furrow between his brows was deeply etched. All levity forgotten, Starsky opened his mouth to express his concern; but Hutch spoke first, his eyes never leaving the water outside the window.
“Starsk,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Baloney,” Starsky said bluntly, sensing correctly that his friend now was in need of straight talk. “You’ve been workin’ your tail off for weeks, and you heard that director. If he didn’t think you could do it, he wouldn’t have kept you in the part, right?”
Hutch had to concede that point.
“Besides, this is different from getting up there and singing by yourself,” Starsky pointed out. This was probably dirty pool, to play on Hutch’s sense of responsibility toward others, but one he knew would probably work. “There’s a whole lotta people counting on you, buddy, so you better put this behind you.”
Impossibly, Hutch momentarily turned even paler under his typical summer tan. Then he closed his eyes, nodded slightly, and let out the breath he had been holding. “You’re right,” he said quietly.
“Naturally,” Starsky said immodestly. “I’ve known you for a long time, pal, and I know how you are with these things. You panic for a while, and then you go on and you’re fine. I’m bettin’ this is gonna be the same way.”
“Yeah.” Hutch’s voice was still quiet, but at least that green look was gone from around his eyes. He took another deep breath. “Well…let’s get out of the car, huh? Shame to waste a perfectly good beach by sitting in this striped tomato.”
Starsky permitted himself a self-congratulatory grin as Hutch stepped out of the car. Did he know his partner or what?
Now he just had to get him through the afternoon… and then survive an evening of Shakespeare himself. Fortunately, he had invited Rose to come along, to help lighten the mood—and keep him awake.
CHAPTER 13
“…one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.”
—Act I, Scene V
Hutch stepped off the stage into the wings. He was drenched in sweat and spattered with stage blood, and he felt light-headed with relief. The audience had responded enthusiastically at the curtain call; he could tell Starsky’s location by a particular noise from the back of the house. Though he rolled his eyes at his partner’s enthusiasm, he had to admit the whole thing felt pretty damned good.
“Time for everyone to shower and get changed,” he heard Wayne called to the actors milling around backstage. “Cast party in the reception room in one hour, and the press will be there, so please be on your best behavior, ladies and gentlemen!”
There was a chorus of good-natured teasing and ribald comments in response, then the tide began to turn toward the dressing rooms. The actors were tired and sweaty, but they knew the show had been well-received, and they were pleased with the success of their efforts.
Roz caught up with Hutch as he was about to enter his dressing room. “Ken,” she said, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Hutch glanced in the door of the dressing room and found the other two actors already there, which meant the shower would be tied up for at least fifteen minutes. He let the door close and smiled down at the attractive young woman. “Sure,” he responded.
She beckoned him to a spot several feet from the dressing room, took both his hands in hers, and raised her eyes to him. Her face was lively with excitement, and yet sober with some important purpose. “I just want to thank you,” she said softly and somewhat shyly. “You did such a wonderful job. I’m so glad that Wayne found you and dragged you in here with us.”
Hutch was truly touched by her appreciation—and not immune to her looks—but praise always seemed to turn him into an awkward adolescent again. “Thanks,” he said sincerely. “That’s—nice.”
“Listen, Ken…” she hesitated, then rolled her eyes and laughed that full laugh that had enlivened many a rehearsal. “Geez, I’m no good at this. I can’t beat around a bush with a tennis racket.”
Hutch couldn’t help chuckling at the analogy. “All right,” he said. “Suppose you just give it to me straight.”
She looked at him, thought for a moment, then blushed and turned away. “You know what?” she said. “Never mind… I just… wanted to tell you that I thought you did a great job. Wayne’s a great guy, and I know this meant a lot to him.” She rose on her toes to kiss his cheek, then gathered her white robes around her and disappeared down the hall, to the women’s dressing rooms on the other side of the theatre.
Hutch looked after her, bemused. He could have sworn she was about to express some interest in him, but… maybe not. The Hutchinson charm was almost as well-known as the Hutchinson temper around the station, but it wasn’t infallible. And you got no business getting involved with anyone right now, anyway, he told himself, and went into the dressing room to clean up and change his clothes.
It took him a while, as he had to wait for the other two actors to finish their ablutions, so he was the last of the cast to arrive at the party. A number of people surrounded him almost instantly, including Jim, Jack, and the actors playing Laertes and Claudius, to shake his hand and congratulate him on a fine performance. Hutch managed a gracious smile and true appreciation, but continued to be somewhat uncomfortable with the praise, and so cast an eye around for Starsky.
A hand grabbed him from behind, but the grip was familiar, and he turned to find himself in his best friend’s embrace. “That was incredible, man,” Starsky said sincerely. “I never saw anything like that before in my life. I usually can’t sit through this stuff, but you—” Atypically, he found himself at a loss for words, so he just grinned at his friend and clapped him on the shoulder.
Hutch grinned back, pleased despite himself that his partner was so impressed. “Thanks, buddy,” he said quietly. “You know that means a lot to me.” They exchanged a look, and Starsky’s smile became somewhat lopsided, as it did when they were both feeling particularly affectionate or moved.
“All right, you two, break it up,” a no-nonsense voice interrupted. “Ken, darlin’, let me have at you here.”
Hutch’s smile grew even broader as he greeted Rose Starsky with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Rosie! So this guy dragged you out to see the show, huh? Hope it was worth the trip.”
“Oh, it was and you know it was,” she said, laying a hand on the side of his face (quite a trick, since Hutch stood about nine inches taller than she was). “You were beautiful,” she told him, gazing directly into his eyes. “Absolutely marvelous. I was very moved.”
It was fine, Ken. What do you want me to do? Gush?
Oddly, Rosie’s praise did not have the usual effect on him. Instead, he felt something pricking at the back of his eyes, and was somewhat mortified to realize that it seemed to be tears. He blinked several times, then conjured up another of his most charming smiles. “Ah, Rosie,” he said teasingly, “You say that to all the tall blond Hamlets you know.”
Rose rolled her eyes in a gesture that was so identical to her nephew’s that Hutch laughed out loud. “I give the boy a compliment and this is how he answers?” she said to Starsky, who was watching with tremendous amusement. “I ought to take it back.”
“Don’t you dare,” Hutch said, giving her another hug. “Thank you, Rosie. That means a lot to me, it really does.” He drew back, put an arm around her shoulders, and indicated the side of the room with his head. “Come on, I think they’ve got some food and champagne over here.”
***
“Man, I have to tell you,” Jim Harrison said as the cast and crew ate, drank, and made merry in the wake of their success. “When Drake first brought you in here, and no one had seen you around anywhere, I was pretty nervous.”
“Sure,” Hutch said, trying without success to find something on the buffet table that wouldn’t interfere with his regular food regimen. He finally gave up and settled for some melba toast and a variety of cheeses. “That makes sense… awful lot riding on this.”
“But you really pulled it off,” Jim said sincerely. “And I for one am grateful. I’ve been waiting to play Horatio my whole life, and if you hadn’t come in, I thought I was going to end up as Hamlet.”
Hutch laughed. “Wanna switch?”
“No way,” Jim refused. “You’re doin’ just fine… and you really saved a bunch of butts here.”
“Well…” Hutch said, shifting his feet somewhat uncomfortably. “Thanks, Jim. It helps that you guys are all so great.”
“But of course,” Jim said, sweeping a bow and widening his expressive eyes dramatically. “Damn,” he went on with a sigh of enormous pleasure, looking around the room. “I do love it when a show is a hit.”
Drake approached them at that moment, bearing another bottle of champagne in one hand and the arm of a middle-aged woman in the other. “Jim,” he said, “this is Judith Henderson from one of the local radio shows. She would like to talk with you if you can spare her a moment… then she would like to talk with you, Ken.”
Hutch opened his mouth, closed it, stymied. “Uh—well—I—” he stammered, trying to find an excuse. None came to mind, so he finally acquiesced with a shrug. “Sure.”
“I won’t bite, Mr. Hyde, I promise,” the reporter assured him, and then turned to Jim. “Mr. Harrison, why don’t we find a quiet corner where we can talk uninterrupted?”
“Whither thou goest,” Jim said lightly, and followed her away and through the crowd. Drake turned to Hutch, looking tired but beaming happily, and reached out to grip his hand.
“Thank you so much, Ken,” he said quietly but with great feeling. “I hope you have some idea how superior that performance was. You—saved my neck, as it were, and to do it so beautifully— I am truly grateful.”
By now, Hutch was truly overwhelmed by all the compliments, but he found it easier to be gracious in his response to Drake. “Thanks to you, Wayne,” he said. “I really appreciate all the help you gave me.”
“My pleasure, believe me.”
They stood there for a few moments in companionable silence, then Drake gave a satisfied sigh and a shake of his head. “You know,” he said reflectively, “there were times when I never thought this show would happen.” He laughed nostalgically. “Then again, there were times ten years ago when I thought this company would never happen.”
“What do you mean?” Hutch asked curiously. Something in his detective brain instinctively came to life, sensing there was something important here.
Drake took a sip of his champagne. “Well, when we first started, the press was… well, not this kind, to be sure,” he laughed, waving his hand at the reporters who were mingling among the company personnel. “In fact, there was one gentleman whose reviews were absolutely scathing. He predicted we would be closing our doors within the year… indeed, within the month.”
“What happened?”
“Well…” Drake looked down at his champagne glass, clearly somewhat embarrassed by the memory. “It so happens that the founders of this company included some very wealthy and very powerful people.” He met Hutch’s gaze. “Enough to ruin a certain young reporter’s career.”
The director now had Hutch’s total attention. “How did they do that?”
“Well,” Drake said again, noting that Hutch had slipped into what he thought of as “cop mode,” albeit much more subtly than before. “They learned that he had had a disastrous acting career on the East Coast… had essentially been laughed out of town due to his dismal—talents. They made a point of making this information known, and absolutely humiliated him. Of course, he lost all credibility among the theatrical community, and his paper dropped him almost immediately.” He took another sip of his champagne and gave a thoughtful sigh. “He didn’t seem to be such a bad sort, really, just very brash and arrogant. In retrospect, it seems a bit extreme… but at the time, we were fighting for our very lives, and thought the means justified the ends.”
Hutch’s eyes flicked across the room and found Starsky as if by a homing beacon. Starsky seemed to sense his partner’s gaze, and managed to tear his attention away from Sarah, who had been thoroughly enjoying his sense of humor and his Bogart imitations. He smiled sweetly and excused himself, making his way across the room to Hutch.
“Do you remember the name of this reviewer?” Hutch asked intently.
“Oh, let’s see…” Drake began to search his memory, then stopped short and looked at Hutch. “Do you think he’s connected with Carl’s murder somehow?”
“It’s possible,” Hutch said. “Anyway, it’s another lead to follow.”
Starsky reached them then, and Drake was intrigued to see how he, too, had changed from a festive, party guest to a detective focused on a case. “What’s up?” he asked. Hutch relayed the information that Drake had just provided, then sat back to gauge Starsky’s reaction.
“It’s a lead,” Starsky agreed. “And the guy would certainly have motive. Worth checking out, anyway.”
Hutch turned back to Drake. “What was his name?”
Drake frowned thoughtfully. “Oh, dear, I’m not sure I remember. Seems like it was… Richard something.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t think of the last name. But I know that all the press clippings for the company are on file here in the theatre. It would be a simple matter to find out.”
“We have to track him down—and the rest of the founders,” Hutch said urgently to Starsky. “Right away.” Starsky nodded in agreement. “Look, Wayne, we need you to go see if you can find those clippings.”
“I’ll go wait in the lobby,” Starsky chimed in. “Then you can pass them off to me, and I’ll catch up with Ken later.” He and Hutch exchanged one last look, nodded like two football players getting ready to leave the huddle, then turned to make his way back across the room. Drake headed in the opposite direction, toward the lobby. Starsky managed to find Rose, who had to say one last goodbye to Hutch before she would permit her nephew to escort her out. That was fine, Hutch thought; it would reduce the likelihood that Wayne’s departure and Starsky’s would be connected.
Though his concerns about Starsky were somewhat misguided. It wasn’t his partner who was being observed.
CHAPTER 14
“Murder most foul.”
— Act I, Scene V
Saturday was busy but uneventful. The two detectives spent most of the day at the library, looking for all available information related to one Richard Caldwell, the reviewer who had lambasted the company during its first season. They read dozens of his articles on the local theatre companies, noting that he saved his most vitriolic comments for the Bay Shakespeare Company, while offering lukewarm, but certainly less critical reviews of other productions in the area. Though the reasons for his negative attitude were not, his dislike for the company was abundantly obvious. And Drake was right; the man repeatedly predicted that the company would experience a rapid demise.
After several hours of staring at microfilm, Hutch had to go to the theatre. Starsky plowed through and printed out the last articles of interest, then obtained a recent copy of the paper from the librarian, and jotted down the phone number of the entertainment editor for a phone call on Monday.
The performance went well Saturday evening, with the usual settling down after an opening night high. The house was packed and the audience’s response was enthusiastic. Hutch went to bed around 2 a.m. Sunday morning, relieved and actually proud of what he had accomplished.
He followed his normal routine on Sunday morning, though he started somewhat later than usual. After his two-mile run, shower, and breakfast, he called Starsky to see what he was up to that day. Starsky had plans to meet his newest lady friend for a picnic lunch, and suggested that the three of them hook up for dinner after Hutch’s matinee.
The matinee, too, went off without a hitch… until approximately thirty minutes after the final curtain went down.
Hutch was in the dressing room, half-dressed and toweling his hair dry when the scream came. He yanked his shirt over his head and raced up the stairs, half-wishing that his gun wasn’t locked in the back of the Ford.
A crowd of murmuring and crying actors and crew members had already gathered around something in the right wing when he reached the stage. He made his way through, knowing in his gut what he was going to find, but hoping—
No such luck. In a corner of the wing lay Troy Melbourne, one of the crew members, with a sword sunk into his chest.
Damn.
Hutch noticed that Lowell Abbott was moving toward the corpse. Without thinking twice, Hutch stepped forward and grabbed his arm. “Don’t touch anything,” he warned. “Go call the police.” Lowell nodded and ran out the side stage door and through the house.
Hutch was sure Melbourne was dead, but he crouched beside him and pressed his fingers to the man’s neck anyway. Sure enough, there was no pulse, and the flesh was cool enough that Hutch guessed Troy had been dead for some time. He sat back on his heels and frowned, then remembered his cover and pushed himself to his feet.
“Hey, come on,” he said gently but firmly to the pale and frightened faces that had been watching his every move. “Why don’t we get away from here and show the guy some respect, huh?”
All the company members dispersed except Drake, who looked absolutely devastated by this latest development. “When so much time had passed,” he said numbly. “I just assumed… Oh, dear Lord.”
Mindful of his cover, Hutch placed a comforting hand on the man’s arm, but said nothing more until he was sure they were alone. Then he moved close to Drake and said in a low voice, “I think it’s time to bring my partner in. Did this guy do something he can pick up fairly quickly?”
“I believe so. Troy was one of the follow-spot operators,” Drake responded in an equally quiet tone.
“Good. What are you doing for dinner tonight?” Drake looked at Hutch sharply, then chuckled mirthlessly.
“I presume I’m meeting with you and David.”
“You got it,” Hutch said tersely, then glanced at his watch. “We’ll be meeting at a bar called The Pits—easy to find downtown. I’m going to try to catch him at home and see if he can leave his date behind; I think this is a conversation the three of us should have alone.”
“I believe I can find that,” Drake said. “What time should I meet you there?”
“About seven—or whenever the coroner and the crime lab get done here,” Hutch replied. He heard the wail of sirens growing from outside. “Look, I’d better make myself scarce in case anyone I know is on this crew. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
Drake nodded, and Hutch headed downstairs to the greenroom to call Starsky.
***
Three hours later, the three men were just completing their meals. Understandably, none of them had much of an appetite.
“I cannot believe this is happening,” Drake said, pushing away his plate with most of the food uneaten. “I’ve known Troy for years. He was a consummate professional—a man who took his job very seriously. To lose him and Carl so close together…” He sighed and stirred sugar into his cup of coffee. “He just had his first grandchild, too.”
Hutch and Starsky exchanged glances, and both knew they were thinking the same thing: They had to start turning something before anyone else died.
“We gotta crank this up,” Starsky said. “When can I get installed onto the crew?”
“Tomorrow, as far as I’m concerned,” Drake replied. “If you can come in a bit early, John and I—he’s the other follow spot operator—can show you the basics. Troy operated Ken’s special, so we can do a dry run with just the four of us. I’m planning on a meeting with the cast in the afternoon. I want to make sure everyone has a chance to talk about this.” He sighed again and replaced his spoon on the saucer. “In fact, I want to see if they want to go on at all.”
The two detectives exchanged another look. “Do you think they won’t?” Hutch asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” Drake admitted, his eyes on the dark liquid in his cup. “But I want to give them that option. Two people have died due to their involvement with this production, and I don’t want to endanger anyone else if I can help it.”
Hutch dropped his eyes to the table; both his and Starsky’s expressions were glum. There was nothing more frustrating or guilt-inducing that having a series of murders with a paucity of clues, and there was nothing that preyed on their minds more than having people die while they seemed to be running in circles.
“Can you think of any connection, anything at all, between the two murders and Gretchen Talbot’s disappearance?” Starsky asked.
“No, nothing… other than the fact that they were all with the company from the beginning,” Drake replied. “In fact, Troy actually started out as an actor—he portrayed Claudius in the original production.”
“What about Gretchen Talbot?” Hutch asked, with increasing interest.
“Yes, Gretchen was in the original production as well,” Drake said. “She was Gertrude—and a positively luminous one.” He smiled slightly at the memory. “Of course, that was before she started drinking.”
“There’s something there,” Hutch said to his partner. “Something important—I can feel it.”
Starsky nodded, then spoke to Drake. “Look, when we get to the theatre tomorrow, we need to get all the documentation you have about that original production—every person who was involved and in what capacity, programs, information about the cast and crew, all the publicity, any financial or production records—every piece of paper you can get your hands on.”
“We’ll meet at my place after the rehearsal with the files for all three cases,” Hutch chimed in. “And we’ll just sit and bury ourselves in this stuff until we figure it out.”
“Agreed.” Drake looked at his watch and rose with a sigh. “Well, gentlemen, I hope I have been of some assistance—but now I really must go. This has been far more excitement than I bargained for, and added to an opening weekend…”
“Sure,” Hutch said immediately. “Go home and get some rest, Wayne. We’ll see you tomorrow—what time?”
“How about eight, if that’s not too early,” Drake suggested. “That way, we’ll have time to go through the entire show before the cast meeting at one.”
“OK,” Hutch said. His later-rising partner began to comment, then caught Hutch’s eye and nodded his agreement instead.
***
The rehearsal went smoothly, though the acrophobic Starsky was not pleased to discover the follow spot operators worked from a catwalk suspended high above the house. He threw a raised eyebrow glance at Hutch, who gave him a “Hang in there, buddy,” nod and a slight smile. Shrugging, Starsky resigned himself to his fate and followed John backstage and up the ladders to the lighting grid and the catwalk. He was relieved to learn that the structure was equipped with a safety harness for each operator, though he sensed from John’s indulgent smile and avoidance of his own harness that he would probably take some teasing for using it.
The light was awkward but not very heavy. After a little practice, Starsky found he was able to maneuver it with ease, and he rapidly picked up the basic positioning and movements. And during the first few scenes, he realized that he had an advantage that exponentially accelerated his learning and proficiency curve: he and Hutch had known each other for so long that he had an excellent “read” on Hutch’s movements and could track him almost instinctively. To everyone’s relief, they were able to run through all of Hutch’s scenes in fairly short order and with relatively few adjustments.
After lunch, a somber cast and crew assembled, and Drake handled the unenviable task of talking with them about the murders, and presenting the possibility of shutting the show down. To the two detectives’ surprise, there was little debate and the decision was unanimous: to continue the production. A number of the company members, Sarah and Roz included, voiced strong and heartfelt sentiments that Carl and Troy would have wanted them to adhere to the timeless tradition that “the show must go on.” It appeared that most of the company considered the run to be a memorial to those who had been killed.
“Isn’t someone investigating these things?” Jack asked from the front row of the theatre. From the apron, Drake nodded, assiduously avoiding looking at Starsky or Hutch. “Well, do they know anything yet?”
“Well, I’m not well-versed in this type of thing,” Drake responded smoothly. “But it’s my understanding that they are giving this their most serious attention and are following up on a number of theories.” There was a general stirring among the company, and Drake held up his hand to stem the tide of dissatisfaction. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, these things take time. These have been great losses for all of us, but I feel certain that the police are doing everything they can to find the people who killed Carl and Troy.”
The two detectives inwardly winced, but were far too professional to let their discomfort show.
Drake fortuitously—and perhaps intentionally—chose this moment to reveal his own grief and fatigue with a shaky sigh and a hand passed over his suddenly weary face. The company respected and genuinely admired him, and almost immediately forgot their disapproval in compassion for their director.
“My friends, you have elected to continue this production as a tribute to Carl and Troy,” Drake said with tremendous feeling. “As difficult as it may be, I implore you to concentrate on making it as fitting and stellar as possible… and leave the detective work to others.”
There was a beat of silence, then the actors and the crew nodded in silent agreement.
Drake took a deep breath, forced a smile to his face, and began the rehearsal by introducing the company to “Dave Scott,” who would be taking over Carl’s duties with the follow spot.
After the brush-up was complete, Drake gathered the company one final time for a few notes and a quick run-through of a few moments which he felt could stand further polishing. Starsky was relieved to climb down from the catwalk and park himself in a seat with the rest of the crew. He was watching the process on the stage when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to see Lowell Abbott behind him.
“There’s a phone call for you in the office,” he whispered. “Someone named Harold—says it’s important.”
Suppressing a grin, Starsky got to his feet and followed the stage manager through the house and lobby and into the office. Aware of Abbott’s presence but also spurred by the usual Starsky humor, he said jovially into the phone, “Hello, Harold. What’s up?”
“Save it, Starsky,” Dobey’s voice growled on the other end of the line. “Are you and Hutch about done out there?”
“Yeah, should be getting out any minute,” Starsky replied, keeping Abbott in his peripheral vision.
“Both of you need to get down here as soon as you can without attracting attention,” Dobey ordered. “Something’s come up, and it isn’t good.”
CHAPTER 15
“For ’tis sport to have the enginer
Hoist with his own petar”
—Act III, Sc IV
Starsky returned to the theatre. As he returned to his seat, Hutch, from the stage, met his gaze and raised his eyebrows slightly. Starsky barely inclined his head. Hutch returned the gesture. Message received: they would talk later.
After Drake finished giving notes, the two detectives left the theatre together. Since the company had seen Starsky with Hutch on opening night, his cover included a long-term friendship with “Ken Hyde,” which at least eliminated one set of potential complications and pussyfooting around. As they went out the door and toward the parking lot, Hutch spoke in a low, conversational tone.
“So…what’s up?”
“Harold called,” Starsky said. Hutch looked puzzled for a moment, then realization dawned.
“Really?” he said. “What’d he want?”
“Wants us to come over for dinner,” Starsky replied. “Right away.”
“Really,” Hutch said again, this time with a slight frown. “What’s cookin’?”
“Don’t know,” Starsky replied. “But he said we better get there before it gets any hotter.”
“Got it,” Hutch said. He stopped by the Ford, while Starsky went on toward the Torino, which was parked further back in the lot. “See you there.”
“Yup.”
Starsky arrived at Captain Dobey’s office well before Hutch, and by the time Hutch got there, the other two men had run out of small talk. Starsky was growing increasingly uneasy about this summons.
“You sure took your time!” Dobey barked at Hutch, as he dropped into the chair next to Starsky.
Hutch glanced at his partner; though Dobey was typically gruff with them, this was real annoyance. Mentally, they both ran through the records of their activities for the last few days, but could unearth nothing to warrant this kind of irritation.
“Sorry, Captain,” Hutch apologized. “Had a bit of a stall on the way here.”
“Y’know, if you’d just get rid of that thing, you could get places on time,” Starsky began.
“Can it, both of you,” Dobey snapped.
The two detectives exchanged another glance.
“Cap’n,” Starsky said. “You wanna tell us why we’re here and why you’re on the warpath?”
In response, Dobey picked up a slim manila folder and tossed it at Hutch, who caught it by reflex. He flipped it open and began to scan the contents.
“What’s that?” Starsky asked.
“Preliminary lab reports from yesterday’s crime scene,” Dobey said tightly. He was watching Hutch closely, so Starsky turned his gaze to his partner.
Hutch was reading rapidly through the findings and results of various tests, nodding here, frowning slightly there. He flipped a page—and suddenly his frown deepened. He turned the page back, read more carefully, then flipped the page again. Then he looked up at the captain, his face stunned.
“What the hell—”
“My sentiments exactly, Hutchinson,” Dobey growled. “Would you mind telling me just what the hell your fingerprints are doing all over the murder weapon?”
“What?” Starsky took the folder from his partner’s hands, and read the results of the fingerprint match. Sure enough, there was only one set of prints on the sword, and they all belonged to one Hutchinson, Ken.
“Well?” Dobey prodded.
Hutch shook his head, started to speak, then found he really had no response. He looked at Starsky, but he, too was at a loss for words.
“Well, you’d better come up with something,” Dobey said. “IA wants your tail upstairs, right now, and they’re not gonna be as nice as I am.”
Starsky raised an eyebrow, but decided that any comment he made would be decidedly unwelcome just now.
“Go on, get up there,” Dobey ordered. Then his voice softened somewhat; he could see that Hutch was nonplused by the situation and not a little distressed. “Come back down here after you’re done and we’ll see if we can’t start straightening this out.”
“Want me to come along?” Starsky said as Hutch rose to his feet.
“Nah,” Hutch said—then, reconsidering, “On second thought, yeah.”
“They only asked for Hutchinson,” Dobey called after them as they went out the door. All he got was Starsky’s voice, floating back just before the door closed: “Too bad.”
As they rode up the elevator to Internal Affairs, Starsky shook his head. “How the hell could your fingerprints be on that sword?” he asked. “Didn’t you tell me that your stage sword was pretty much useless?”
“Yeah,” Hutch said, his frown growing deeper by the minute. “I don’t know, Starsk, but I have a real bad feeling about this.”
They were ushered immediately into an Internal Affairs office, where Hutch was somewhat relieved to find John Haynes waiting for them. Haynes knew both detectives well and respected their work, and was not above “forgetting” to record the complaints of insubordination that inevitably came their way when they worked with captains less forgiving than Dobey. He was joined, however, by a man neither Starsky nor Hutch knew: a tall, slender, young black man wearing a three-piece suit and a bowtie. On anyone else, the getup might have looked ridiculous, but this man looked like he had just stepped out of a fashion magazine.
“Dave, Ken, this is Art Dryden,” Haynes said, indicating the black man. “Art, these are Detectives Dave Starsky—” he pointed at Starsky, then moved his hand toward Hutch, “and Ken Hutchinson.”
Dryden turned to Starsky and nodded curtly. “Officer Hutchinson.”
Hutch rolled his eyes. Yeah, some investigator you must be, he thought caustically. Can’t remember our names five seconds after you hear them.
“Starsky,” the bearer of that name said with exaggerated politeness, then nodded toward his partner. “He’s Hutch.”
“Art’s just come to the department,” Haynes said, while Dryden looked impatient with the small talk. “Transfer from San Francisco.”
“Yeah?” Starsky said with a smile that included only his teeth. “Welcome to our world.”
“Yeah,” Dryden said with absolutely no change in his expression. He turned to Haynes. “Can we get on with this?”
“Patience, Art,” Haynes said, his tone ostensibly amiable but his eyes chiding his new employee. “Art’s going to be working with Nick Simonetti eventually, but he’s riding with me for a few days to learn the ropes and the personnel.” Haynes waved a hand toward two chairs at the front of his desk. “Have a seat, guys, and let’s get this over with, all right?”
The two detectives sat, as did Haynes, who then proceeded to let Dryden take over the conversation. Dryden declined to sit down, instead leaning against the frame of the window beside Haynes’ desk.
“So, Hutchinson,” he began, making a point of addressing Hutch. “Would you like to tell us what happened?”
“I’d love to,” Hutch said. “But I have no idea.”
“Your fingerprints are on the murder weapon,” Dryden pointed out, consulting his own copy of the lab report.
“Yeah, I know.”
“How did that come about?”
“I told you—I have no idea.”
Starsky smiled inwardly. Dryden was learning just how stubborn Hutch could be when he felt like it. And he knew that he and his partner were both getting the same vibes from the new IA investigator… bad ones.
“All right.” Dryden glanced at the report again and decided to try a new tack. “The preliminary estimate says the guy was killed between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. on Sunday. Where were you then?”
Hutch flicked his eyes at Starsky. This was trouble.
“At home all morning,” he replied, somewhat evasively. “Then I went to the theatre.”
“Ah, right, you’re working undercover with the company, aren’t you?” Dryden said, beginning to warm to his task. “And how long have you been working on this case?”
“A little over four weeks,” Hutch said evenly.
“And you haven’t turned a single lead, have you?”
“That’s not true,” Starsky broke in, laying a hand on Hutch’s arm to forestall the outburst he felt rather than saw coming. “We’ve had a lot of leads, but none of them have turned out. We just got a new one this weekend that looks a little more promising.”
“In four weeks?” Dryden said, raising a condescending eyebrow. “Sounds like pretty low-grade detective work, if you ask me.”
“Dryden.” Haynes said nothing more, but both his tone and expressed held a warning. Dryden backed off and continued his questioning.
“All right, so you were home Sunday morning,” he said. “Anybody there with you?”
“No,” Hutch replied shortly.
“Ken, did you talk to anybody or see anybody that morning?” Haynes broke in. He knew Hutch pretty well, by observation and reputation, and saw him as a fine police officer. But he also knew that Hutch could be mulish as hell when his defenses were up.
“I didn’t see anybody,” Hutch said to him. “I did call Starsky—”
Dryden cut him off. “Captain, if that’s the case, maybe we should talk to the two of them separately—”
“No way,” Starsky said. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
“Captain—” Dryden protested.
“That was about ten, wasn’t it?” Starsky said innocently to Hutch, knowing that his statement would blow at least one of the inconsistencies Dryden would have tried to find in separate testimonies.
“Right. What were we talking about?”
“This and that. The weather. That girl you were gonna ask out… what was her name?”
“Judith—she was the one who—”
“Captain!” Dryden interrupted again, more stridently this time. “Is this an investigation or a vaudeville show? Would you please advise these two to take these proceedings seriously?”
“Who are you trying to kid, Dryden?” Hutch snapped angrily, swinging his attention abruptly from his partner to the other man. “Haven’t you already made up your mind?”
“All right, that’s enough!” Haynes bellowed, slapping one hand on his desk. The three men subsided. “Let’s just all calm down, shall we? Hutch,” he addressed the detective, who was sitting with his arms folded across his chest, lips pressed tightly together and eyes flashing indignantly at Dryden. “I know this is uncomfortable, but the sooner we get this taken care of, the sooner you can get back to work.”
Hutch allowed his expression to become a little less belligerent. “All right, all right,” he conceded. “Let’s just get this over with, huh?”
Dryden looked to Haynes for permission to continue, then at the captain’s nod said, “So you called Detective Starsky at about ten. Then what?”
Hutch shrugged, the gesture just short of insolent. There wasn’t much more to tell. “Then I hung around at home until about noon, and went to the theatre.”
“Anybody see you there?”
“No,” Hutch admitted reluctantly. “I always go in early, to work on my combat scenes, so the director gave me a key.”
“Nobody saw you—what did you say you were practicing?”
“Combat scenes,” Hutch said tersely. He knew what was coming, and he knew he couldn’t stop it, but he thought he could at least delay it.
“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with theatrical terms,” Dryden said dryly. “Can you tell me what you mean by that?”
Hutch took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair, then leaned back in the chair, willing himself to remain calm. “I have two fight scenes in the show,” he explained, staring down at his hands, which were now moving nervously back and forth on his thighs. “I go in early to warm up and run them by myself before I do makeup or costume.”
“What kind of fight scenes, Detective Hutchinson?” Dryden leaned in close, and Hutch knew Dryden knew exactly what kind of combat scenes he had been practicing.
“Fencing.”
“Oh, really?”
“But my sword is a stage weapon,” Hutch went on. “The end is blunted and all the sharp edges are sanded down. About all it’ll go through is six inches of Styrofoam.”
“Really,” Dryden said.
“Yeah, really,” Hutch spat.
“Let’s go back to the time frame, Detective,” Dryden said, sounding for all the world like a prosecuting attorney and unaware that there were few quicker ways to get Hutch’s dander up. “You got to the theatre at noon, and no one saw you.”
“Right.”
“What time do other people normally arrive?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Hutch said thoughtfully. “I guess Lowell Abbott—the stage manager—generally gets there about an hour or so before curtain.”
“Which is what time?”
“Two.”
“And this stage manager didn’t see you practicing a sword fight in the theatre.”
Hutch took another deep breath. This was grim fact #2. “I don’t rehearse on the stage.”
“Oh?”
“No,” Hutch said reluctantly. “There’s a small room in the basement that’s padded for protection. We practice all the combat and physical stunts in there.”
“Ah.” Dryden propped himself against the window frame again and steepled his hands, eying Hutch contemplatively. “So tell me, Detective, when was the first time that someone saw you on Sunday afternoon?”
“Probably about 1:15, when I went into the dressing room to start my makeup.”
“Huh.” Dryden nodded thoughtfully. “So here’s what we have, Sergeant: You can only account for one hour out of four in the estimated time of death, and your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon. How do you explain this?”
“I told you, my stage weapon couldn’t kill anybody!” Hutch began in exasperation. Then something dawned on him. “Besides, if it was between ten and two, it couldn’t have been my sword. It’s preset the night before, so I didn’t even have my hands on it until the show. And if it had been used to kill this guy before the show even started, I wouldn’t have had it for the actual production, would I have?”
“I’m confused, Detective,” Dryden said. “If you didn’t have your sword between ten and two, precisely what were you practicing with from noon to 1:15?”
An awful realization washed over Hutch then, and he slumped back in his chair, his face stricken.
Starsky had been watching this whole exchange intently, letting his partner handle it for the most part, but ready to jump in if Dryden got too out of hand or he sensed that Hutch was about to blow. At the look on his Hutch’s face, however, he leaned forward and put a hand on Hutch’s knee. “Hey,” he said, willing his partner to look at him. “What?”
Hutch turned his head toward him, and the look in his eyes was that of someone who has just found himself trapped in a corner. “I used the rehearsal sword,” he said, speaking softly and only to Starsky. “It’s the real thing.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, I didn’t catch that,” Dryden said, taking a step toward the pair. Starsky’s eyes shot up to him and he stopped dead in his tracks.
“It’s the real thing,” Hutch repeated tonelessly. “We only use it for individual practice, so there’s no chance of anyone getting hurt. I use it so I won’t have to move my stage weapon and take a chance on it not getting back upstairs for the show.”
“Hutch,” Haynes said, leaning forward with a grave and worried expression. “Are you sure this is the same one?”
“Well, I couldn’t be completely sure until I saw it,” Hutch admitted. “But I do know we only have one real weapon on the premises, and—that’s it.”
“We got a problem here,” Haynes began, but Dryden broke in.
“You bet we do,” he said snidely, glaring at Hutch. “It looks like you took your playacting a little too seriously, Detective.”
Hutch was on his feet in the time it took to draw breath, his expression so completely dangerous that Dryden backed off several steps. Fortunately for Dryden, Starsky was quicker. His firm grip on Hutch’s shoulders stopped Hutch from the kind of mayhem he really wanted to commit… but only just.
“Take it easy, man,” Starsky said, trying to calm his agitated partner. “This is a mistake—don’t give this turkey something he can really nail you for.”
Hutch strained against Starsky’s hands for a moment, then the words sank in and he realized the wisdom of his friend’s advice. He shook himself free, then removed himself from Dryden’s immediate vicinity in favor of the couch across the room.
“All right, Hutch,” Haynes said. “Just stay calm and we’ll see if we can’t get this worked out.” He turned to Dryden and his voice became stern. “And you, Dryden… I don’t know how they do things in San Francisco but we don’t treat our officers like criminals here. Detective Hutchinson is a good cop and deserves to be treated as such.”
Everyone settled their feathers a bit. Hutch studiously avoided looking at Dryden. Dryden stared down at the report in his hands. Starsky fixed the IA officer with his most convincing ‘Back off’ glare. Haynes picked up the phone and dialed. When it was picked up at the other end, he said, “Harold? John… Listen, I think you’d better come up here. Right. Room 4.” He hung up the phone again.
“All right, Ken,” he said, not unkindly. “Let’s go over this again… What time did you talk to Dave?”
“What about a motive?” Starsky said suddenly.
The other three stared at him.
“What?” Dryden said blankly.
“A motive. You know, that thing that explains why one person kills another, that they taught you about at the Academy?” Starsky said sarcastically. “What possible reason would Hutch have for killing this guy?”
Hutch perked up somewhat and leaned forward on the couch. “That’s a good point, Starsk,” he said, his face thoughtful. “I don’t have one… and on the other hand…”
“Someone might have a really good motive for setting you up,” Starsky interjected.
Hutch nodded, then snapped his fingers as another idea hit him. “And it has to be someone in the company,” he amended, his voice gaining momentum.
“Otherwise, how would he know what your preshow routine was?” Starsky came right in.
“Or about the real sword?” Hutch leaned back again, passed his hands over his face momentarily. “Starsky—”
“Someone knows you’re a cop.”
“That’s gotta be it. Damn!” he swore, pushing himself off the couch and moving over to lean back against the door. “How… when…” He tapped his hands against the door as his mind clicked rapidly through the possibilities, then his face tightened as he thumped an angry fist against the door. “The phone call, last Saturday,” he groaned. “Someone must have heard me talking to you.”
“Hold on here,” Dryden said, trying to break into the byplay. “We’ve still got an investigation going on here, and you’re still our prime suspect.”
“Quiet, Dryden,” Haynes said sharply. “I think there’s more to this than meets the eye.”
The office door opened then, jolting Hutch from his place. Dobey strode in, assessed the situation and the state of his two detectives with a practiced glance, and took the seat Hutch had vacated in front of Haynes’ desk. He knew before he even reached the chair that the tension was high; Hutch and Starsky practically oozed hostility and resistance.
“All right, let’s have it,” he said briskly, folding his arms across his chest.
Hutch leaned against the door again and stared at the ceiling as Haynes relayed what they had learned thus far. Stupid, stupid, he berated himself angrily. You should have known better… making a call like that from a public phone! He reviewed his actions from that night like an editor cutting a movie, from the time he had left the stage that night, through his phone call to Starsky and his repeated checks of the area around him, to his return to the house. He had seen nothing, heard nothing. Where the hell had this person come from?
“—Hutch?”
He blinked and brought himself back to the present, aware that the other four were looking at him. Starsky’s face was concerned; Dobey and Haynes were mostly impassive but also sympathetic, and Dryden was triumphant. Hutch knew without a doubt that if he had so much as whispered in irritation at the follow-spot operator, Dryden would have Hutch’s badge and gun on the table and his butt in a jail cell.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “Where were we?”
“Well, we’re trying to figure out where to go from here,” Haynes said. “Do you have any suggestions?”
Hutch sank down on the arm of the sofa and frowned, trying to focus on the task at hand. “Well,” he said, as his thoughts raced, “I think it’s pretty clear that my cover’s been blown by somebody, and that this is some kind of ploy to get me out of the picture and divert attention from the real murderer.”
Dryden snorted.
“Hey,” Starsky said. “In case you just crawled out from under that rock you call home, there was another murder in that company and a disappearance, both of which happened long before Hutch ever walked in the door. So I suggest you keep your editorial comments to yourself, Dryden.”
“I suggest you take your own advice, Sergeant Starsky,” Dryden retorted.
Starsky rose to his feet, and it was Hutch’s turn to intervene, with a hand on his partner’s arm. Take it easy, the gesture said. No sense both of us getting in hot water.
Haynes, meanwhile, had had it with the scuffling. “I said enough, gentlemen!” he snapped. “My office is not a schoolyard, and I will thank you all to remember that we are on the same team.”
Starsky, Hutch, and Dryden all looked as if they had comments to make about that, but wisely kept them to themselves.
Haynes turned his eyes to Dobey, whom he now considered the only other sane and rational person in the room. “What do you think, Harold?”
Dobey shook his head, frowning in thought. “I don’t like any of it,” he said grimly. “One undercover man’s been made, and there’s a strong possibility they’ll figure out Starsky’s a cop, too. And this guy doesn’t mess around. I’d rather pull you both out before one of you gets hurt.”
“No way,” Hutch protested, as Starsky said, “Come on, Cap’n!”
Haynes gave them one short, sharp look and both subsided. Starsky dropped back into his seat on the chair, and Hutch returned to the sofa, stretching his long legs in front of him with a weary sigh. He ran one hand down his face again as if to arrange it into an appropriate expression, then continued in his most reasonable and persuasive tone.
“Look, Captain, we must be getting close or this guy wouldn’t be so eager to get rid of me,” he argued. “We’ve got a good solid suspect who has a motive, and we know that he’s working with someone inside the company. You can’t yank us out of there when things are just getting warmed up… not with some crazy killer still on the loose and everyone in that company at risk.”
Haynes exchanged another glance with Dobey, who sighed again and scratched his head. “I still don’t like it, but I see your point, Hutchinson,” he conceded. “Where do you want to go from here?”
“Your office,” Starsky said immediately, rising to his feet. “I think the IA business is done… and the air is gettin’ way too stuffy in here.”
“Now wait just a minute,” Dryden protested, as the three men started toward the door. He turned to Haynes. “Sir, with all due respect, this investigation is not yet closed. The evidence may only be circumstantial, but it’s strong. Don’t the regulations require that Detective Hutchinson yield his badge and his weapon, at least until our work is complete?”
“What?” Starsky said in disbelief. “Are you crazy, Dryden? Are you suggesting that Hutch go in there without any kind of protection at all?”
Haynes glanced at Hutch, whose face was stone. I’ve said my piece, the cold blue eyes said. You know me. You decide what to do.
“I’m sorry, Ken, but he’s got a point,” the IA captain said regretfully. “Until the investigation is complete, Captain Dobey will have to hold your gun and your shield.”
“Captain…” Starsky began again, but Hutch cut him off with a glance.
“It’s all right, Starsk,” he said. He pushed himself to his feet, pulled the Magnum from his shoulder harness, and unloaded it, laying the gun and the bullets on Haynes’ desk. “I’ve been goin’ in cold all this time, anyway. Why should now be any different?” He slipped the ID wallet from his back pocket and dropped it beside the revolver, then looked to Dobey. “Can we go talk about real police work, now?”
He turned and strode out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
CHAPTER 16
“O Hamlet! What a falling-off was there.”
—Act I, Scene V
On Thursday, about half the cast gathered at the theatre to polish the scenes Drake had designated after the matinee. In sad contrast to their opening night giddiness, the actors’ mood was understandably subdued, even melancholy, and Drake found himself struggling to get a spark of life out of them. Ken in particular seemed distracted and edgy; he was blowing lines he had known cold for two weeks, and was just that crucial beat behind on numerous cues.
After two hours, the weary and frustrated director was just about to call it a day when the house doors burst open. He whirled, indignant, wondering who had the gall to so blatantly interrupt his rehearsal without permission or warning.
Two uniformed police officers were striding down the aisle toward the stage, Lowell Abbott practically running behind them. “I told you; you can’t go in there!” he panted, his breath cut short by panic and the unaccustomed pace. “They’re in the middle of a rehearsal…”
“You the director?” one of the officers asked Drake, having arrived at the front of the house.
“Yes, I am,” Drake said stiffly. “May I ask the meaning of this intrusion?”
“You have someone here by the name of Ken Hyde?”
Drake’s eyes shot up to Hutch, who was standing near the stage left proscenium. Startled, Hutch turned his attention from the script he was perusing to the two officers. His forehead puckered in a frown.
“Yes,” Drake repeated. “Why?”
“We have a warrant for his arrest.”
“What?”
The assembled actors broke into murmurs, exclamations, and questions, and suddenly, everyone’s eyes were on Hutch. He met their collective gaze with a shocked expression, and then he ducked his head, as if he couldn’t bear to look any of them in the face.
He swallowed, cleared his throat, and said quietly, “That’s me.”
Instantly, the two officers drew their guns and aimed them straight at Hutch, who promptly raised his hands and prayed neither of them had a nervous trigger finger. They split up, their eyes never leaving him, and approached from each side of the stage. The crowd of actors shied back as the officers passed them and bracketed Hutch. One then holstered his weapon and spun Hutch against the wall, briskly patting him down while the other rattled off his rights. Finding nothing dangerous on him, they snapped handcuffs around his wrists and began to hustle him down the steps back to the house.
“Wait… wait a minute,” Drake said in disbelief. “What on earth… what possible reason could there be for you to arrest this man?”
“I don’t write the warrants, sir,” one of the officers said. “I just bring ’em in.” He grasped Hutch’s arm and the small procession started back up the aisle toward the lobby.
Drake followed, unable to comprehend what was happening here.
“But I don’t understand…” He finally came up with the appropriate word for what he wanted to know, though he had a sinking suspicion. “What’s the charge?”
The officer with the death grip on Hutch’s arm turned abruptly, practically knocking Hutch off his feet. “Murder,” he snapped. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got to get this man to the station.”
“Murder,” Drake echoed, stunned. He watched as the three men, two of them in painfully new uniforms and one with his hands shackled behind him, hurried up the aisle, and banged out the lobby doors. A moment later, there was an answering slam from the street doors, and the theatre was silent. Dead silent.
Drake turned back toward the stage. His actors were staring at him. Roz’s face was chalk white, her mouth poised in a “oh” of surprise and pain. Drake began to speak, but found he had no voice and nothing to say. He turned with a helpless gesture to Lowell, who was shrewd enough to understand the director’s mute request.
“All right, everybody, that’ll do it for today,” he said quietly. “Let’s go home and let this settle down.”
“Are you crazy?” Jim blurted, taking a step away from the huddled group. “They just arrested Ken for murder. Are you telling me we’re supposed to go home as if nothing has happened?”
“Jim, please, calm down,” Drake managed to say, but Jim plowed right over him.
“Look, Wayne, I think we have gutted out a helluva lot on this show, but this…” He threw up a hand, unable to express himself in words. “What now?”
Drake sighed. “I honestly don’t know,” he said wearily. “Why don’t you do as Lowell suggested and go home. I will go down to the station and see if I can find out what’s going on. One of us will call you and let you know where we stand. I’m sorry,” he broke in as the actors began to protest. “I don’t know any more than that, so I can’t give you any other reassurances!”
They stared at him for a moment or two, then began to disperse.
Drake shook his head in a gesture of astonishment and pain. The stunning news had struck too quickly to be absorbed at first, but now he was beginning to comprehend it. His problem child, this show that seemed to be cursed, probably had sustained its fatal blow. They literally had survived death and disappearance, but in the irony of theatre, those events paled in comparison to the loss of the leading actor in mid-run. It would take a miracle to get the show back on its feet by tomorrow without Ken.
And added to that was the fact that the man they had arrested for murder was someone he had come to know, trust, and like… and a police officer, no less. How could he possibly—?
He turned to Lowell. “Will you be so kind as to lock up, Lowell,” he whispered. “I am going to go to the police station and see—what there is to see.”
Lowell nodded, his eyes full of sympathy for the director. “You oughta go home, Wayne,” he began awkwardly; he wasn’t exactly practiced at offering comfort.
“And so I shall, Lowell,” Wayne assured him, heading toward the stage door and picking up his jacket along the way. “But first I must make one last attempt to piece these shards together.” He slipped into the jacket and disappeared into the shadows of the wings.
***
Evening was waning into night by the time a tired, disheveled, and disgruntled Hutch unlocked the door to his apartment. Muttering under his breath, he returned the key to its place above the door sill, nudged the door closed with his elbow, and headed for the bathroom, tossing his jacket toward the couch along the way.
“Hey!” Starsky, who was sitting on the floor surrounded by a sea of papers, protested as the garment landed in the middle of his “organization.”
For the moment, Hutch ignored him, as he scrubbed the ink from his fingertips. “You know somethin’, Starsk?” he said at length, wiping his hands on a towel as he emerged from the bathroom.
“No, what,” Starsky responded automatically as he moved Hutch’s jacket to an otherwise uncovered chair and rearranged his neat piles.
“If our booking system is as inefficient as the one I just left…” Hutch’s voice trailed off as he went back to the bathroom to dispose of the towel. “It would bring a whole new meaning to the term ‘cruel and unusual punishment’.”
He, Dobey, and Starsky had come up with the bright idea of Hutch’s being arrested at the rehearsal that day. To confuse whoever the insider was, and help maintain his cover with the rest of the cast and crew, Hutch had insisted that everything be handled as if it were the real thing. The officers had been handed the warrant and told nothing more than to bring him in. He had been taken to another precinct, to minimize the chances of his being recognized, and had gone through the normal booking and interrogation procedure like any other murder suspect. By the time everything had been completed, the morning and much of the afternoon was gone, and when Dobey had come down to “bail” him out, he had been cooling his heels in a stuffy and pungent jail cell for several hours. He had had nothing to eat since that morning. He was hot and hungry, he felt dirty and disgusting, and as a result, he was cranky.
“And you know what else?” he continued, as he went from the bathroom to the kitchen and popped open the refrigerator.
Starsky sighed. Hutch was on a roll and there was no use trying to put on the brakes. Nothing to do but let him vent, and sing along with the chorus. “No, what?” he repeated, only half listening as he squinted at his stacks and continued to sort.
Hutch grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, popped both open with two practiced flicks of the bottle opener, and returned to the living room, lowering his long limbs to the floor in front of the couch. He handed one beer to his partner and took a long swig out of the other one, then gestured with it as his litany continued. “I swear, they gave these rookies—these raw rookies—the biggest guns I ever saw.”
Starsky snorted. “This from the great white hunter who straps on an elephant gun every morning.”
“Well, okay,” Hutch conceded. “Maybe they just look bigger when you’re on the other side.” He took another sip of the ice-cold beer, and felt somewhat better as the liquid cooled his parched throat and the alcohol began to settle his ruffled nerves. He picked up the stack of papers nearest him and began to look through it. “So… whatcha got?”
“Will you please—” Starsky grabbed the papers from his hand and returned them to their spot on the floor. “Just give me a minute,” he requested. “I’ll explain when I’m done.”
Hutch couldn’t restrain a grin, but he left Starsky to his task. He set down the beer and massaged his chafed wrists, then pulled back the sleeves of his shirt to examine the new bruises on his fore and upper arms. The two officers who had been sent to arrest him were the rawest rookies in the precinct, so fresh from the academy that their uniforms were barely creased. Under normal circumstances, they never would have been sent to handle a murder suspect without a senior officer present, and Dobey had expressed some concerns for Hutch’s safety should they get too nervous.
Hutch had to admit they had been a little zealous. Heady with their new power, they had been a bit brisk with their cuffs; inwardly anxious at the thought of confronting their first “murderer,” they had been a little firm with their grip as they escorted him to the car and, later, into the station. He had been very, very careful not to make any sudden moves, but had gotten somewhat banged around nonetheless.
His stomach growled. He looked over at Starsky, who was again absorbed in his sorting task and only looked to be half done. He got somewhat gingerly to his feet—jail cell benches were not the most comfortable in the world, and his leg still bothered him sometimes, after the accident earlier that year—and took his beer into the kitchen, to see if he had enough food to rustle up some dinner.
Forty-five minutes later, Starsky became aware of a delicious smell emanating from the kitchen. He raised his head from the final set of papers and realized that his mouth was watering.
“Hey,” he called over the back of the couch.
“Hey yourself,” Hutch responded from the kitchen, where he was just ladling an odds-and-ends stew into two bowls. “You hungry?”
“Starved.” Starsky got up from the floor and stretched muscles that were stiff and aching from hours bent over the paperwork. He came around the couch to the kitchen and eyed the two bowls warily. His nose hinted that this was definitely edible, but Hutch had fooled him before with concoctions that smelled terrific but tasted like dragon piss. “What is it?”
“What do you mean, what is it?” In the process of slicing a loaf of bread he’d warmed in the oven, Hutch glanced up at Starsky with an indignantly raised eyebrow. “It’s stew, you moron. Go eat it.”
“Yeah? What’s in it?” Starsky insisted, leaning over one bowl and examining the contents closely. He was somewhat relieved to find that he seemed to recognize all the ingredients, but still suspicious.
“A little beef, a bunch of vegetables, and some spices,” Hutch rattled off, placing the bread in a basket and handing it to his partner. “Now go on. Eat it. You look lousy.”
Starsky snorted again, but his nose had told his stomach the meal looked more than adequate and that indiscriminate organ was rumbling painfully. He took the bread, and one of the bowls, and seated himself at Hutch’s kitchen table. Hutch brought over silverware, napkins, and fresh beers for the two of them, then turned the heat down under the remaining stew and took his own seat.
For several minutes, both men concentrated on their dinner. When Hutch chose to, he prepared excellent home style meals that were another legacy from his grandfather, who had been as at home in the kitchen as at the piano. He had taught a lanky blond teenager recipes that had been in the Hutchinson family for generations, then shown him how to experiment with different ingredients to spice them up and make them new again. Hutch enjoyed cooking, and he had found it relaxing after the frustrating and somewhat humiliating day.
Starsky devoured his stew rapidly, and went through a second bowl practically as fast. Hutch didn’t need his comment of, “Hey, this is good!” to know that his partner was enjoying it, which also helped soothe his rumpled spirit. He emptied his own bowl as Starsky explained how he had sorted and organized the paperwork from the theatre. Hutch was just starting on the dishes when there was a knock at the door.
Starsky swallowed the last of his beer as he glanced at his watch. “Right on time,” he said approvingly, swinging to his feet and crossing the small dwelling to open the door. “Evening, Wayne,” he greeted the director. “Come on in, and have a seat.”
“If you can find one,” Hutch added from the kitchen.
Drake entered the room somewhat tentatively, his eyes taking in the piles of paperwork on the floor, Starsky’s very casual salutation, and Hutch who was, at the moment, transferring stew from the pot to a refrigerator container. His mouth dropped open, his eyebrows rushed together, and he looked from Starsky to Hutch with an expression of utter bewilderment.
“But…” he stammered, gesturing somewhat feebly. “You… I thought…” He ran out of stutters and fell silent, simply waiting for someone to tell him what was going on.
Starsky and Hutch exchanged a glance. Hutch raised one eyebrow, inclined his head slightly, and turned back to the dishes, whistling softly under his breath. Starsky turned back to Wayne, put a reassuring smile on his face, and rapidly explained the whole scenario.
“Of course,” Wayne said with enormous relief when Starsky completed his narrative. “I knew there was no way that you truly could be involved in those murders, Ken… but why is someone trying to frame you?”
His kitchen clean, Hutch had returned to the living room, and propped himself on the arm of the couch. “Obviously someone knows I’m a cop,” he replied, his gaze steady on the older man. “You didn’t tell anybody, did you?”
Drake shook his head emphatically. “Heavens, no,” he insisted. “Though there was that one time at rehearsal…” He trailed off, somewhat embarrassed at the memory of his faux pas. Hutch shook his head.
“Don’t do that to yourself,” he said reassuringly. “I don’t think anyone was around to hear. It must have been that blasted phone call.”
“Don’t you do that to yourself,” Starsky admonished him, then turned back to the director. “Okay, Wayne. We got all the paperwork here, from your files and ours. Let’s put our heads to it and see if we can’t figure out what the hell’s goin’ on.”
“Here’s what we have so far,” Hutch said, picking up the beat so naturally that Drake barely realized that the other detective was speaking. “We know that Gretchen Talbot, Troy Melbourne, and Carl Windsor were all founding members of the company. We know that Troy and Carl were definitely murdered, and I’m beginning to think that Gretchen’s death wasn’t the result of a drinking binge. But we can’t seem to find a connection that works for all three of them… One is always the odd man out.”
“Wayne,” Starsky said, picking up the ball. “You said Gretchen played Gertrude in the original production, and Troy was Claudius. What about Carl? What did he do the first time around?”
“Was he an actor too?” Hutch chimed in.
“Oh, no,” Wayne said immediately.
The two detectives slumped back in their seats. The thread was still eluding them, and it was frustrating as hell. Hutch ran a hand through his hair, and Starsky let out a breath of exasperation.
“At least not in a manner of speaking,” Drake added reflectively.
Both men rebounded with a rapidity that was almost comic, every sense alive. “What do you mean?” Hutch asked intently.
“Well, the first Hamlet was Carl’s debut performance as a lighting designer, and he really pulled out all the stops,” Wayne began. “Even then, we had access to sophisticated equipment, because the founding members of the company had a great deal of money and were willing to invest whatever was necessary to make the show a success.”
“And…” Starsky prompted.
“And so we developed a sort of crude film system to project the ghost of Hamlet’s father onto the stage, rather than having a live actor play the role,” Wayne said, making a long story short with admirable aplomb. “And Carl played the ghost himself.”
Ding.
The bell went off in Hutch’s head; the connection was so complete and so astounding that he was amazed it didn’t knock him right off the couch. He got up and fairly ran to his jacket to find his script.
“That’s it, that’s gotta be it,” he said excitedly to himself as he yanked the worn and battered binder from his packet and began to thumb through it.
“What?” Starsky said in confusion.
“Give me a sec,” Hutch ordered, his eyes glued to the pages. He ran his hand down the printed lines and written notes, and jabbed his finger at one passage. Then he flipped pages rapidly until he was nearly at the end, tapped another passage… and finally, a third. Then he shut it, and slapped it on the back of the couch with a gratified look. “That is it,” he said, again more to himself than anyone else in the room. “Now we just have to figure out who…”
“Hutch?” Starsky waved a hand in front of his partner’s face, reminding him that the others in the room were still an exit or two behind.
“What?” Hutch returned to the present with a start. “Oh. Okay… this is what I figure. Troy’s the most obvious. He was Claudius in the original production, and we found him backstage with a sword in his chest. Murdered just like the character he played the first time.” He got up and began to pace.
Light dawned on Starsky, too, though Wayne still looked mystified. Snapping his fingers, Starsky pointed at his partner.
“Gretchen Talbot,” he said. “How did Gertrude die?”
“Poisoned during the final fencing match,” Hutch said, tapping the front of the script. “We didn’t see it, because they got cute and just filled her up with enough booze to do her in.”
“But what about Carl?” Wayne broke in. “Where does the shooting fit in…” The realization struck him, too, as the two pairs of blue eyes turned toward him. “Shot through the ears,” he murmured pensively, then he gave a deep sigh. “Well, it’s not as elegant as poison, but the parallel is unmistakable.”
“That’s it, that’s got to be the pattern,” Hutch said, and Starsky nodded in agreement. “Now, like I said, we just gotta figure out who.” He began to pace, then again stopped dead. “My money’s on Caldwell—Starsk, where are those reviews again?”
“Wait…wait a minute,” Starsky said, holding up a hand to keep Hutch’s growing excitement at bay. “Refresh my memory… Who else dies in this thing?”
“Polonius,” Hutch said immediately, thinking soberly about Jack Perry and what a nice guy he was… and how it would be a true shame if somebody wasted him.
“But Jack’s not a founder,” Wayne jumped in. “So far all the victims have been founding members of the company. Doesn’t that make a difference?”
Hutch and Starsky’s eyes met again, and they agreed without a word that this was probably an extremely relevant fact. “Ophelia,” Hutch murmured, relieved to know that Roz was safe by virtue of her very age.
“Laertes,” Drake put in. “And…” He stopped short. Starsky looked at him, then at Hutch, and in response to their stricken faces, inquired,
“What? Who?”
“Hamlet,” Hutch said quietly, then waved a hand dismissively. “But he’s already come after me with this frame-up, and I’m certainly not part of the master plan, just something to throw us off scent, so we have less time and energy to find the real murderer.”
“It certainly worked for me,” Drake murmured, to no one in particular.
“Okay, so we know how the three deaths are connected,” Starsky said, returning to Hutch’s original question. “But the question now is who? And if Caldwell is ordering the killings, whose strings is he pulling at the theatre?”
Drake looked horrified, and both detectives realized this was the first he had heard of this suspected wrinkle in the case.
“Sorry, Wayne, didn’t mean to spring it on you like that,” Hutch said apologetically. “But someone in the company has to be in on this; it’s the only way…”
He was interrupted by the telephone.
“Damn,” he swore mildly. “Here, Starsk, you explain it to him. I’ll be right back.” He grabbed the phone off the coffee table and swept up the receiver as he walked into the bedroom. “Hello?”
“Ken?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Barry Wilcox,” the voice at the other end greeted him. Hutch frowned for a moment, then the name emerged from his memory even as the voice continued, “From the Duluth police?”
Jesus. Hutch sank down on his bed, unable to believe himself. In all the excitement of the final week of rehearsal and the newest murder, he had completely forgotten about his parents, and the call he had made to an old friend who worked on the Duluth police force. Yeah, what a great son you are, Hutchinson… always were, weren’t you?
“Ken?”
“Yeah, I’m here, Barry,” Hutch said. “What’d you find out?”
“Well, nothing really,” Barry said regretfully. “It’s kind of a good news, bad news scenario, if you ask me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I went by the house, and there’s no one there,” Barry told him, and Hutch heard him flipping pages in a notebook. “No newspapers, no mail piled up, but everything’s neat as a pin, and there’s no sign of any foul play.”
“Did you talk to the neighbors?”
“The Coopers don’t have any idea where they might be,” Barry replied. “And the Gordons appear to be out of town. Their house servant said they had gone on a cruise—won’t be back for another two weeks.”
“Right,” Hutch said, somehow managing to nod and shake his head at the same time. “I didn’t expect the Coopers to know much. My folks don’t get along too well with them. If anyone would have known where they are, it would have been Barbara and Jim. Figures, they’re gone.” He sighed and passed one hand over his face, suddenly feeling the effects of his day. “Well… thanks, Barry. Keep me posted if you hear anything, huh?”
“Sure, Ken. No problem.”
Hutch cradled the phone with a thoughtful expression and tapped his fingers on it for a few seconds. Then he lifted the receiver, started to dial… then hung up again. It rang under his hand.
“Hello?”
“Kenneth James Hutchinson, have you completely lost your mind?”
“What?” The greeting—if that’s what it could be called—was so unexpected that it took a while for the appropriate synapses to fire, then it dawned on Hutch that the voice ranting on the other end was his sister’s. “Kimberly? What the—I was just about to call you…”
“Oh, really? And were you going to tell me that you had asked the police to go over to Mother and Father’s and ask all kinds of questions of their neighbors?”
“Well, yeah, I guess I probably would have told you that…” Hutch began, but he was cut off by the nearly physical impact of Kimberly’s clipped and furious tones. He was astounded; he hadn’t heard her this angry since they had been teenagers.
“I cannot believe you, Ken. Of all the humiliating, unnecessary, ridiculous acts—I suppose this is how you behave there in—California”—her voice dripped contempt—”but I will not have the police investigating our parents as if they were common criminals!”
“Oh, Christ, Kimberly,” Hutch said wearily. How did she always know the exact moment when he least needed to hear from her?
“Don’t you use that kind of language with me,” she ordered, sounding spookily like his father. “And while you’re at it, just don’t interfere in this matter any further. I told you; Mother and Father are adults. They would be appalled if they knew the stunt you pulled.”
“I would hope they would appreciate my concern for them,” Hutch snapped, losing his temper at last. “Which is more than I can say for you. All you give a good goddamned about is your precious reputation around town, and not being bothered any more than you have to be. For God’s sake, Kimberly, they’ve been gone for a month and no one has heard shit from them! Doesn’t that worry you, just a little bit?”
“No,” she said coldly and firmly. “You’ve been doing that—police—work”—and again she managed to make it sound like something that smelled unbearably bad—”for too long, and you have developed these ridiculous suspicions with absolutely no information. You listen to me, Ken: I will handle this. Don’t call me about it again, and don’t you dare call the police another time. Now, I have to go. Goodbye.”
“Kimberly…” he began, but she was long gone.
He stared at the phone in his hand for several seconds, then replaced the receiver just as an ugly bleeping sound began. “Damn,” he repeated, softly. He sat there for a moment, collecting his wits, then picked up the phone and returned to the living room. Starsky looked up at him inquiringly, and Hutch shook his head with a shudder that was only slightly exaggerated.
“Still no word on your folks?” Starsky asked.
“Nope,” Hutch confirmed. “But the Duluth police don’t seem to think there’s anything suspicious at the house. And my sister just wants me to keep out of it.”
“Nice,” Starsky commented. “You sure the two of you are related?”
“I’m beginning to wonder,” Hutch said with a sigh, dropping into a chair. “Well,” he went on, putting the situation with his parents out of his mind for the time being. “Where are we?”
“David and I were just going through the information on the cast and crew members of the previous production,” Drake said. “We’re trying to decide whom the next…” His voice trailed off, and he bent his head, blinking rapidly.
“Hey.” Hutch leaned forward, hands on his knees, his own worries forgotten. “That’s why we’re doing this, Wayne… to make sure there is no next.”
“Of course,” Drake murmured to the hands clasped in his lap. “It’s just—very difficult. It’s been hard enough to accept the loss of dear friends, but add to that the fact that someone in the company would be a part of this tragedy…”
Starsky and Hutch exchanged empathic looks; both had encountered enough dirty cops to understand the man’s sense of betrayal. Starsky put a hand on the man’s shoulder, and they both just let him have a minute.
At length, Drake raised his head, and the look on his face was determined. “All right, gentlemen,” he said in a purposeful voice. “Where do we go from here?”
CHAPTER 17
“A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.”
—Act I, Scene 2
Hutch pulled his ancient brown Ford into the lot behind the theatre and turned off the motor. For a moment, he simply sat there, listening to the old car’s engine wheeze and sigh as it settled in for the night, looking at the back of the theatre.
He wasn’t exactly looking forward to going inside.
He knew he had an hour or so before anyone else arrived, but when they did, there would be a thousand questions. The company members would want to know why he had been arrested, and why he was now free. Drake had contacted everyone last night, as he, Hutch, and Starsky had agreed, but had told them only that Ken had been released and they would be performing Friday as scheduled. The three of them had worked out the public version of the story, which was actually mostly true: that Hutch had been arrested because his fingerprints had been on the weapon and he could not account for his whereabouts at the time of the murder. However, he had been released on bail. If anyone cared to pursue it any further, Drake had put up the bail; hopefully, this would help ease the company’s mind about his stand on Hutch’s innocence.
Whether anyone would buy it or not, and what effect their skepticism or belief had on the production, remained to be seen.
He was also keenly aware that the killer was still on the loose, probably getting ready to hit again, and also probably knew that Hutch was a cop. It was not the first time in the past 24 hours that Hutch had missed the accouterments of his job; though he couldn’t take the gun or the badge inside, he had had some comfort knowing they were as close as his car. At least Starsky would be there, so he wasn’t completely alone.
Hutch took a deep breath, and finally talked himself into getting out of the car and starting toward the theatre, grateful that he would have some time to himself before having to tackle the questions and stony looks. As he was crossing the lot, however, Roz’ tiny silver Gremlin whipped through the alley and into a spot. Before he could react, or even take another step, the tall redhead was out of the car and in front of him.
Her hand lashed out. The gesture was so completely unexpected that his typically sharp reflexes were caught gaping, and she cracked him a good one across the cheek. As she wound up to swing again, he stepped back and caught her wrist.
“Would you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing?” he asked her, grabbing the other wrist as she brought that hand up to finish what the first one had been thwarted from doing.
“Oh, you’ve got a helluva lot of nerve asking me that question!” she exclaimed angrily, her brows knit in a scowl as she tried to free herself. “How can you even show your face here, after you… you…” Her face crumpled then, and her shoulders hitched as an enormous sob escaped from her chest.
Hutch was even more surprised by this turn of events than the slap. “Roz, what is this?” he asked, worried.
Tears streaming down her face, she was unable to answer, could only wave her imprisoned hands in a feeble attempt at communication.
He released her wrists and pulled her close against his chest, then just held her there until her sobs weakened and finally trailed away. “Come on,” Hutch said gently. “Let’s go inside and talk about this, huh?”
She nodded, and they made their way out of the parking lot, across the alley, and into the theatre.
As they walked through the door, another car slid down the alley, turned into the lot, and parked near the back.
In his dressing room, Hutch dampened a wash cloth with cold water and handed it to Roz for her red and swollen eyes. This clearly was not the first time she had been crying today; he wasn’t sure whether her tears had to do with Troy, or Carl, or him, but he was concerned about her. She had struck him as a strong and independent young woman, who had helped shore up her fellow actors during the nasty turns of event and been a bit of a cheerleader the rest of the time. Her hearty laugh and no-nonsense attitude had been a godsend during the rehearsal process; every tragedy needs its moments of lightheartedness, for the sake of the actors as well as the production itself. She had to be pretty close to the edge to break down like this.
Roz took the cloth and tilted her head back, laying the cool dampness over her eyes. From behind this mask, she said with a rueful smile, “Thanks. I guess you’re not a total bad guy, after all.”
Relieved to see that she had recaptured her wit, Hutch half-smiled himself. “I’m not a bad guy at all, Roz. The whole thing was a mistake.”
She turned her head to look at him, the cloth dropping into her lap. She studied him closely, the green eyes intent and inscrutable. He was glad he was telling the truth; he had no doubt that she would be able to ferret out any soul intrepid enough to tell her a lie.
“A mistake?” she said at last. “How can that be?”
He explained about the fingerprints, the rehearsal weapon, and the fact that he had been alone for most of the morning. “But there weren’t any witnesses and I have no motive,” he concluded. “Rules say they have to let me go if I’ve got the bail.”
“What happens next?” she asked, her face puckered in a worried frown. “I mean, will there be a trial?”
“I have no idea,” Hutch said honestly; it was a question he had been chewing on himself. If he and Starsky didn’t find the real murderer, this was going to take up a lot of his time in the next few weeks, and in a very unpleasant manner. Though he knew he was innocent, as did Starsky and a lot of other people, Dryden held no such beliefs. He would make Hutch’s life a holy hell until the case was solved, and would no doubt take great pleasure in the process.
Roz leaned back in the chair again, resuming her position and laying the cloth back over her face. Hutch glanced at his watch and felt torn. He only had a few more minutes before he needed to start his warmup, which he felt he particularly needed today to get him back into actor mode after the long absence. On the other hand, he didn’t want to rush Roz out until she seemed to feel better. He shifted restlessly in his chair.
“Do you need to go?” Roz asked, peeking at him from underneath the cloth.
“Pretty soon,” Hutch admitted. She got immediately to her feet, taking the cloth with her… then stopped near the door. She looked back at him, and her face again held that serious, shy expression from opening night.
“Ken…” she began, with the same uncertain tone. “I…” Again, she opened her mouth, closed it, then half-smiled in a self-deprecating way. “Never mind.”
“You know, that’s the second time you’ve done that,” Hutch said teasingly. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind?”
“Oh, it sounds so ridiculous,” she said, twisting the washcloth between her hands, oblivious to the water that was collecting on her clothes and at her feet.
Hutch went over and took the cloth away, tossing it on the makeup table, and covered her hands with one of his own. He smiled down at her in gentle encouragement.
“It can’t be as bad as all that,” he coaxed. “Come on. I promise I won’t laugh.”
Roz cleared her throat and tore her gaze away from his. I know he thinks he’s helping, but those eyes are not making this easier.
“Okay,” she conceded, “but remember you promised.” She looked down at her hands; despite Hutch’s touch, she still somehow managed to wring them together in place of the cloth. “I… The reason why I was so angry when I saw you wasn’t just because I’m upset about Carl and Troy, though I adored them both,” she began. “I was also… disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” Hutch echoed with a frown; then he realized what she meant. “In me?”
“Right,” she said, now turning the rings on her fingers. Hutch finally took her hands in both of his; she was a worse fidgeter than he was. “I know it sounds silly, but as we’ve worked together, I’ve… come to have feelings for you.” She took a deep breath, dropped her hands, and raised her head, tossing her hair somewhat defiantly and looking him right in the eye. “I think you’re very attractive, Ken, and I… would like it if we could see more of each other after the show is over.”
Her disclosure was not entirely unexpected, given his suspicions on opening night, but Hutch was still touched and flattered…. and for a moment, very, very tempted.
But then it occurred to him that she had not fallen for Ken Hutchinson, Detective… but Ken Hyde, Actor. There were a lot of deceptions and untold stories between those two, and who knew how she would feel when she heard the truth?
She saw his indecision and looked away, blushing with embarrassment. “I—you don’t have to say anything, Ken,” she murmured. “It’s all right… I just thought…” She pulled her hands from his and turned away, heading for the door.
“Aw, Roz, don’t be like that,” Hutch said, feeling terrible as he intercepted her before she could leave. “It’s not… look, it’s not that I’m not attracted to you… it’s just… I… things are really, really complicated…”
“Are you married?” she asked suddenly. “Oh my god. Usually I can spot a married guy a mile away… Is that it?”
“No,” Hutch said emphatically, glad that he could at least dispense with that issue. “Trust me, that is not the problem. I just… look, this is just not a good time.” Jesus Christ, Hutchinson, he groaned inwardly, can’t you say something that doesn’t sound make you sound like a lying jerk?
“Right,” she said, in a tone that said she had heard all of those lines before. She reached past him for the door handle; Hutch gave a noise of exasperation and took her gently by the upper arms, steered her to a chair, and sat her down. He pulled another chair opposite her and sank down onto it, taking her hands again and looking straight into her eyes.
“Roz, look… I’m going to be as honest with you as I can, at this point,” he began sincerely. “There’s no one else, I’m not married, and I’m not disinterested. In fact, just the opposite. I think you’re incredibly talented, and a lot of fun… and not incidentally, very beautiful.”
She blushed and gave him just the ghost of a smile.
“But there are a lot of things you don’t know,” Hutch went on, relieved to see that she was hearing the good news as well as the bad. “And I can’t tell you… not yet. But when this is all over, I swear… we’ll get together, have a nice dinner, and I’ll explain everything.”
She examined him closely again, her expression this time so sweet and trusting that he was even more grateful that he was telling the truth. He inclined his head and raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry.
“Okay,” she agreed. “It’s a date.” She glanced at her watch and then rose quickly from the chair, changing from shy young woman to professional actress in that single lithe move. “I’d better let you get to your preshow,” she said briskly. “I’ll see you later.”
“Okay,” Hutch agreed, smiling at her. She turned to go, then hesitated and turned back. In a swift move, she stepped to him, leaned down, and kissed him gently. Then she turned again, and slipped quickly out of the room, leaving Hutch sitting in his chair, able to do nothing more than blink for several seconds.
***
Roz was humming as she moved gracefully down the hallway, past the two downstage entrances and the lighting storage closet. It wasn’t exactly a yes, she said to herself, but not completely a no, either. And Ken had said he found her attractive, so it seemed there was more hope than not. Thank heavens. For a moment, she had been sure she’d made a total idiot of herself. But now…
She dimpled to herself and pulled keys from her purse as she reached the women’s dressing room. Still humming, she unlocked the door and stepped inside, letting the door close as she turned to flip on the light switches.
When she turned back, however, she gave a small scream; then leaned back against the door with a self-conscious little laugh.
“What on earth are you doing, sitting here in the dark?” she said, to the familiar figure who sat in a chair at the makeup table. “You scared me half to death.”
“You sound like you’re in a good mood,” the other replied evenly.
Roz reflected briefly that he sounded odd, but she was too light-hearted about her encounter with Ken to give it very much thought or ask him what was wrong.
“Yes, I guess I am,” she admitted, with a small, private smile and just a hint of a blush. “Why are you here so early? I thought your ritual began on the hour.”
“Not today.”
Roz shrugged, putting her purse and her makeup case on the counter. She flipped open the case and began rummaging through it, looking for the bobby pins she used to secure her hair while she applied her makeup.
The other figure rose to his feet, his movements purposeful and his eyes a mixture of regret and something far more dangerous.
Roz didn’t notice. She was still thinking of Ken, and she knew this man better than anyone else in the entire company. It wasn’t the first time he had kept her company while she put on her makeup, or vice versa.
She thought nothing of it as he passed her… had a moment of surprise when he locked the dressing room door… and was completely flabbergasted by what he did next.
Which was to wrap one hand around her waist and slap the other over her mouth.
At first, she was too startled even to struggle. Then, as he started to drag her toward the back of the dressing room, she attempted to wriggle from his grasp, but it was with the half-strength exasperation one friend has for another who has taken a silly trick too far.
He reached the shower. Pressing her body against the wall with his own, he released her waist and turned on the water. Then he turned back to her, and looked her right in the face.
Now she noticed his eyes.
Now she began to fight.
Now she began to scream, but between his hand and the running water, very little sound emerged… nothing that could penetrate the walls or the door, which were extra stout to prevent noise from leaking through to the stage upstairs.
In one swift move, he had her under the stream of water, her hair gripped tightly in his hand so that her head was locked back painfully, her mouth forced open so the water raced in.
At first she tried to swallow it, gulping, choking, gagging.
Eventually, she had to try to breathe.
And eventually, it was water and not air that filled her lungs.
CHAPTER 18
“Do it, England,
For like the hectic in my blood he rages,
And thou must cure me.”
—Act IV, Scene III
After Roz left, Hutch sat for several seconds he didn’t really have, replaying the conversation in his mind and considering just what it might mean for him.
It had been a while since he had gone out with anyone more than a few times. Between Gillian and Abby, he had had his heart broken fairly badly over the last year. He wasn’t particularly eager to jump back into a relationship, preferring instead to casually date his usual series of flight attendants, with the occasional fellow music-lover he met at the local clubs thrown in to make life interesting. He hadn’t thought of Roz in quite this way, but he had been telling her the truth when he’d said he found her attractive; not just her looks, but her talent and her intelligence.
Maybe…
Glancing at his watch, however, he was reminded why he was here and what he should be doing at this moment.
Mind on your work, Hutchinson, remember?
He unzipped the bag he had brought with him and changed quickly into the sweats he wore for his preshow warmup, then sprinted up the stairs to the wings for his stage weapon. On his way to the combat room, however, he paused; then took a detour to the phone booth in the green room. He wanted to call Starsky and tell him Roz was all right, and get an update if his partner had one.
“Starsky,” a crisp voice said at the other end.
“Me,” Hutch responded, and Starsky’s voice became less formal.
“Hey…what’s doin’?”
“Roz is safe.”
“Okay…at least that’s somethin’ for the good guys.”
“Anything at your end?”
“Yeah, a lot of diggin’ through places we’ve already been,” Starsky said with a sigh, contemplating the stacks of paper in front of him. “Having some trouble tracking down the original Ophelia… She seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet.”
“Well, don’t get too wrapped up in that, buddy,” Hutch reminded him. “You’re supposed to be here in an hour.”
“Yes, sir, Detective Hutchinson, sir,” Starsky said, and Hutch swore he could hear him salute over the phone. “You know I don’t know how to tell time, so what would I do without you to remind me of these things?”
“Asshole,” Hutch said, and somehow managed to make the word a statement of great affection. “Let me know what you find out, all right? I should be back in my dressing room by the time you get here.”
“Will do,” Starsky assured him. “Now go do your sword thing.”
“Yeah. See you later.”
Hutch hung up, and Starsky dropped his receiver to its cradle, shaking his head—and not for the first time—at his partner’s habit of over-checking every detail. Still, he had to admit that there were things to be nervous about, so perhaps Hutch’s compulsion for control was not so misguided.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach absently, squinting at the ceiling to give his eyes a break from the unending sea of paperwork, then got to his feet to pour himself a cup of coffee, wincing as his stomach gurgled in protest at the movement. Boy, that café where he and Hutch had gone for lunch had really had done a number on him; he hadn’t had this kind of indigestion in months.
He glanced at his watch. As usual, his punctual partner was right on the dot. Starsky had precisely an hour before he had to be at the theatre. He debated leaving this bit of investigation until tomorrow, but something was telling him to keep at it…
Possibly, he realized, the churning in his gut, which may be less a sign of his disrupted digestion and more a signal from his instincts that something was very, very wrong.
A thought struck him, and he set the coffee cup down, digging purposefully through the pile of paper until he came up with the program from the original Bay City production. Flipping through the pages until he came to the cast list, he immediately found the name of the actor who had played Hamlet… and something cryptic noted beside it in Hutch’s scrawl. Frowning, and cursing his partner’s nearly illegible handwriting, he mouthed possibilities: “Ron… Farther? Run Further?” He brought the page close to his eyes, and finally deciphered it: “‘Roz’s father.'”
Who had been a founding member of the company.
The chaos in his stomach intensified.
He snatched his jacket from the back of his chair, and started toward the door, feeling a sense of urgency he had learned not to ignore. As he did, his phone began to ring… and he stood, torn between the alarms going off in his insides, and his understanding that the more information he had, the better.
Screw it. He shrugged into the jacket and took two more steps toward the door.
“Starsky,” one of the other detectives called, having picked up the line and had a preliminary conversation with the person on the other end. “Henderson from the local paper? Something about a woman you were trying to track down?”
Starsky wavered between the door and the phone… then decided explaining would cost him more time than answering the damn phone. He strode back to his phone, punching the blinking button and sweeping it to his ear simultaneously. “Starsky,” he said, “Make it fast, okay Henderson?”
His eyes narrowed as he listened to the brief news from the man at the other end, and his heart began to provide percussion for the symphony of his gut. When the other man stopped speaking, he merely said tersely, “Thanks,” then fairly threw the phone down and was out the squad room door in seconds.
***
Hutch, meanwhile, had finally made his way to the combat room. He ran through the conversation with Roz, and the phone call to Starsky, and the nagging loose ends of this seemingly interminable case, in his head as he warmed up with the stretches and flexibility exercises that were part of his preshow routine. When he found himself standing in the middle of the room, sword dangling from his limp fingers, however, he shook himself.
Later, Hutchinson, he told himself sternly. This is your job right now. You can think about the case later. Firmly and purposefully, he put the investigation to a mental back burner and began walking through the choreography of his first fencing duel, soon losing himself in the rhythm of the moves, and the pleasure of their grace and athleticism.
He had been through the steps once, and was just preparing to repeat them “up to speed,” when the lights went out.
What the…?
Before he could even finish the thought, something solid and heavy struck him. Pain flashed through his head, a hot white light, followed by oblivion. Hutch dropped to the floor without a sound.
Seconds later, the lights blazed back on, and a figure moved cautiously back toward the prone body. Dressed all in white, a fencing mask hiding his features, the figure shifted the position of the sword in his hand from a crude bludgeon to its intended purpose. With a grunt, he nudged the unconscious form at his feet, rolling Hutch onto his back. For a moment, his unseen eyes rested on Hutch’s face, then he flourished the sword and brought its deadly point toward the exposed throat.
“Hold it.”
The figure whirled, the sword whistling up to a defensive posture.
At the door of the combat room stood a man he had not seen in weeks.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed, taking a step forward.
“You’ve overstepped your bounds, my boy,” the second man said coldly. “I told you, you could kill all the rest of them… but Hamlet is mine.” His eyes flicked briefly to Hutch, still out cold, and he gave a dramatic sigh. “Pity it has to be symbolic… but at least we also eliminate this untidy loose end.”
His hands slipped discreetly behind him. Lips twitched into a macabre grin.
Startled, trying to recover from his error, the first man didn’t notice the movement. “Fine,” he said with forced casualness, lowering the sword. “Go ahead. Have your fun. I should go back to my dressing room anyway, so I can look properly shocked and saddened when they find Roz and… this… cop.” He removed the mask; large expressive eyes widened, and a pool of tears shimmered in their dark depths. “It might just be the greatest acting job I’ve ever done.”
He turned back toward Hutch, tucking the sword under his arm and running a gloved hand through his dark hair. “Try not to get too much blood on the costume, all right?” he said sardonically. “I want it to be spotless when I take my place in this role… the one that should have been mine to begin w—”
His voice choked off abruptly. Noiselessly, as swift and deadly as a hunting lion, the second man had leapt behind him and encircled his throat with something slender and inescapable. A voice hissed in his ear, “Not to worry, my boy. Somehow I don’t think you’ll be needing it.”
Clawing at his throat proved futile. There was a tightening, a cutting into his flesh, and suddenly, with tremendous strength, the man behind him yanked the ends of the piano wire that had been whipped around his neck.
Mercifully, death was swift. With barely a gurgle of surprise and betrayal, the dark-haired figure sank to his knees, then pitched forward onto the mat as Richard Caldwell released the ends of the deadly wire.
His face blank but his eyes glittering with malevolence, Caldwell reached down with one sheathed hand and touched the man’s neck, assuring himself that his work had been successful. Then, with a twisted smile, he wrenched the fencing mask from the lifeless fingers.
“You sad, stupid boy,” he spat contemptuously.
He bent down, and without apparent effort, lifted the dead man into his arms and carried him to a corner of the room, where he dumped him unceremoniously to the floor. For a moment, he stood there, staring down at the limp form, then his face changed, to something mad and deadly and completely impenetrable. He knelt down, and arranged the body into a burial pose, with the flaccid hands crossed across the still chest. Then he reached up to brush back the heavy dark hair. “I’m so sorry, my dear boy, but it’s as the Bard said.”
He leaned down and kissed the cooling forehead with insane tenderness and then whispered, as if to a child…
Or a lover…
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, then are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
CHAPTER 19
“Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage;
For we will fetters put upon this fear,
Which now goes too free-footed.”
—Act III, Scene III
Starsky drove the Torino as fast as he dared, siren wailing, horn blaring, tires squealing as he sped around corners, and all the time, the noise matching the cacophony in his gut. Running red lights and dodging inattentive motorists and lumbering buses, he reached the theatre parking lot in record time and left rubber on the pavement as he skidded to a stop at the stage door. Yanking the keys from the ignition, he hurtled out the door and over the car’s hood, to race inside the theatre and down the steps to the dressing room area. Heart pounding, feet nearly going out from under him as his shoes slipped in some water on the floor, he scanned the names posted outside each room, searching for Hutch’s. When he finally located the room, he nearly took the door from its hinges as he slammed it open.
Empty.
He swore softly under his breath and whirled to look elsewhere… then again, nearly fell as his feet encountered another puddle of water on the floor. Regaining his footing, he took a step toward the door—then paused, frowning.
Water on the floor?
Probably not uncommon once the show was over, when all three actors would clean up after leaving the stage and before going out to post-show festivities. But Starsky knew a shower was not part of his partner’s pre-show routine, and a quick examination of the makeup tables revealed that Hutch was the only actor who had arrived so far.
Willing himself to stay calm and think, he looked more carefully around the dressing room, then moved toward the bathroom area. He noticed that the pools of water became larger and closer together… then he turned the corner and stopped dead.
Roz’ limp, drenched figure was slumped against the wall of the shower stall.
Starsky’s heart sank as the chaos in his stomach kicked up another notch. He was certain she was dead; nevertheless, he pulled her carefully but quickly from the stall and laid her gently on the floor. Fingers pressed against her neck felt no pulse; an ear to her chest found no breath.
Starsky sat back on his heels and studied the still form. Her eyes were open and unresponsive. Clearly, she had been dead for some time.
He smacked a fist against his thigh and expelled an exasperated breath, feeling that mixture of sadness and anger that always hit him at times like this… times when they were getting close to catching a killer, but not close enough to save one last victim. It always seemed to work this way, too; they would move in just when the killer struck nearest home. He didn’t know Roz very well, but he knew how Drake felt about her, and he had heard Hutch speak fondly of her more than once—
Hutch.
Starsky leapt to his feet. Roz’ body was in Hutch’s dressing room, which meant the killer was still bent on making Hutch look responsible for the previous murders. And if Starsky’s protesting, snarling gut was right, the next step would be to eliminate his partner, to tie everything up in one tidy little package.
He charged out of the dressing room, hollering Hutch’s name.
***
Slowly, groggily, Hutch swam to the surface of consciousness, the stark white walls of the combat room coming gradually into focus around him. Wincing at the throbbing ache in his head, he groaned and rubbed his eyes with one hand, then began to push himself up on the opposite elbow.
“Ah, ah.”
Something blunt but hard pressed firmly against his shoulder, shoving him unceremoniously back onto the floor. He flinched as he hit, another bolt of pain flashing through his head, and did not attempt the move again.
All right, he thought, gathering his scattered wits. If that’s the way you want it, I’ll stay put. For now. He rubbed his eyes again in an effort to clear the lingering disorientation, then squinted up at the figure hovering over him.
The person was clad from head to toe in white fencing clothes, face covered by the traditional protective head gear. He held swords in both hands; Hutch recognized one as his stage weapon—probably what the man had used to push him down—and the other as the genuine article. The hair on the back of his neck rose. Unobtrusively his entire body tensed and readied itself for the inevitable altercation.
The man rocked back onto his heels and lowered the stage sword, but kept the point of the other in its original position.
Aimed straight at Hutch’s neck.
“Greetings, Mr. Hyde,” a cultured male voice said smoothly from behind the mask. “Or should I say… Detective Hutchinson?”
Everything now in acute mental and visual focus, Hutch never took his eyes from the sword poised near his throat. “Who’re you?” he asked, his voice calm and level.
The question was purely rhetorical; he knew exactly to whom he was speaking. He merely wanted some time to evaluate the situation.
The man chuckled indulgently. “Oh, I think you know just who I am,” he said mockingly; then his voice abruptly became low and deadly. “But I am glad to find you a man who enjoys games, Detective… for I have one for you.” He took two quick steps forward. The sword grazed Hutch’s skin and Hutch scooted back a few paces, still closely watching the shining, razor sharp metal.
Another chuckle bubbled from his amused captor, who was apparently capable of switching moods on a dime. “You’re right to be cautious of my rapier, Detective,” he declared. “But our time is growing short, and I have a final act to play before I leave this particular stage for good.”
With a flick of his wrist, he turned the sword onto its side so the flat edge was uppermost, then pressed the cold steel up under Hutch’s chin. His tone again lost all its humor and charm, growing venomous once more. “On your feet, my dear prince.”
Hutch didn’t move. His gaze darted now to the man above him, eyes searching for any weakness, any chance to knock the weapon aside before it could slit his throat.
“I said, on your feet.” The sword’s edge pressed more firmly under Hutch’s chin, and the point moved forward to gently, with barely a hint of the imminent danger, dent the skin at Hutch’s throat. “His Majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter…”
He paused.
Hutch neither moved nor spoke.
“Detective,” the man chided, nudging Hutch’s chin up ever so slightly with the flat of the sword. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your cue.”
“What do you want, Caldwell?” Deliberately, Hutch made his own voice harsh and impatient; perhaps he could goad the man into an impulsive move that he could counter and thus gain the upper hand.
“There, you see?” In yet another insane shift, the other man’s demeanor became one of almost childish delight. “You do know who I am.” Caldwell pulled the weapon back a fraction of an inch and twisted his wrist slightly, turning the blade vertical once more. He held it there, motionless.
Hutch kept his eyes fixed on the blank screen of the fencing mask, and willed himself to remain still and calm.
At length, as if several seconds had not ticked by between him and his silent prey, Caldwell spoke, his tone once more soft and menacing. “And as for what I want, it’s very simple. I want you to play your part.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Again, the blade whipped sideways.
Again, the point depressed his skin.
Again, he ordered himself not to move.
“Don’t take that tone with me, Detective,” Caldwell ordered. “I daresay you are in no position to ask questions.”
Toying with his prisoner, he leaned forward ever so slightly.
Despite his resolve, Hutch was forced to scuttle back a few more inches, lest he swallow the weapon via a shortcut no circus act had ever envisioned.
Caldwell laughed. “Now. Here is what I require.” The sword withdrew minutely, as Caldwell reversed the stage weapon and tossed it to Hutch’s side. “The final duel between Hamlet and Laertes. I know it well, and so, my friend, do you.” Caldwell gave an exaggerated sigh. “Pity you’ll never get to play the role again. You actually weren’t half bad, for an amateur.” He became serious once more. “On your feet, sweet prince. I believe your cue is, ‘But till that time I do receive your offered love like love, and will not wrong it.’”
Sweat was pouring down Hutch’s back. Every muscle in his body screamed to be allowed to move. Nevertheless, he remained still, his face stonily expressionless.
Quick as a snake, the sword lashed out. Hutch felt the icy breeze of metal against the left side of his neck, followed quickly by the sting of sliced flesh… and the warm trickle of his own blood.
All pretense at control and culture fled. Above him, the voice hissed. “Say it! Say it and I’ll let you live to fight. Otherwise, I cut you right now… and I warn you, Detective, I know precisely how to use this.”
Of that, Hutch had no doubt.
He nodded, deciding that playing along for now gave him the better odds of overpowering Caldwell or distracting him and slipping out the door. “All right,” he agreed. “All right.”
Caldwell stepped back. The sword’s aim at Hutch’s throat never wavered, but at least Hutch was able to get to his feet, eyes never leaving his opponent, and take the stage weapon into his hand. He dropped back into the en garde stance and raised the sword to its ready position. Then, again willing himself to remain focused and calm, he licked his lips, took a deep breath, and began.
“I embrace it freely, and will this brother’s wager frankly play. Give us the foils. Come on.”
“Come, one for me,” Caldwell said, advancing immediately.
Instantly, almost as if on its own, Hutch’s weapon whistled up, parrying the move with an impressive clang of steel. Without hesitating, Caldwell again attacked and Hutch deflected, retreating back a step to put some distance between himself and the other’s lethal weapon. Incredibly, part of him continued automatically to mouth the words of the scene, while another methodically but rapidly ticked through possible strategies, which changed with every move the two of them made.
“I’ll be your foil, Laertes. In mine ignorance your skill shall, like a star i’ the darkest night, stick fiery off indeed.”
Again, Caldwell charged forward, the deadly tip of his sword leveled at Hutch, as he snarled, “You mock me, sir!”
Hutch blocked the move again, then, with the power of surging adrenalin swept his own sword up and over, spinning Caldwell halfway around. He heard a surprised grunt from the other man and allowed himself a smile of tense and grim satisfaction. The blunt end of his sword may have rendered it useless for attack or injury, but he had served notice to the reviewer: his quarry was neither helpless nor afraid to take the offensive.
Somehow, he found the aplomb to serenely offer his next line: “No, by this hand.”
Enraged, the other man lunged forward. “My lord, I’ll hit him now!”
Before Hutch could deflect it, the blade had slashed through his shirt and laid open a long gash on his left bicep. Pain lanced through him and blood began to pulse down his arm.
In the split second it took Caldwell to rock back and gloat on the damage he had inflicted, Hutch faced the full extent of the danger he was in. Caldwell’s prior statement had been no idle boast: he was fast, and both his weapon and his skill were honed to razor sharpness. Hutch, on the other hand, hadn’t fenced competitively in years. The moves he had learned for this show had been specifically designed to prevent rather than inflict injury… and so had his sword.
He was unarmed, his gun miles away in some IA locker.
No one was in the theatre other than Roz, and neither she nor the others who would arrive soon would even think of looking for him for at least another thirty minutes.
He had no idea where Starsky was.
And he was beginning to feel distinctly strange.
He gritted his teeth. Telling himself to ignore the throbbing wound in his arm and the woozy feeling in his head, he brought his blade back up with a snap, eyes narrowed and blazing.
This might be it, but he was damned if he would go down without the hardest possible fight.
“Come for the third, Laertes!” he said mockingly. “You but dally; I pray you pass with your best violence; I am afeard you make a wanton of me.”
“Say you so?” Caldwell retorted, whipping his weapon up as well. “Come on.”
He advanced again with a blinding series of lunges and thrusts, and it was only through characteristic cussedness that Hutch managed to parry the moves and protect himself from further injury. Eventually, Caldwell paused to catch his breath or contemplate a new strategy… and Hutch immediately launched his own attack.
The blades gleamed in the dim light as Caldwell blocked Hutch’s advances. The clang and screech of metal against metal exploded, ringing in the men’s ears but then soaking into the padding that enveloped the room. Though his sword tip was dulled, Hutch managed to drive the other man back several steps by the sheer, ferocious force of his determination and desperation. For the first time since he had awoken, Hutch began to think that he had gained the upper hand.
Then the strange feeling abruptly grew worse.
His arms and legs began to pause for a split second before they responded to his commands. When they did obey, their movements were feeble and somehow off-kilter. His vision began to blur, even after he furiously swiped away the perspiration that was suddenly pouring into his eyes.
Caldwell advanced again. Flashing steel filled Hutch’s view as he fought desperately to focus and knock the deadly tip from his chest and throat.
But it was no use. Eventually, Caldwell got close enough, his blows got hard enough, and Hutch’s traitorous limbs got weak enough. He stumbled. The stage sword flew from his hand, and he was flat on his back on the mat.
The sword was at his throat before he could draw breath.
Hutch looked past the blade, stained with crimson from the previous hits, beyond the bell guard, and registered the heaving of Caldwell’s chest. Over the roaring of blood in his own ears, he could hear the other man’s rasping breath, even as the tip of the sword moved steadily, inexorably forward…
Think, Hutchinson!
But his brain had joined his limbs; it too limped along in sluggish ponderance.
“I must say, Detective, that was rather well done.”
Caldwell’s grudging admiration and bitter smile penetrated the haze that veiled Hutch’s hearing and vision. “Were I a man in full possession of his faculties, I might just render you unconscious and take my leave, as any noble duelist would.” He laughed harshly. “However, I am neither noble nor in my right mind… and thus, we must end this as I had originally planned.”
He took another step forward.
The sword pressed against Hutch’s throat and pierced his skin; again, he felt blood sidle down his neck.
His head forced back, his body leaden and unresponsive, he was completely and utterly at the man’s mercy.
“Good night, sweet prince,” Caldwell crooned, almost tenderly, but with an undertone of wicked glee. “And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest…”
“Drop the sword, Caldwell.”
CHAPTER 20
“How dangerous it is that this man goes loose!”
—Act IV, Scene III
Caldwell’s head snapped up.
Starsky stood just inside the door in a tense crouch, a bead drawn on the figure looming over his partner.
“I said drop it!” he repeated.
Caldwell smirked, made as if to drop the sword… and then dropped his body instead, falling behind Hutch with a thud and yanking Hutch into a deadly embrace. Without so much as a grunt, he rose effortlessly to his feet, Hutch’s body held securely in front of his own, the sword blade pressed against Hutch’s throat.
Starsky blinked. How the hell had the man moved so flaming fast?
“Now,” Caldwell said, moving the sword blade closer to Hutch’s throat. “I believe it is you who will, as you so inelegantly said, drop it.”
Starsky’s brain worked frantically, recalculating the odds given the new information before him. Hutch wasn’t moving as he usually would, either to fight his captor or twist his position to give Starsky a clear shot. He was bleeding from at least two places Starsky could see, and his eyes had that glassy look that suggested he’d gotten a knock on the head at some point.
“Oh, now, Detective… for I presume you are Mr. Hutchinson’s partner,” Caldwell’s amused voice broke into his thoughts. “Don’t you think for a moment that I am not serious.” He moved the sword blade ever so slightly, and Starsky saw Hutch flinch as another rivulet of blood began to trickle down his neck. “Drop your gun, kick it away, and move away from the door.”
Seeing no other choice, Starsky lowered the Beretta to the floor, kicked it a few feet away, then backed slowly away from the room’s only exit.
His weapon never leaving Hutch’s throat, his eyes never leaving Starsky, Caldwell sidled toward the opposite side of the door, kicking the gun several feet further as he passed it. Circling to keep Starsky in his sight, Caldwell paused in the doorway and gave Starsky a smile that chilled his blood.
“I hope, on this momentous occasion,” Caldwell said, his voice as terrifying as his expression, “that you will permit me a slight paraphrase as I take my leave. One last clue for you and Sergeant Hutchinson, as it were?”
He shifted his position slightly and proclaimed, “The treacherous instrument is in thy hand. The point envenomed, too?”
He raised the sword slightly, as if to deliver the final stroke to Hutch’s neck.
“Then, venom, to thy work!”
Suddenly, he had shoved Hutch forward, virtually into Starsky’s arms. Starsky leapt forward and caught his partner, lowering him gently to the mat, as Caldwell whirled and disappeared from the room.
Starsky didn’t know where or where not to touch his friend; the blood seemed to be everywhere. He yanked a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it carefully to the wound he had seen Caldwell inflict.
“Hutch?” he said anxiously as his partner lay motionless against him. “Hutch? You okay? Give me a sign here, pal, willya?”
Hutch managed to drag his eyes open, then reached up and grabbed the square of cloth. “Go after him,” he ordered Starsky weakly. “Hurry up, before he gets outta here.”
“Are you nuts?” Starsky said on a high note. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig here.”
“It’s just a scratch,” Hutch insisted stubbornly “Go on, go after him…”
Torn, Starsky looked from his friend to the door, and with an explosive sigh of relief saw that Drake had appeared at the entrance. Moving Hutch carefully from his position on Starsky’s thigh, he sprang to his feet and sprinted to the door, snatching up his gun as he went.
“Call an ambulance,” he snapped at Drake. “Do it now!”
Then he, too, was gone, sneakered feet pounding down the hall and up the stairs to the theatre parking lot.
Drake paused for a moment to whip out his own handkerchief and press it into Hutch’s hand, so he could staunch the bleeding from another one of the wounds, then ran in the opposite direction to the greenroom.
Starsky burst out the backstage door and scrambled over the hood of the Torino, flinging open the door and hurling himself into the front seat. Twisting the key in the ignition to yank the powerful motor to life, he slammed the door shut and threw the car into reverse, then first. The Torino leapt forward to the alley, speeding in the direction Starsky thought he had seen Caldwell go.
When he reached the end of the alley, however, the streets to either side were empty. There was no sign of the car, and he hadn’t gotten a close enough look at it to troll the area and try to pick it up again. He slammed a hand against the wheel in frustration, then shoved the gear shift again, stomping on the accelerator and backing with a whine back to the theatre parking lot, where he parked haphazardly. In seconds, he was back in the combat room, kneeling beside his wounded and decreasingly lucid partner.
“Hutch…” Starsky said gently, scooting behind Hutch and cradling his head in his lap as Drake also re-entered the room. “Hey, what’s goin’ on, man? If this is just a scratch, where’re you goin’?”
“Sword…” Hutch muttered, trying to open his eyes and failing. “Has to be… like the scene…”
Uncomprehending, Starsky looked over at Drake, whose own brow was knit in a puzzled frown. “The scene?” Drake said urgently, bending over Hutch and trying desperately to figure out what Hutch was talking about. “Ken, what about the sword?”
“Venom…” Hutch mumbled. “Venom…to thy work…”
Drake straightened so quickly that Starsky’s vertebra winced in sympathy. “There must have been something on the sword, some kind of poison or something. That’s how Laertes kills Hamlet in the final scene.”
There was a faint sound of sirens through the open door. Drake scrambled to his feet. “I’d better go flag them down, or they won’t be able to get in,” he said somewhat inanely, and dashed out of the room.
Starsky, blood all over his hands and clothes, found himself in the unusual position of having no idea what to do. When he’d been poisoned, they had at least had some period of time where he was clicking on all cylinders. Whatever this stuff was that Caldwell had given Hutch obviously acted a lot faster.
“Starsk…” came from his lap.
“Right here, Hutch, right here,” Starsky said, rubbing Hutch’s uninjured arm soothingly. “Shhh… try not to talk, pal. Help’s on the way. We’re gonna fix you up good as new, with a few more interestin’ scars to show off to the next lucky lady.”
“Roz…” Hutch muttered, somehow in response to that, and Starsky realized that Hutch couldn’t possibly know that Roz was dead. His eyes blinked open for a moment and he looked up at Starsky bewilderedly. “Starsk… what doin’ here… What happened?”
“I’ll tell ya later,” Starsky told him with a wry smile, as the ambulance attendants charged into the room.
They shooed him away, of course, and he hovered anxiously on the fringes while they tended Hutch’s wounds and took immediate measures to counteract whatever drug he had been given. Based on his vital signs, they eventually determined that it was some form of sedative or muscle relaxant, something to slow him down and knock him out, but not necessarily kill him. Starsky breathed a sigh of relief at this conclusion, but still elected to ride in the ambulance with his friend.
Drake, stunned at the news of Roz’ and Jim’s deaths, wanted to stay at the theatre until the coroner and crime lab teams had finished with the crime scenes and the two bodies, so Jack Perry and Lowell Abbott offered to take care of the Torino and Hutch’s Ford.
In the midst of the excitement of racing vehicles and scurrying people, Lowell Abbott paused to prepare a number of hastily lettered signs and post them on the front doors of the theatre:
“ALL PERFORMANCES CANCELLED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE”
CHAPTER 21
“A king of shreds and patches!
Save me and hover o’er me with your wings.”
—Act III, Scene IV
It wasn’t until late that night that the medical staff finally released an exhausted Hutch to his partner’s care. None of the sword wounds were particularly serious, though the gash on his arm and the first one on his neck both required several stitches. The only other residual effects of his encounter with Caldwell were a pounding headache… and a sneaking suspicion that there was something Starsky was not telling him.
As they left the hospital and started toward the waiting Torino, Hutch eyed his partner warily, becoming more and more certain that he was right. As soon as they had gotten a fair distance from the hospital, he stopped. Starsky continued on for several steps, then, noticing Hutch was no longer at his side, also stopped and twisted around, to meet Hutch’s demanding gaze.
“What?”
“You tell me.”
Starsky sighed. “Not here, huh? Let’s at least get to the car.”
Hutch shrugged, then strode the last several yards to the Torino. Then, leaning on the hood with a set jaw and a stubborn expression, he folded his arms and fixed Starsky with expectant eyes.
“Okay, partner,” he ordered firmly. “Spill it.”
Starsky thought about denying anything was wrong, but decided this would just postpone the inevitable. “There’s no easy way to say this, buddy,” he began gently. “When I got to the theatre, I found Roz dead, in your dressing room.”
The glare left Hutch’s eyes as pain washed over his face. “Oh, damn,” he groaned, dropping his folded arms. “Damn,” he repeated, so quietly as to almost be a whisper, thumping his fist softly against the car’s hood. “He did it, didn’t he? Caldwell.”
“Sort of,” Starsky hedged. Hutch’s eyes shot back up to his.
“‘Sort of’?” he echoed irritably. “What the hell does that mean?”
Starsky reminded himself that Hutch was tired, injured, and had a helluva headache, and spoke in as even a tone as he could muster. “We found Jim Harrison’s body in the combat room, too.”
“Jim?” Hutch echoed again. He slumped against the car once more, suddenly feeling the aftereffects of the long and extremely stressful day, and shook his head as the parking lot swam and tilted before his eyes.
“Hey.” Starsky was at his side in a second. “Sorry, pal. Shouldn’t’ve piled all that on you at once. C’mon, let’s get in the car. I’ll tell ya the rest on the way back to your place.”
Minutes later, they were on their way to Venice Place. Hutch’s vision had cleared, though he was acutely aware that he was still drained and not thinking as clearly as he would have liked. He pressed a hand unobtrusively to his head and sighed silently.
Starsky noted the gesture, but respected his friend’s wish to have it ignored.
“How?” Hutch said at length, speaking to scenery outside the window.
“Drowned.”
“Figures.”
“Looks like she was held under the shower until her lungs just filled up. But he got a little careless this time. From the water in the hallway and in your dressing room, it’s pretty clear she was killed elsewhere and then dumped in your shower.”
“Then what?”
“Near as we can figure, you were next,” Starsky went on. “And Harrison… Caldwell strangled him with what looks like piano wire.”
“Jesus,” Hutch murmured. “That guy must be strong as an ox.”
“He is,” Starsky agreed. “Scooped you up off the floor like a baby so he could use you as a shield. That’s how he got away.”
Hutch half-smiled grimly. “Yeah, that part I remember.”
For several moments, both men were silent, their faces pensive in the intermittent flashes of the streetlights overhead. Hutch cupped his chin on his hand, elbow propped up on the Torino’s door, and ran the facts Starsky had given him back through his mind.
“So Caldwell puts me out,” he recounted. “Then while I’m unconscious, he strangles Harrison and dumps the body. Then he does the duel routine, only he’s stacked the deck with his little poisoned point…” He paused, and his frown deepened. “Something doesn’t fit, Starsk.”
Starsky remained silent, waiting to see if his partner would come to the same conclusion he had.
“Killing Roz and me, that’s in keeping with the script. But Horatio is one of the few who’s left standing at the end of the show.”
Starsky inclined his head. “Right. That’s what I was thinkin’ too.”
Hutch’s eyes narrowed, flicking back and forth as he rearranged the puzzle pieces in his brain. “Jim had to be Caldwell’s insider,” he concluded after a few moments. “Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He must’ve been the one who killed Roz and knocked me out… then Caldwell killed him.”
“No way to know, not yet,” Starsky said. “But that’s where I got to, too.”
“And Caldwell’s long gone, right? Get a description of the car, license plate, anything?”
Starsky shook his head. “By the time I got there, he’d split.”
“Damn.” Hutch tapped the window lightly with a white-knuckled fist. “We had him. And he slipped through our fingers.”
“Sorry, pal,” Starsky said without a trace of remorse. “But I figured even if I got him with the first shot, your neck was goin’ first.”
“Yeah,” Hutch admitted, gazing out the window, remembering that helpless feeling he’d had in the combat room, limbs unresponsive and that sword poised at his throat. “Yeah. Thanks, partner.”
“Anytime.” Starsky one-handed the car around a final turn, then pulled the Torino in front of Hutch’s apartment building. Hutch’s Ford was already there, thanks to Lowell Abbott’s improvised vehicle delivery service. Two other cars were parked in front of the Ford; Hutch recognized one as Dobey’s, and the other looked vaguely familiar too.
“What’s goin’ on?” he asked over the roof, as both men climbed out of the car and slammed the heavy doors shut.
“Powwow,” Starsky said succinctly.
“What?”
“Well,” Starsky said, holding the carved wooden door open so Hutch could precede him up the steps, “Dobey wanted a strategy meeting with Drake, and he figured you wouldn’t sit still for bein’ left out. So we decided to meet at your place, so you could crash when you needed to.”
“I’m fine,” Hutch insisted, but his declaration would have been more effective if he hadn’t stumbled up the last few steps and had to catch himself on the handrail. Behind his back, Starsky rolled his eyes, knowing there was no point in arguing but also planning to keep the meeting as brief as possible.
Dobey and Drake were waiting inside when Hutch unlocked the door. Returning the key to its usual place above the doorjamb, Hutch stepped aside so Starsky could enter, then closed the door. Crossing to his bedroom, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the bed, then went around to the kitchen.
“Anybody want a beer?” he called as he knocked open his refrigerator and grabbed one for himself. “Coffee? Tea?”
Drake and Dobey requested coffee, while Starsky non-too-subtly took the bottle from his partner’s hand. Hutch started to protest, but quickly realized he’d have a better chance of staying awake if he opted for caffeine over alcohol. He relinquished the bottle, and started a pot of coffee on the stove.
Beverage service completed, the four men arrayed themselves on Hutch’s mismatched furniture and contemplated the facts they had before them.
“We know Caldwell’s in the city, but where?” Dobey opened the discussion. “Any ideas, Wayne? Any thoughts about what his stomping grounds were when he was here?”
“None,” Drake said ruefully. “He and I didn’t exactly run in the same circle.”
“The history Starsky ran down didn’t look too great,” Hutch pointed out, sprawled across his couch with an afghan propped behind his head. “He couldn’t find a job anywhere back on the East Coast… and he disappeared several times during the last ten years into various mental institutions around the country.”
“So the odds are he was staying at some flophouse that had cheap weekly rates,” Starsky added. “The only question is which one?”
“Which brings us right back where we started,” Dobey grumbled. “How do we find him?”
“Or how does he find us,” Drake murmured.
The other three paused to examine him curiously.
“What’re you talkin’ about, Wayne?” Hutch asked.
“Well, he’s shown himself to have a penchant for the dramatic,” Drake pointed out. “And he’s obviously quite mad, or he wouldn’t have embarked on this to begin with. Or gone to all the trouble to kill everyone according to the plot of the play. So perhaps, there’s a way to entice him back into the theatre for one last… performance.”
Hutch sat up, setting his coffee cup on the floor and ignoring the pain that flashed through his head at the movement. “You may have something there, Wayne,” he said. “In the play, Hamlet tricks Claudius through the dumb show… maybe that’s something we can use.”
“Draw him out,” Starsky agreed, picking up the beat with that rhythm Drake had noticed before between the two detectives. “Show him the company is still kickin’… maybe goad him into taking it up a notch.”
“Right.”
“What about a benefit?” Starsky said to Drake. “A memorial kind of thing, in honor of the cast members who were killed. Maybe that way you wouldn’t hafta do the whole thing.”
“An excellent idea,” Drake exclaimed. “We could put together selected scenes with the actors who are still surviving… Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and the players, and Hamlet, of course. If you’re up for it, Ken.”
Without hesitation, Hutch nodded. He was not about to let this go down without him, not after Caldwell had murdered all these people and tried to frame him for it.
“I don’t like it,” Dobey growled. “Hutchinson, you damn near lost the last fight with this guy. You sure you wanna take him on again?”
“I have to, Captain,” Hutch said softly. “If for no other reason, than for Roz.” He got to his feet, wobbling only slightly (or so he thought) and retrieved the script from his jacket pocket. “Let’s take a look through here and see what scenes might work.”
They worked for another hour, sketching out a rough schedule of scenes for the benefit performance. Then Hutch brewed a second pot of coffee, and they began lobbing ideas back and forth for how Caldwell could be detected and detained.
“You really think he’ll show himself when the king is murdered onstage?” Dobey said skeptically.
“Nope,” Hutch admitted, smothering a yawn behind his coffee cup. “But it’s the best chance we’ve got.”
Starsky noticed that the hand holding the cup was starting to tremble, and Hutch’s eyes were taking on that glazed look again. Swinging to his feet, he strode casually over to the couch and removed the cup from his partner’s hand. “Time for us to clear out,” he declared. “I think Blondie here needs some beauty sleep.”
Agreeing, Dobey and Drake rose to their feet and started toward the door.
“Starsk, I’m fine,” Hutch protested.
“Not from where I’m sittin’,” Starsky said calmly.
“We still have to figure out how to smoke this guy out…”
“Tomorrow,” Starsky ordered. “Say g’night, Hutch. We’ll let ourselves out.”
“What time?” Hutch insisted, getting to his feet.
“Eight,” Dobey said firmly. “Get some sleep, Hutchinson. You look lousy.”
“Could’ve sworn I was an adult when I got up this morning,” Hutch complained, but he followed the others to the door. He had to admit, he was tired, and he gave Starsky only a perfunctory glare as Starsky passed him.
In the doorway, Starsky paused, turned back to his friend with a beatific smile, and patted him on the cheek. “Sleep tight, Blintz,” he said sweetly. “See ya in the morning.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Hutch closed the door in his face and started to walk away, then turned back as Starsky opened it and leaned back inside.
In his hand was the key that typically rested on the upper jamb.
“Lock it… and keep this inside for tonight, will ya?” he ordered, and this time his face was serious. “That nut’s still runnin’ around, and we know he’s not too fond of you.”
“Yes, mother,” Hutch sighed. He shoved his partner out, locked the door, and tossed the key onto his desk. Dousing the lamps and stripping along the way, he grabbed a beer from the kitchen and went to his bedroom. Not bothering to turn on the lights, he set the beer on his nightstand and slid under the covers, sighing slightly as his weary body and throbbing head sank into the soft mattress and welcoming pillows.
Before he had finished three sips, he was sound asleep.
Outside on the street, Starsky watched and waited. Only after he saw the lights go out, did he turn the key in the Torino’s ignition, and pull away into the night.
CHAPTER 22
“O, ’tis most sweet
When in one line two crafts directly meet.”
—Act III, Scene IV
The next two days found the two detectives pulling weekend duty, as they embarked on an exhaustive search for Richard Caldwell’s whereabouts.
On Saturday, after checking in with Dobey and briefing some of the other detectives who were helping with the hunt, they headed down to the morgue to sift through the contents of Harrison’s pockets and the knapsack he had brought to the theatre Friday night. Starsky found a wallet in the former and flipped it open to find the driver’s license and the young actor’s home address. He examined the information thoughtfully for a moment, then nudged Hutch and handed the wallet to him.
“Check this out.”
Hutch glanced at the license and cocked an eyebrow. “Venice,” he observed. “That’s less than a mile from my place.”
“Yeah. Better keep that key inside for a while.”
“Give it a rest, huh?” Hutch requested. “We got more important things to worry about.”
Starsky shrugged and copied the address down in his notebook, and pocketed a ring of keys. “Suppose that should be our first stop.”
“Yeah,” Hutch agreed, only half-listening as he shuffled through the papers from the knapsack. “Script… notes… reviews…”
“Thing looks like the back of your car,” Starsky commented. Hutch flicked him a humorless glare but didn’t respond, merely continuing his search. At last, he straightened with a sigh, shoving the material back into the cloth bag.
“Nothin’ here, as far as I can tell,” he said.
“Feel like a road trip?”
“Let’s hit it.”
***
In the dim light of the shabby hotel room, the reviewer sank into his wingback chair with a fresh bottle of wine, the fine arts section of the newspaper… and a smugly satisfied smile.
It had taken time. Years of plotting, interrupted by those ridiculous and humiliating institutionalizations, of finding and grooming just the right person to serve as his partner in ambition and revenge. Months of investigation into the company’s plans for its anniversary celebration, of crafting precisely the right time and place for each and every death. And months of seduction and subtle manipulation, binding James to him in so utterly dependent a fashion that he would do anything, even murder, for his demanding mentor and lover.
He poured a glass of the wine and held it delicately under his nose, hoping the first burst of bouquet would clear the frown that puckered his forehead.
Damn Wayne Drake. And damn that detective. Somehow, the director had managed to do the unimaginable and find an officer of the law who could actually pull off the role of Hamlet… and the plans Caldwell had held, to flee the country with his young lover once the final murder was complete, had had to change.
He felt a twinge of sorrow about killing James. The boy had been sweet and talented, a graceful and passionate lover, and an intelligent conversationalist. And he had possessed a burning ambition that reminded Caldwell of himself at that age. But he had also possessed the ultimate weapon… knowledge of every detail of every murder he had committed at Caldwell’s behest. And with the police closing in, there was a chance that he would tell them what he knew, to save his own neck.
Such power in another’s hands was intolerable. And Richard Caldwell had no intention of enduring the intolerable.
Ah, well.
Caldwell raised his glass in a final, silent toast to his dearly departed, then sipped at the wine and sighed contentedly at its rich, woodsy flavor. Setting the glass on the floor beside his chair, he opened the paper. He was ready now… ready to revel in the demise of the Bay Shakespeare’s tenth anniversary performance. Possibly of their entire season, given the personnel they had lost.
Oh, he would savor this moment like the fine Cabernet Sauvignon that rested at his side.
He found the story easily, and hummed a Mozart tune as he folded the paper to a manageable size and began to read.
The tune cut off abruptly.
“Though the company mourns the death of many central and beloved members,” said Wayne Drake in a telephone interview today, “we feel the best way to salute them is, as always, to follow the time-honored tradition: the show must go on.”
Drake went on to explain that, since the allegedly murdered cast members cannot be replaced, the company plans to present a special series of vignettes from the production of ‘Hamlet,’ including the final, climactic sword fight between Hamlet and Laertes, and the famous “To be or not to be” soliloquy. The performance will be a benefit to raise funds for a special memorial to the slain company members, and will take place Monday night at the theatre.
The paper crumpled in hands that suddenly trembled with rage. Seeking to calm himself, Caldwell lifted the wine glass to his lips… then hurled it across the room.
“No,” he hissed fiercely. “They must not be allowed to think they have won.” His eyes narrowed, and rose from the newly-created wine stain to focus, with a glint of insanity, on the lethal sword, as he began to croon:
“Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing;
Confederate season, else no creature seeing;
Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,
With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected,
Thy natural magic and dire property
On wholesome life usurp immediately.”
***
Both detectives were silent on the drive to Harrison’s apartment. Occasionally, Starsky glanced over at his partner, sensing he had been turning something over in his head for the better part of the day but wasn’t quite ready to share it. Clearly Hutch had been more affected by this case than usual, and Starsky really couldn’t blame him. Especially not when the object of their pursuit was still on the loose.
They pulled up in front of Harrison’s building and exited the car, Hutch still in thoughtful silence. Then, as they entered the building and located the stairs that would take them to the dead man’s home, Hutch spoke.
“There’s something that’s been buggin’ me, Starsk,” he said.
“I’d be worried about you if there weren’t,” Starsky returned, almost automatically, slipping his notebook from his pocket to doublecheck the apartment number.
Hutch shook his head, barely acknowledging the words and only somewhat impatient with the interruption. “No, I mean it.” They rounded the first landing and started up the second flight of stairs. “I can’t quite figure out how Jim got involved in this. I mean, I can understand why Caldwell killed him… but why the hell would Jim hook up with a guy like that in the first place?”
Starsky shrugged. “Good question,” he said, but he was accustomed to that in their profession; working Homicide typically created a helluva lot more questions than answers, even when the bad guy got caught.
Hutch, as usual, had more trouble letting go. “Too bad he didn’t write us a book and tell us what was going on,” he muttered with a sigh of frustration.
They reached the second floor and found Harrison’s apartment. Drake was waiting inside as they had requested; they acknowledged him with a nod, but first turned their attention to the detectives who had been organizing this arm of the information hunt. One of them extended a slim leather book toward Hutch.
Still absorbed in his internal analysis, Hutch raised an eyebrow, experiencing a brief thought that he had somehow conjured the book of motives and explanations he had mentioned as they entered the apartment. Then, opening the front cover, he indulged in a laugh at himself and his wishful thinking; it was merely a worn and well-used address book.
“Thought this might help,” the other detective said briefly, shrugging into a suit jacket. “We’re about done here. Landlady left the key on the desk; just lock up and give it back to her when you leave. Office is on the first floor, on the right just before you go out.”
“Thanks, Hamilton,” Starsky said, as Hutch flipped through the address book. “Anything interesting?”
“Besides this? Just one,” the other detective said, his face expressionless. He turned back to his partner. “Hey, Peterson. Show these guys the shrine.”
The two detectives’ expressions were puzzled as the somewhat rotund Peterson gestured to them from across the room. They followed him down the short hallway, past a bedroom and a bathroom, to what was probably a second bedroom.
As they crossed the threshold, both detectives’ eyes widened, and Hutch emitted a low whistle of disbelief.
In the center of the room stood a tall floor lamp, currently shedding a bright light over the rest of the room, and a deep, well-stuffed armchair. Along the wall across from the door were three bookshelves, stuffed from top to bottom with nothing but material on William Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Several versions of the play. Dozens of hand-labeled notebooks about researching and interpreting the role. Books featuring actors who had played the Danish prince on stage and screen. The walls were covered with playbills and posters following the same theme.
Starsky and Hutch exchanged a glance; Starsky’s said this might offer the missing piece to Hutch’s puzzle. Hutch turned his gaze back to the image of Laurence Olivier that dominated the room, and shook his head. “He said…”
Then he laughed at himself again. Jim had been a murderer, no matter who had called the shots. Expecting him to have told Hutch the truth was ludicrous, and symbolic of a naivete he thought he’d lost years ago.
“Dear lord.”
The two detectives turned, to find Wayne Drake standing in the door, examining the material in the room with a combined expression of sadness and confusion. “What on earth—?” he murmured. “I’ve known Jim for years. I had no idea…”
Then his gaze fixed on the one item in the room that bore no overt relationship to the melancholy Dane, and his frown deepened. “Good heavens,” he said, picking up the photograph in its silver frame. “This is Jim, with one of our season subscribers—a most steadfast and generous one. I never knew they were acquainted.” He offered the picture to Starsky, who examined it with a thoughtful expression as his brain clicked through the waves of new facts they had been given in the last few minutes.
Hutch glanced at the photo over Starsky’s shoulder, then raised his eyes to Drake. “Wayne,” he said, his tone reflective. “How long was Jim with the company?”
“A little less than five years, why?”
“And your donor here,” Starsky continued the thought. “How long has he been around?”
“About five years, I guess, though I’d have to check our records to know for certain…”
The two detectives’ eyes met again.
Drake frowned. “What? What are you saying? That Mr. Stern and Jim—?”
“Stern,” Hutch echoed. “That’s the donor?”
“That’s correct… Lucian Stern,” Drake replied, completely befuddled. “Are you implying that Mr. Stern is somehow implicated in these murders?”
“Lucian Stern,” Hutch murmured, his forehead creasing into a deepening frown. “Lucian S… Lucians… Lucianus.”
Drake was struck dumb.
“Lucianus,” he whispered. “The dumb show… the murderer in The Mousetrap.” He looked back down at the picture in Starsky’s hand. “Mr. Stern is Richard Caldwell?”
“Bingo,” Starsky said. “Looks like he was bankrollin’ Harrison from the start.” His eyes flicked up and found his partner’s. “We gotta find this guy and fast. If he’s been playin’ the game for this long, he ain’t gonna let go easy. I got a bad feelin’ about what he might do at the benefit.”
“But where…?” Hutch muttered, then remembered the address book in his hands.
A quick but thorough study of the book yielded nothing obvious. A page in the back offered the only bit of hope, as the detectives found a number of telephone numbers without names. Drake following, they returned to the station to give Dobey an update of what they had found.
“All right,” Dobey said with some satisfaction. “At least we’ve got an alias. I’ll have the rest of the team check out these numbers.” He turned to Drake. “Is everything set for the benefit?”
“Yes, Captain,” Drake replied. “The phone’s been ringing off the proverbial hook. We’re nearly sold out already.”
“Check and see if this Mr. Stern has made a reservation,” Dobey instructed.
“He has,” Drake said, with a somewhat wry smile. “Believe me, Captain, we keep track of the attendance of our more prominent subscribers. It often helps to give them a little added attention when they appear for performances.”
“Well, he’s gonna get all the attention he can handle if he shows Monday night,” Dobey predicted grimly. “It’s about time we got a break in this thing.” His focus shifted to the two detectives. “What about you two? Everything in place?”
“Yep,” Starsky confirmed. “The lobby’ll be crawling with cops, including me, all dressed in our evening best, and every exit and entrance will be covered like a baby’s bottom.”
“You know,” Hutch said thoughtfully. “Maybe I shouldn’t be onstage. We don’t even know what this guy looks like, and at least I’ve heard his voice…”
Starsky and Dobey both shook their heads; Dobey started to speak, but Drake interjected. “I think that would be a mistake, Ken,” he said. “To have a benefit from Hamlet without the main character… well, it seems it would look terribly suspicious.”
He fell silent then, blushing slightly at his own boldness. Starsky smothered an amused smile that was a welcome relief from the unrelenting tension of the last three days; despite himself, Drake clearly was intrigued by the investigation and couldn’t help but offer his opinion.
“I agree,” he said, slapping his partner on the back. “You just get up there and knock ’em dead, Blondie. We’ll take care of the critics.”
***
Hutch stood in the darkness, bathed in sweat, splattered with artificial blood, chest heaving. From his place in the wings, he could hear the enthusiastic response of the audience, but all he could think of was whether Caldwell had shown himself during the any part of the evening… or if all their efforts had been in vain.
In the back of the theatre, Starsky’s stance by the house doors was ostensibly relaxed, but behind his back his palms were sweating. A quick glance to his left revealed that Peterson was in his own position, just as alert to the slightest move and nuance of the patrons. No one had so much as budged during the 75-minute presentation, and there was no hint of which observer—if any—was a cold-blooded killer.
Investigation into the address book had provided frustratingly little new information. Though one of the numbers had been for a cheap hotel not far from the theatre, there was no way to tell which room had been called, and there was no one registered there as L. Stern, R. Caldwell, or any configuration of either.
Tension was high. This was their last shot, and they knew it.
***
Hidden amongst the members of the crowd, who had risen to their feet, clapping heartily, some cheering, others wiping away the tears that were streaming down their faces, Caldwell clutched the ebony cane in his hand to control his seething fury.
He had failed.
True, there were gaps in the ranks, and the company had lost a brilliant lighting designer and a gifted actress. But there was not an empty seat in the house, and Caldwell had watched how rapidly the plexiglass donation box had filled prior to the show. Far from being brought to its knees, Bay Shakespeare had been embraced by its donors, patrons, and the press. Not to mention those who had been drawn to this performance by the media coverage of the murders and the “courage of those who remained.” The company had not only survived, it had triumphed.
With difficulty, he restrained himself from shoving past the idiots in his row to the lobby. Obviously, Sgt. Hutchinson was still on the case—though occupied for most of the evening with his duties onstage—and he also had spotted the dark-haired detective whom he assumed was Hutchinson’s partner. Careful perusal of other patrons suggested there were at least half a dozen police officers in the theatre, all looking for him.
Perhaps they would find him, but not before he had dealt a final blow.
***
The applause began to diminish, and was replaced by the hubbub that accompanied a sizable audience as it made its way out of the theatre. Waiting for the actors to appear in the lobby, the patrons sampled champagne and delicacies, and discussion of the evening and the events that had preceded it rose to a pleasant din. Drake observed the festivities from a landing several feet above the main level. Starsky joined him there after a few moments, juggling a plate of canapes in one hand and champagne he had no intention of drinking in the other.
There was a stir from the crowd as the actors emerged from the stage doors, still in full costume. Many, like Hutch, were vivid with stage blood and glistening with perspiration. Half attending to the compliments on his performance, Hutch smiled and made appropriately modest noises, while the other half of his brain wondered why anyone in their right mind would want to associate with a group of sweaty actors before they’d had a chance to shower and change to something less pungent. His eyes darted around the room and then up, to find Drake and his partner on the landing.
He raised an eyebrow. Starsky shook his head ever so slightly. Message received: Nothing had happened.
Hutch frowned, and his gaze swept the crowd once again, trying to find something or someone amiss, some clue…
Just then, his peripheral vision caught Drake’s movement, as the director touched Starsky’s arm and leaned close to murmur into his ear. To the casual observer, Starsky’s expression did not change, but Hutch knew his partner had spotted their prey.
Again, his eyes flicked around the room, trying to follow the direction of Starsky’s gaze. He glanced past a clump of patrons who had dressed to the teeth for the occasion… then hesitated. His brows drew in slightly as he noticed two older gentlemen who were slightly removed from the rest of the group. Both were resplendent; one in a black tuxedo and a blindingly white shirt, the other no less elegant in a black silk suit. The latter had actually crowned his sartorial splendor with a silver-headed ebony cane.
Something about the cane had drawn his attention. Hutch glanced up, and saw that Starsky, too, was riveted on the man in black silk.
Subtly, silently cursing Internal Affairs for the fact that he had a sword at his side instead of a gun, Hutch wove his way through the crowd.
As he drew closer to the two men, he noticed the man in black shifting his position with respect to his companion.
Then the hair rose on the back of his neck as the man emitted a low, rich chuckle, one that Hutch had heard above him as a razor-sharp sword glittered at his throat…
Sword.
“Caldwell, hold it! Police!”
The lobby exploded into chaos.
Starsky leapt down the stairs and plunged into the crowd.
The reviewer spun at the sound of Hutch’s voice, then whirled again and ran, losing his direction momentarily as the people around him shouted and cried out in surprise. The doors into the theatre crashed open and shut.
Seconds later, Starsky and Hutch hit the doors simultaneously, racing down the aisle. Without a word, they split up, Hutch leaping onto the stage to search the wings and the backstage area, including the stage door that exited to the parking lot, while Starsky dashed downstairs.
Finding nothing, Hutch ran back into the house, then stopped short as he spotted something in the aisle. He picked up the “cane” sheath that had hidden Caldwell’s sword, then hurled it back to the floor and followed his partner’s path at top speed.
Starsky had eliminated the dressing rooms and the green room in short order. The lighting room was empty, as were the bathrooms.
Only the combat room was left.
He stood at the door for a moment, envisioning the room in his mind and preparing himself for a full-bore entry that would throw Caldwell off-guard. He cocked the Beretta and held it ready in his hand, ears tuned for any noise. When some internal sense gave him the signal, he kicked the door open and burst into the room, gun at the ready, spinning around the room to locate the reviewer.
What the—?
What he hadn’t anticipated was that, as he had with Hutch, Caldwell would douse the lights. Starsky plunged into darkness, and before he could breathe, a hand had chopped across his wrist, sending his gun flying. An arm encircled his midsection with incredible strength, the lights flipped on and he was being dragged backward, watching a glistening blade move closer and closer to his throat.
Seconds later, Hutch entered, and drew up short at the sight of his partner in the reviewer’s deadly embrace.
“Let him go,” Hutch ordered.
“Or what?” Caldwell challenged, the sword not budging an inch from Starsky’s neck. “You’re in even less of a position to give orders than your partner, Detective Hutchinson, since you are virtually unarmed.”
“You know the place is crawling with cops,” Hutch said harshly. “You won’t get ten feet outside that door before they’re all over you.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Caldwell retorted in an amused tone. “You see, Detective, this blade is also spiced with my personal concoction. Perhaps you remember it from our encounter a few days ago? It certainly laid you low… and that was a diluted form, approximately ten percent strength if I recall correctly.” His voice became abruptly hard and level, in that insane switch that set off alarm bells in Hutch’s mind. “Today… two hundred proof.” He moved the sword closer to Starsky’s skin.
Hutch forced himself to not even twitch, silently imploring his partner to do the same.
“A flick of my wrist, Detective, and your partner dies within minutes.”
Hutch’s gaze never left Caldwell’s face. His brain considered and discarded a dozen approaches to the problem, lit on one, and paused. His eyes narrowed.
“So you plan to just duck out of here again?” he said nonchalantly. “Go ahead, then… but I guess you’ll never know.”
Caldwell’s eyes also narrowed; wary for a trick, he examined Hutch ve closely, but couldn’t resist asking, “Know what?”
“Whether you really were better than me,” Hutch said. He drew his sword from its sheath with a sing of steel. “You stacked the deck before. Do you really think you can beat me when I’m not half-drugged?”
Caldwell laughed derisively. “It’s not worth asking.”
“Really?” Hutch cocked an eyebrow, and his tone, too, became deadly and mocking. “I beg to differ.”
“Please, Detective,” Caldwell scoffed. “Do you sincerely think you can put me off with such a transparent trick?”
Hutch flourished the sword in his hand and made a few experimental thrusts. As if the reviewer had not spoken, he recited softly, “If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, and when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. Who does it, then? His madness.” He relaxed and slowly, purposefully, lowered himself into en garde stance.
Caldwell remained stock still. Hutch saw him waver, watched as Starsky tensed, waiting for the man’s grip to loosen so he could strike.
Before either detective could move, the sword flashed in Caldwell’s hand. Despite himself, Hutch took a step forward, the breath whooshing from his chest.
But Caldwell had only glanced the hilt across Starsky’s head, rendering him—for the moment—unconscious but not in imminent danger.
The reviewer flung Starsky aside as if he were weightless. Eyes glittering, he faced Hutch, sword raised, his body coiled and at the ready.
This better work, Hutch let the thought blink across his mind. Or you’re wakin’ up to a new partner, pal. Taking a deep breath, and never letting his eyes leave the lethal blade, he sent along another verbal jab: “Very well, my lord. Your Grace has laid the odds o’ the weaker side.”
“And Claudius says,” Caldwell intoned, taking on a distant, dissociated air that sent shivers up Hutch’s spine, “I do not fear it, I have seen you both; but since he is bettered, we have therefore odds.”
“Come on, sir,” Hutch prodded, then left the script for a moment to taunt, “Or are you afraid?”
Rage bloomed in Caldwell’s eyes.
“Have at you now!”
Caldwell lunged forward; Hutch stopped him cleanly, without an iota of wasted energy or strength. Again, the reviewer attacked; again, Hutch deflected. Again, and again, the older man moved in for the kill; each time, Hutch only lifted his sword with lightning swiftness, parrying the move with a clang of steel and a deadly efficiency of movement. He dared not let Caldwell anywhere near him; if the man had spoken the truth, a single laceration would prove fatal.
Initially, his strategy had been to stall for time until the other cops figured out where he and Starsky had gone. But as the battle went on, he realized that his solely defensive stance had an unexpected effect: Caldwell became increasingly enraged as Hutch refused to actively engage him. He expended more and more energy while Hutch used very little; unbelievably, the man actually began to tire, and his thrusts slowly, steadily, grew more desperate and more random.
Abruptly, Hutch switched tactics. He went on the offensive, advancing forward with a series of tightly controlled moves. As Caldwell retreated and blocked with increasing weakness, Hutch tightened his grip on his weapon and swept it up and around with all his strength.
The room rang with Caldwell’s cry of outrage. The poisoned sword was yanked out of his hands and spun across the room. Both men raced after it, but Hutch was fresher and reached the weapon first. Caldwell tripped and sprawled across the mat, then scrambled to his feet.
Suddenly, somehow, a gate inside Hutch fell and his fury escaped. All his frustration over the unsolved case, his anger at Roz’ death, his fear for his career, for his own and his partner’s lives, rushed into him. Though Caldwell raised his hands in surrender and began babbling, pleading for his life, Hutch advanced on him, eyes blazing, every other feature of his face composed in unrelenting and terrifying neutrality.
Eventually the reviewer ran out of room. Flattened against the wall, the man broke into sobs, as Hutch poised the tip of the poisoned sword at his hitching throat.
For a moment they stood there, frozen in time.
Then, Hutch’s hand relaxed and fell… as, simultaneously, his partner’s arm came around his shoulders and pulled him gently but firmly back.
“You don’t have to do that, pal,” Starsky said softly. “He’ll get what’s comin’ to him.”
Hutch remained still for a moment, then nodded his head, once, and dropped both swords to the floor. Chest heaving, he swiped his arm across his forehead to clear away the sweat, then nodded again. “Okay,” he whispered through the breath whistling in and out of his lungs. “I’m okay.”
Starsky turned, spun the still-bleating reviewer against the wall, and slapped cuffs on him before he could regain his senses.
The door burst open as the cavalry arrived, and suddenly the room swarmed with cops in varying types of evening wear. Starsky directed Peterson toward the sword, and watched as four uniforms hustled the incoherent Caldwell away. As quickly as it had filled, the room emptied, leaving only the two emotionally and physically drained detectives.
“You okay?” Hutch asked Starsky with concern, as they met in the middle of the room and turned toward the door.
“Oh, yeah,” Starsky said lightly. “Helluva headache, but it beats the alternative.”
As they reached the door, they nearly collided with Wayne Drake. They steered him out of the room, explaining what had happened, and assuring him the ordeal was over, Caldwell was in custody and this time, no one had been seriously hurt.
“Thank heavens we spotted him,” Drake said, after they had accompanied Hutch to his dressing room so he could shower and change his clothes. “I think he had plans to murder Mr. Meloy.”
“Who?” Hutch said from the back of the room, where he was combing his damp hair and feeling considerably better.
“Meloy,” Drake repeated. “Another one of the company’s founders, but not a performer or technician. Mr. Meloy has always provided our greatest financial support—he’s an incredibly astute businessman. But he’s also somewhat eccentric, and his family has been trying to gain control of his money for years. If Caldwell had succeeded in killing him, the estate probably would have been frozen and argued in the courts for years.” He smiled somewhat grimly. “In essence, Mr. Caldwell most likely would have succeeded in kicking our last remaining leg from underneath us.”
Hutch emerged from the bathroom, dressed in his street clothes. Raising an eyebrow, he tossed his damp and stained costume onto the dressing room counter. “Well, Wayne, I’m glad to leave that thing behind. No offense meant, but I think I’ll stick to one undercover role at a time from now on.”
“Pity,” Drake said with a sigh. “The underworld’s gain is our loss.”
“Hey, what about me?” Starsky interjected indignantly. “I thought I was pretty good at swingin’ that spotlight around.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s real difficult,” Hutch teased, shrugging into a black leather jacket and shouldering his duffle bag. “Turn it on, point, and move. Try sweatin’ under the damn thing for a change.”
“‘Under it?'” Starsky echoed on a high note. “Try sweatin’ behind it. Trust me, that’s no picnic. Actors! Always puttin’ yourselves above the crew.”
“Hey, no one was above you, buddy,” Hutch retorted, elbowing his partner with a laugh. “Good thing you had your super-strength Spiderman strap to make sure you didn’t fall off the catwalk. Tell me, Starsk, exactly how high up was that thing?”
“High,” Starsky said with mock sullenness. “Very, very high. One slip, and you would have been ridin’ around alone for the next six months.”
Smiling, Drake followed as the two detectives moved out of the dressing room and down the hall. He noticed their walks became more confident and assured as they left this unaccustomed world behind, and ushered themselves back into their own universe with the banter that was second nature. Their voices became fainter, though a shared laugh drifted back down the stairs, and then the stage door slammed behind them.
Drake doused the lights and followed the two detectives out into the night. He locked the stage door and zipped up his jacket, pulling his car keys from his pocket. Then he turned to gaze up at his theatre, felt the sadness for those who had been lost, and murmured to himself:
“To die—to sleep.
To sleep—perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.”
He climbed into his car and pulled away.
Behind him, the theatre became surrounded by the night, and by peace at last.
EPILOGUE
“Lay her i’ the earth,
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring.”
—Act V, Scene I
Dave Starsky sat in the kitchen in Venice Place and listened in disbelief to the voice at the other end of the phone.
He had elected to stay here while Hutch went to the sentencing hearing for Richard Caldwell. He had a hunch how the thing would go, and he thought Hutch might appreciate a home-cooked meal when he returned from the courthouse. Especially if that meal kicked off with, at last, Aunt Rosie’s famous and fabulous wonton soup.
The soup was completed; he had sampled it and thought the top of his head would come off at the combination of scent and taste that enveloped his senses. He turned the heat down to a simmer, and was reverently covering the pot when Hutch’s phone had rung. For a moment, he ignored it, then glanced at his watch and lifted the receiver, thinking it could be Hutch himself, calling about plans for dinner.
“Hello? Hello?” the voice on the other end responded with confusion to his greeting. “I’m sorry… do I have the wrong number? I’m calling Ken Hutchinson.”
Starsky grimaced as he recognized the voice, and wished he could turn the clock back just five seconds. “Hello, Kimberly,” he said stiffly, trying his best to at least be polite. “Hutch isn’t here. Wanna leave a message?”
“Who’s this?” Kimberly asked bluntly. “Is that Ken’s partner? I’m sorry. What’s your name again? David what?”
Starsky sighed. “Starsky,” he supplied. “Hutch should be back any minute now. Want me to have him call you?” Say yes, he begged her silently. Don’t make me spend any more time on the phone with you than I have to.
“No, that’s not necessary,” she said formally. “Just tell him I know where our parents are.”
“What?” She had his full attention now.
“I know where Mother and Father have been,” she repeated, her voice now breezy and matter-of-fact. “Silly of me, really. I can’t believe I didn’t tell Ken that they had booked a two-month cruise to Europe for their anniversary. They stopped the mail and the papers, and they were going with their neighbors, so I didn’t even hear from them before they left.”
Starsky said absolutely nothing.
“Tell Ken I’m sorry, won’t you, David?” Kimberly said in a tittering voice that fell like broken glass on Starsky’s ears. “I can’t believe I forgot where Mother and Father were. Oh, well, he’s always so busy, I’m sure he’ll understand how it could have slipped my mind.”
Starsky thought of the days his partner had spent worrying about where his parents were, and the guilt that had been stirred by the idea that they might have disappeared before he had reconciled his feelings for them. He remembered how this additional mystery had robbed Hutch of hours of sleep; sleep he couldn’t spare given the double load he’d been carrying at the time. And his temper boiled over as he realized that this infuriating woman on the other end of the phone could have spared her brother every bit of the pain he’d been through… if her tiny little mind had just expanded enough, for a single second, to include thoughts of someone besides herself.
He cleared his throat and in a low, deadly voice, blistered the phone line and Kimberly Hutchinson-Munroe’s ears by telling her exactly what he thought of her.
Then, before she could muster the haughtiness to return the favor, he silently cradled the receiver.
And just in time, as he heard the rattle and scrape of the key in Hutch’s door.
“Not guilty by reason of insanity.” Hutch slammed the door behind him and threw his jacket in one direction and his tie in another. “What a bunch of shit.”
He crossed the living room in angry strides and smacked open his refrigerator, grabbing a beer from the interior and decapitating it with a vicious pop of the bottle opener. Taking a swig, he returned to the living room and sprawled into a chair, extending his legs before him and scowling fiercely.
“Not guilty by reason of insanity,” he repeated, his tone dripping disgust. “So he goes back to a psychiatric hospital instead of the joint. I tell you, Starsk… sometimes I don’t think there’s any justice in this world.”
Starsky thought of his conversation with Kimberly and half-smiled, which he stifled immediately as Hutch looked over at him.
“I know, partner… but look at this way,” he said, trying to be reasonable. “He’s in a maximum-security institution this time, not some private hospital. And he’ll probably be there longer than he would be in prison.”
“Yeah, well… still…” Hutch’s complaints trailed off; he was too tired to even argue. He rubbed his forehead as if he could erase the dull headache that had been there for most of the sentencing. Downing another swallow of the beer, he sighed wearily, and contemplated the sunlight that poured through his windows, the specks of dust dancing in it like a corps of tiny ballerinas.
Starsky knew that sigh, having heard it countless times from his own lips. There was nothing either of them could say at times like this: sometimes the system worked the way they thought it should and sometimes it didn’t. They grappled with that reality on a regular basis, and occasionally considered leaving the force for something where they had a little more control. But generally, after a few beers and a healthy bitch session, they concluded they were doing all they could to make things better.
At least two of their worries were now settled. IA had dropped all the charges against Hutch, to Starsky’s triumph and Dryden’s disgruntlement, and now, Hutch’s parents were apparently alive and well.
And tonight, there would be the ambrosia of wonton to hurry the process along.
Hutch abandoned his reverie and pushed himself out of his chair with another weary sigh, then moved around the room to retrieve his scattered clothing. “You ready?”
“Sure.” Starsky picked up his own jacket and shrugged into it as he crossed to the door. Re-knotting his tie, Hutch joined him, then paused as he finally registered the scents filling the tiny apartment. Frowning, he sniffed at the air, then raised an accusing eyebrow at his partner.
“You’ve been cooking,” he declared.
“Yeah,” Starsky replied.
“What?” Hutch said warily.
“Surprise.” Starsky allowed himself only a somewhat saintly smile, then nudged Hutch. “C’mon, let’s go.”
“Aw, Starsk,” Hutch groaned, as he locked the door, replaced the key, and followed his partner down the stairs. “I’m in no mood. Can’t you give me a hint? Like telling me exactly what you’ve cooked up?”
“Nope.”
Sighing resignedly, Hutch slid behind the wheel of the Ford, wondering if this day were ever going to improve.
They drove in silence for several moments, as Hutch consulted a written set of directions that Wayne had given him. Eventually, they reached the outskirts of the city, and Hutch steered the Ford through a gate surrounded by rolling hills and lush trees, and crowned with a sign reading, “Hillcrest Cemetery.” He took one of the gravel roads leading away from the main entrance, again checking the directions Wayne had provided, and eventually pulled the Ford to a stop.
Turning off the ignition, he gazed out the window. Without looking at his partner, he said quietly, “Give me a minute, huh?”
Starsky didn’t reply; he didn’t need to. He simply watched through the windshield as his partner moved between a row of stones to one whose polished whiteness stood out like a beacon among its older, weather-beaten neighbors.
Hutch gazed down at the newly chiseled stone that marked the final resting place of Rosalind Berry. He felt the setting sun caress his face, thinking that this girl should still be alive and vibrant, regretting that he had been unable to stop Caldwell and Harrison in time to preserve her warmth and vital presence. Then, as usual, he battled his guilt by reminding himself that he hadn’t pulled the trigger… or tightened the wire… or turned on the shower and trapped her in its deadly flow.
It was a battle he fought constantly. And he knew it wore on him. Sometimes he handled it by staying away once a case was closed, by not acknowledging death, by avoiding funerals and memorial services.
At others, like this, he might wait for a while, then come to say his goodbyes in private.
He laid a single white rose on the gravestone, and murmured, almost inaudibly, “Sweets to the sweet… farewell.”
Then he turned and purposefully, without looking back, strode away from the grave and back to his car.
***
“All right, Starsky, what is this?”
Hutch eyed the pot on his stove with growing suspicion, as his partner shed his jacket and tie and kicked off his shoes.
Starsky ignored him, simply elbowed him aside as he entered the kitchen and placed himself in front of the pot.
“Sit,” he commanded, reaching to the shelves above the stove for two bowls, then pulling two spoons from the dish drainer.
Lowering his guard not a whit, Hutch sank down into a chair at his kitchen table and continued to watch his partner.
Starsky left the bowls and spoons on the counter while he drew a loaf of fresh French bread from a bag he’d left on the floor, and a cup of whipped butter from the refrigerator. Bringing these to the table with a bread knife and a cookie sheet, he settled himself into a chair and began to neatly slice the loaf.
“Starsk…” Hutch began impatiently.
“First things first, Detective Hutchinson,” Starsky interrupted with a gesture of the knife, and a grin as they both acknowledged Hutch’s reinstatement to the force. “For your evening’s entertainment, I have a story entitled, ‘What I Did While Hutch Was at the Sentencing’…”
Alternately slicing the bread and slathering it with the butter, Starsky first assured his partner that his parents were safe, then regaled a relieved Hutch with the details of his conversation with Kimberly. Finishing, he licked an errant dab of butter from his finger and laid the loaf onto the cookie sheet with a satisfied smile. “So, in conclusion, your parents are fine,” he said, rising to put the bread into the oven. “Your sister, however, is now sportin’ a spare asshole.”
Hutch stared at his partner for several seconds, then threw back his head and gave in to a shout of laughter that he desperately needed.
Allowing his smile to turn smug, Starsky dug through Hutch’s kitchen drawers until he found a ladle, which he laid beside the bowls and spoons. Then he crossed his arms, leaned back against the counter, and waited patiently for Hutch to compose himself.
Finally, clearing mirthful moisture from his eyes, Hutch returned his attention to the matter at hand. “All right, Starsk, enough,” he ordered, but his demeanor was colored more with teasing and affection than annoyance. “What’s the big mystery?”
Soberly, almost ritualistically, Starsky lifted the cover from the pot; his face assumed a rapturous expression as steam billowed up to bathe him in the intoxicating aroma.
Hutch grew slightly less cranky as the scent reached him. His stomach began to growl. “What is that?” he asked again.
“This,” Starsky said, ladling a healthy serving into a bowl and setting it before his partner, “is my aunt Rosie’s famous, award-winning…”
“Wonton soup,” Hutch finished for him, looking down at his bowl in amazement. “But… how did you…?”
“Charm and technique,” Starsky said mysteriously, preparing his own bowl and carrying it to the table.
Hutch raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’ve been trying that for years, and it’s never worked,” he pointed out. “What’d you do, chloroform her?”
“All right, all right,” Starsky grumbled. “I told her it was for you, and she caved.” He snapped out a paper napkin as if it were made of finest linen, and let it waft across his partner’s lap, then tucked a second under his own chin.
Hutch looked from Starsky to the bowl, then back to Starsky. “For me…” he echoed, uncomprehending.
“Yeah…you wearin’ yourself out over this thing… workin’ double shifts, learnin’ lines, and worryin’ about your parents too,” Starsky said breezily. “She couldn’t give it up fast enough. She’s a total sucker for ya, Blintz.”
Hutch half-grinned, hearing the message behind the offhand words. “Thanks, partner.”
“Any time.” Starsky gave back a lopsided grin, then scooped up a spoonful of the fragrant soup, raising it as if in toast to his partner. “Now, stop asking questions… and eat.”
And they did.
Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting
That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay
Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly—
And praised be rashness for it; let us know,
Our indiscretion sometime serves us well
When our deep plots do pall; and that should learn
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will—
That is most certain.”
—Act V, Scene II
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