Never Saying Sorry

246

Summary: Response to self-induced challenge to write the angstiest fic we could without undermining Starsky and Hutch’s canon macho-man-ness. The rules we set up to follow are included in an appendix at the end of the story.

EH: It was peer pressure, I swear! First, it was all “come over and watch some episodes, read a little fanfic, it won’t do you any harm,” next thing I know I’m hooked on horse and–

RC: What!?

EH: Er, nothing, Rebelcat. Ooo, look at the pretty men in immorally tight jeans.

RC: Purrrrr . . .

Rating: R, because of the very nasty stuff that occurs in the narrative past including a violent assault, and severe child abuse. Also, the coitus interruptus and naughty language that Aaron Spelling would never have allowed takes place in the narrative present. Now, the violence against furniture and massive alcohol consumption is canon, although we may have gotten a little carried away here. Furthermore, you will be carded before being allowed to view the appendix.

Spoilers: This story takes place during season three, between the episodes “Hutchinson for Murder One” and “Foxy Lady.” Any event before the latter episode is ripe for spoilage, babe.

Warning: If really nasty things happening to kids squicks you, stay away. For those who’ve read Elizabeth Helena’s DS9 fic “Condemnation” you know the depths to which she can sink. For those who haven’t, she’s got parental issues that know no bounds, so beware!

EH: Excuse me?!

RC: Don’t make me show you “The Crying Child” again.

EH: whimper

Disclaimer: Everything we know about police procedurals and the law in the 1970s we learned from Aaron Spelling. Any errors are clearly his :-). What? Okay, we don’t own a tomato red Torino with racing stripes nor the guys driving it while wearing too-tight jeans. Oh baby.

Thanks to: Blue’s Starsky & Hutch Resource page, for the apartment layouts, character guide, and timeline, and shoot pretty much everything on that site. Thanks to you, we only had to be half as obsessive compulsive as we already were.

Apologies to: All nurses, because we really, really admire you guys and any depictions of nurses below are not meant to imply that you aren’t fun-loving, hard-working people who deserve better than coitus interruptus. Also, to Internal Affairs officers because we know no police organization could be run effectively without internal supervision. However, if every 70’s cop show or movie taught us anything, you were the baddies. Well, except maybe in “Serpico,” but “Dirty Harry” could (and would) kick his butt any day.

Elizabeth Helena’s Dedication: To Rebelcat, for tolerating my ongoing horror of adverbs, my occasional tactlessness when she asked ‘don’t you like this?’ my chainsaw approach to editing, my anal-retentive approach to editing, my inability to stop editing… ah, you get my drift. I never imagined that collaborating could be so much fun nor so darn… well, collaborative. 🙂 Thank you for your generous spirit and evil genius.

Rebelcat’s Dedication: Just ignore all that self-deprecating stuff up there in the previous dedication. None of it’s true. Getting together to work with Elizabeth on this story has been the highlight of my week these last couple of months. I feel like I’m back in high school again – except without all the bad stuff, just with the ogling of the guys and making bad jokes and naughty comments and . . . actually, maybe the person we really ought to be thanking is my poor husband who has had to put up with listening to us giggle for weeks on end.

EH: Oh, he got his own back by dubbing us the “Starsky & Hutch Hen Party.” Plus the time he paused and zoomed on the nipples of that really ugly guy in “Captain Dobey, You’re Dead.” And the time he said it was really gross how Starsky was hitting on the Kristy McNichol character in “The Trap” . . .

RC: That was you.

EH: Oh, right… er, never mind.

Beta: Nik Ditty. Without her, this story wouldn’t be anywhere near as readable nor as angsty. She fearlessly tracked down misplaced commas and wandering sentences, caught logical inconsistencies and tackled whole chunks of the story that just plain needed to be rewritten. Nik rocks!

Beta, Second Edition:  Rae.  What can we say about Rae?  She dedicated countless hours to correcting the grammar in this story.  She took this fic and turned it into something clear and crisp, and we hope she forgives us for fighting with her over all of RC’s ‘ly’ words and EH’s elipses.  And it’s not her fault that “akimbo” lives on!

RC:  Because we love “akimbo!”

EH:  They can take our lives, but they cannot take our “akimboooh!”

RC:  No more Mel Gibson for you!  Remember, you’re supposed to be staring at Starsky-butt, not Mel-butt.

Further thanks to: Adrienne, who was brave enough to read some of our earliest drafts. Her shrewd comments and suggestions were much appreciated.

---

“How else am I to get you to treat me like a man of weight and substance unless I act as morally perturbed and angst-ridden as everyone else in this room?”
–The Beast. “X-Men Annual #2”

 

CHAPTER ONE

Saturday, February 25, 1978

9:26 p.m. 

“Don’t answer that!”

“I have to,” Hutch fumbled for the phone, trying not to disengage completely. With a desperate lurch, extracting a loud complaint from the blonde woman on the couch beneath him, he snagged the handset off of the coffee table. Hutch could think of only one person who would be calling him this late his day off.

“Starsky,” he snapped. “This had better be life or death.”

“Hutchinson, I need you down at the precinct. Now.”

His date wrapped one leg around his hip, and began nibbling on his neck. Hutch knew he was the luckiest man in the world tonight, and he’d be damned if he was going anywhere.

“Captain,” said Hutch, trying not to breathe too heavily into the phone. “Starsky and I’ve been working our asses off the last few weeks. We’ve earned some time off.”  The woman laughed, her green eyes alight with mirth, and he clapped his free hand over her mouth. Undeterred, she began to suck on his index finger.

“Can’t you get some other guys to deal with it?” This beautiful lady deserved his full attention, Hutch thought, as he retrieved his finger and cupped her face in prelude to a kiss.

Dobey’s next words stopped him cold.

“Starsky’s the reason I need to see you.”

Hutch rolled off of his date, ignoring her protests. “What happened to Starsky?” Trying not to panic, he reached for his clothes, balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear.

“He’s not hurt! I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

Giving up on the search for his underwear, Hutch hopped on one leg while jamming the other into his jeans. “If he’s not hurt, then why isn’t he the one calling me? What’s going on?” He dropped the phone while pulling on his shirt, and scrambled to retrieve it, knocking over the green vase. It rolled off the coffee table and onto the orange shag rug, unbroken.

” . . . argue with me! Just get down here, now!”

“Cap, you can’t–” But Dobey had already hung up. With a curse, Hutch replaced the handset, and began to fasten his shirt. His fingers kept fumbling the task, so he left the top four buttons undone.

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not done here yet.”

“What?” Hutch turned and blinked at the indignant woman sitting on his couch, her arms crossed over her chest. What was her name again? Carol . . . Carol, something. One of the nurses from Memorial. “I have to go, Carol. It’s an emergency.”

“But we’re not done!”

“Look, we’ll just have to finish this another time.” One sock in hand, Hutch searched for its partner. He could see his shoes, but the other sock was nowhere in sight.

“There won’t be another time if you don’t get back here right now!”

Hutch found his missing item under her abandoned skirt. Crap, he thought, glancing at Carol’s flushed, angry face.

“Hang on a sec.” He grabbed the phone again and dialed from memory. He saw some of Carol’s fury replaced by confusion as she listened to the brief instructions he gave to the person on the other end of the line. Hanging up, he told her, “I’ve called you a cab, you’d better get dressed.”

That at least got her moving, grabbing her clothes and muttering some distinctly ominous threats. During his brush with the plague a few months earlier, Hutch had learned that the impressively brutal language of homicide detectives had nothing on that of nurses. Under different circumstances, he would’ve been impressed.

As he waited impatiently for Carol, Hutch ran down the mental checklist of what he needed. Slapping his pockets, he confirmed that his wallet and badge were still in his jeans. His gun was in its holster hanging over the closet door in his bedroom. Retrieving it, he automatically verified that his Magnum was loaded and the safety was on, before buckling the harness over the left shoulder.

Leaving his bedroom, Hutch threw on his tan jacket, and checked for his car keys in the pocket. He noticed that the candles on the table in front of the couch were still burning, and the record on the player was beginning to skip. He dealt with them while Carol finished dressing.

She grabbed her coat before he could offer to help her with it. He held the front door open and she swept down the stairs ahead of him without a word. Once on the street he jogged past her to get to his car, and then stopped himself. Damn. He chided himself for his thoughtlessness, and turned back. Pulling out his wallet, he shoved a ten at the irate woman. “For the cab. I’ll call you.”

As Hutch pulled the LTD away from the curb, Carol was still screaming highly detailed and imaginatively painful things she could do to his internal organs. He winced as he saw his neighbors’ lights coming on. He slapped the Mars light onto the roof of his car, and kept his foot down all the way to the station.

*****

9:50 p.m.

Hutch took the stairs three at a time, ignoring the people he barreled past in the hallway. A glance around the squad room revealed no sign of his partner, so he headed for Dobey’s office, shoving the door open without breaking stride.

At first, Hutch thought he’d located his partner, but the dark-haired man seated across from Dobey was a stranger wearing a sports jacket and tie Starsky wouldn’t be caught dead in.

Captain Dobey looked up from behind his desk, scowling in a way that Hutch recognized as concern, rather than anger. The young man glanced up from the file he was reading, startled by Hutch’s sudden entrance.

“Where’s Starsky?” Hutch demanded.

Dobey growled, “Hutchinson, didn’t your mother ever teach you to knock?”

“You didn’t call me in the middle of the night to lecture me on my manners. Where’s Starsky?” His partner was nowhere to be seen, and it was scaring the hell out of him. Starsky wasn’t injured, or Dobey would have had him meet him at the hospital. He couldn’t be dead. Dobey wouldn’t tell me like this.

“Sit down, Hutchinson.”

Hutch started to protest.

“Sit!”

Unaware of any conscious decision to obey, Hutch dropped into the chair next to the silent stranger, his attention focused entirely on Dobey.

Dobey heaved a huge sigh, and shuffled a few papers on his desk. Digging his handkerchief out of his jacket, he mopped his face, and then shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket. “At about seven thirty this evening Detective Starsky . . .  We received a request for an ambulance at his address.”

Hutch tensed. Oh God, he is going to tell me he’s dead . . . .

“When the crew got there they found a white male, approximately sixty-five years old, unconscious. He’d been badly beaten.”

Hutch had stopped breathing at the white male description. He’s dead. That’s why Dobey . . .  Wait. Did he say approximately sixty-five years old? “What?”

Dobey’s eyes were compassionate. “Your partner told the officers on the scene that he was responsible for the, ah . . . condition of the victim. He requested that they, um, take him into custody.”

Again, all Hutch could come up with was, “What?”

A smug voice came from behind him, “I believe Detective Starsky’s exact words were, ‘Lock me up and throw away the key, because I don’t give a damn.’”

Hutch turned in his chair, and saw that Simonetti had entered the office. His partner Dryden was blocking the doorway.

For the first time since Dobey’s call, Hutch felt that he was back on solid ground. Persecution by Internal Affairs was something he understood all too well. “Didn’t know IA worked around the clock. You getting overtime?”

Simonetti smiled, his lips stretched thin over his teeth. “I’d do this one for free.”

Hutch turned back to Dobey. Starsky had been taken into custody? That couldn’t be right. I must have misunderstood. “Where’s Starsky?”

Dryden closed the office door. “When was the last time you saw your partner, Detective Hutchinson?”

Hutch sent a silent protest Dobey’s way, but his captain shook his head regretfully. Using the chair’s arms to push himself to his feet, Hutch turned to face Simonetti and Dryden. “We spent most of today together. We played some pick up in the park, stopped by The Pits for a late lunch and then just hung out at my place for a few hours. Starsky left around seven.” He ran a hand through his hair, wracking his brain. His partner had seemed perfectly happy. Had he missed something important?

“Why so early?”

Hutch glared at Simonetti, wondering how this man managed to make even the most benign question sound malignantly insinuating. “My date showed up. Starsky cleared out to give us some time alone.”

“Thoughtful of him,” commented Dryden. Hutch shot him a look, but his expression seemed sincere. Hutch didn’t trust it. Dryden always played the good cop with sycophantic sliminess, while Simonetti . . .

“I’m impressed, Hutchinson. Your ex-wife’s been dead for what? Not much more than a week. But then you weren’t real broken up over her anyway.”

“Hutchinson, stand down!” Dobey’s roar froze Hutch in mid-step, his fists clenched. “Son, you won’t do Starsky any good on suspension for assaulting a fellow officer.” His voice when addressing Hutch had been a gentle rumble, but when he scowled at the two IA officers his tone was as unyielding as granite. “Unless you have further questions for my man, I suggest you leave.”

“We’ll need your date’s name and contact information.” Dryden sounded apologetic.

Simonetti did not. “Just to establish that you were where you say you were.”

“Can it!” snapped Dobey. “I can verify myself that Hutchinson was at home when I called him. And you know perfectly well that Starsky was the only one at the scene.”

Hutch took a deep breath, mentally counting to ten. “Her name is Carol Thompson. She’s a nurse at Memorial. I don’t have her number on me at the moment, but you shouldn’t have any trouble finding her.” Stepping forward, he got right into Simonetti’s face. “I’ve answered your questions. Now, where the hell is my partner?”

Simonetti hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and coolly met Hutch’s gaze. Then with a shark-like grin, he glanced over his shoulder at Dryden and asked, “Presently?”

“I believe he’s cooling his heels down in Interrogation,” was Dryden’s bland reply.

Simonetti nodded his head with satisfaction. “You see, Detective Hutchinson, your partner is being held as a material witness, pending charges.”

“What charges?” Hutch barked, outraged. “Starsky wouldn’t–. What did he say?”

“I already told you,” said Simonetti, smug satisfaction oozing from every pore.

Dryden consulted his notes. “Your partner refused to explain his actions or his motivations to the arresting officers.”

“He just gets stubborn sometimes,” Hutch said, inwardly cursing Starsky’s obstinate streak. “That doesn’t mean you have to . . . What are you charging him with?”

“It all depends on whether his victim lives or dies, doesn’t it?” Simonetti licked his lips as if the mere thought of charging Starsky with Murder One tasted sweet.

“Enough!” Dobey slammed his palms onto his desk. “We’re done here!”

Simonetti and Dryden exchanged a glance, before shrugging in unison. As they exited, Simonetti promised Hutch, “We’ll talk again.”

It took Hutch a moment to gather his thoughts, and then he lunged for the door. “I have to see Starsky.”

“Freeze!” Dobey ordered.

Hutch halted, but didn’t release the doorknob. “What?”

“Until we get this mess cleared up, I’m assigning you a new . . . a temporary partner.”

Hutch felt the betrayal hit him like a blow to the gut. “No.” He was disgusted that his refusal sounded more like a plea.

“You can’t work this one alone. With Simonetti out for blood, you’ve got to play it straight.”

“You mean I’ve got to have a babysitter!”

“If I followed procedure,” Dobey snapped, “you wouldn’t even be on this case!”

“Then why the hell am I?”

“Because you’re the only one who can talk sense into that mule-headed partner of yours!” Dobey took a deep breath and deliberately softened his tone. “You know and I know that there has to be some explanation for what Starsky did. But until he tells us what it is, we can’t help him.”

Hutch dropped his head and pressed the heels of his palms into his temples, trying to will all of this insanity away. But he had to face facts; Starsky was in custody waiting to be charged with either assault or murder. If accepting a new partner was what it took to help his best friend, then he would simply have to do it.

“All right, who’re you sticking me with?” Wearily, he lifted his head, hoping it wasn’t anyone they knew well. Talking to Starsky was going to be hard enough without one of their friends making it worse by trying to help.

Dobey cleared his throat and nodded significantly at the third person in the room. “Hutchinson, this is Detective Andy Puckett.”

Hutch had completely forgotten about the man seated across from Dobey; who had kept silent throughout the confrontation with Simonetti and Dryden. He eyed the neatly-dressed young man, whose pants were pressed to a sharp edge, and concluded that he was probably a newly-minted detective. The kid was looking more than a little wall-eyed from the show he’d just witnessed.

“Puckett’s just transferred over from the 14th Precinct,” Dobey explained.

Hutch nodded, telling himself that it wasn’t fair to take his frustration out on this guy; he hadn’t chosen the situation any more than Hutch had, and as babysitters went, at least Dobey had chosen an unobtrusive one.

“Fine.” Hutch pulled the door open and looked back at his temporary partner, who was still glued to his seat. “C’mon . . . ?” He frowned. Somehow he’d missed his name.

“Puckett.”

Distracted, Hutch nodded. “Yeah, okay Pickett. Let’s go.”

“No, it’s Puck . . .”

Hutch ignored the kid scrambling after him, focused on getting to his real partner. Striding down the hall, he debated what approach would work best. The problem was that all of his interrogation techniques had been honed with Starsky, not against him.

On the last turn before Interrogation, Hutch realized there was one thing he needed to take care of first. He came to an abrupt halt, and turned back. The kid skidded to a stop, almost colliding with Hutch’s chest. Stumbling back a step, he stared at the senior detective, wide-eyed.

“Let’s just get one thing straight, here, Tuckett,” Hutch told him. “This is my show. You’re here, and that’s fine, but keep your mouth shut and stay out of my way. Got it?” Without waiting for an answer, Hutch unlocked the door to Interrogation.

*****

10:17 p.m.

A stranger wearing his best friend’s face regarded him as he entered the room.

Starsky was sitting behind the battered table, with his chair pushed up against the wall. His arms were crossed and his right ankle rested on his left knee. Barriers, Hutch noted. Oddly, he wasn’t abusing his chair in a typical Starsky manner, but sitting in it properly, facing forward.

Disappointed by the lack of welcome, Hutch nonetheless tried reaching out to his friend. He smiled, and offered up a Laurel and Hardy quote as a peace offering. “Well, here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.” Work with me, buddy.

Starsky’s voice was flat. “Hope ya got your rocks off tonight, Hutch, ‘cause I sure as hell didn’t set out to ruin your date.”

Hutch felt the forced smile slip off his face. Fine, tough guy, we’ll play it your way. Striding to the table, he positioned himself opposite his sullen partner, and glared down at him. Starsky was still wearing the worn jeans and striped knit shirt from earlier, but the white bandage around the knuckles of his left hand was new.

“Starsky, what the hell is going on?”

But Starsky’s eyes had already moved past him, and settled on the young detective who’d followed Hutch into the room. “Well, that didn’t take long.”

Hutch bristled at the implied accusation. “Dobey’s just playing it by the rules.”

Starsky ignored him. “Where’d the hell you steal him from? Nursery school? What’s your name, kid?”

The neatly dressed young man ran his hand nervously through his short, dark hair. “Andy–“

“His name’s Tuckett, okay Starsk? Just leave him alone.”

“Actually, it’s Pu–“

“Tuckett and Hutch, doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?” He considered for a moment. “Hutch and Tuck, maybe? Sounds like a real comedy act.”

Hutch refused to be sidetracked any longer. “Starsky, just tell me what’s going on.”

Turning his head from evaluating the new kid, Starsky returned his attention to Hutch. “This is an interrogation room. It’s a place where police officers, such as you and Tucky here, conduct interrogations.”

“Cute, Starsk, real cute.” Hutch paused to rein in his aggravation. “This is serious, IA’s already involved and they’re talking about bringing you up on charges.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet Simonetti’s gonna be giggling into his cornflakes this morning.”

Hutch’s grip on his temper slipped. “Enough with the attitude, Starsky! They told me you beat this guy unconscious, and if he doesn’t come out of the coma–.”

Starsky interrupted him. “You mean, the best case scenario.” The corner of his mouth curled up into something that was definitely not a smile.

Hutch braced his palms onto the table and met his partner’s stony stare. Just a few hours ago, he’d been his usual relaxed and happy self, cracking jokes and offering sly innuendo regarding Hutch’s upcoming date. Something had happened to him between then and now, setting this man against the world. It hurt like hell that Starsky was numbering him among the enemy.

With a Herculean effort, Hutch lowered his voice and tried to pull the man back into their partnership. “I don’t get it, Starsky. This isn’t like you.” Not with me.

 Starsky just watched him, silent and absolutely still.  It was a state so alien to his normally hyperactive partner that Hutch felt the hairs on his arms stand on end. What the hell happened to you?

 “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Nope.” Starsky appeared to relish that single syllable.

Hutch straightened up and retreated from the table, his hands on his hips.

“Damn it, Starsky, talk to me!”

Starsky regarded him for a long moment before turning his attention back to their babysitter, who was standing as far away from them as possible. “Now this is the part where you go and get yourself a cup of coffee, but not from the machine down the hall. You gotta go all the way down to the cafeteria in the basement. That way you’re gone a good five, six minutes which will give Hutch here enough time to bring out the rubber hose.”

Hutch spared a glance behind him. The kid looked appalled. Turning back to Starsky, Hutch snapped, “Knock it off!”

Starsky took a deep breath, and a brief emotion crossed his face, but it was locked away too quickly to decipher. He unfolded his legs and leaned forward, his arms remaining tightly folded across his chest. “Listen to me, Hutch.” His voice started off subdued, almost normal sounding. “There’s nothin’ to tell. I done the deed, and I’ve already confessed. I’ve made my choice, and it’s got nothin’ to do with you. So just get the hell away from me!”

This flare of genuine anger was a relief to Hutch; it was the first sign that his partner had grown tired of playing games. “Starsky, let me help you.”

But Starsky leaned back in his chair, and wouldn’t meet his gaze, his wall back in place. “Go home, Hutch.”

Hutch began to pace, his agitation mounting again. “What about your career? What about –?” He swallowed down hard. What about us? He tried again, “The man I know, the cop I know, doesn’t go beating people up without a damn good reason. And he sure as hell doesn’t give up without a fight!”

Starsky’s expression darkened. “You don’t know a goddamn thing.”

“Then tell me!” Hutch had come to the end of his rope and was reduced to pleading with his partner. “Explain to me what’s going on.”

“Beating up little old men is a crime, Hutch, not much to explain.” His partner had disappeared again behind the cold son-of-a-bitch facade.

Hutch slammed his hands down on the table with enough force that his palms stung. “Are you on drugs?” He demanded.

Starsky leaned forward again until they were eye to eye, and spoke so quietly that Hutch knew the words were meant for him alone.

“No, Hutch. That’s your deal.”

The calculated cruelty of Starsky’s reply stunned Hutch. For a moment he couldn’t breathe; then intense fury swept over him. He knew if he didn’t leave immediately, he’d punch his best friend in his big mouth.

Slamming the door, Hutch came to a halt just outside the interrogation room, and leaned against the wall, shaking. Through the closed door he could hear Starsky hollering.

“Hey, you can’t leave this poor kid to interrogate me on his own! He ain’t gonna know one end of the rubber hose from another. What kinda partner are you?”

 

CHAPTER TWO

Sunday, February 26, 1978

2:54 a.m.

“Yes, it’s me again. Yes, I know I’ve been calling a lot, but . . . I realize you’re busy . . . No, I do appreciate that nursing is a demanding profession, but could you at least tell me…? No change in his condition? Okay.”

Hutch dropped the phone back into its cradle, realizing to late that he’d forgotten to thank the nurse at the desk of the trauma unit for her grudging assistance. He leaned back in his chair, trying to stretch some of the kinks out of his back, and surveyed the empty squad room. His shadow, what’s-his-face, had long since gone home and the night shift was out on the streets.

Hutch rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, stifling a yawn. He nearly jumped out of his skin as Dobey’s voice filled the room.

“Hutchinson! What the hell are you still doing here?”

“What the h . . . ? I mean, I was… going through the arrest report.” He resisted the temptation to throw the same question back at his glowering superior. Hutch grabbed for a half-buried form in the scattered pile of papers, and accidentally spilled most of them off his desk. He dove after the fluttering sheets, and smacked his head on the leg of the desk

“Shit!” Hutch fell back into his chair, clutching his forehead.

Dobey wearily settled his bulk onto the corner of Hutch’s desk. The man’s unusual silence caused Hutch to stop checking for blood, and squint up at him. Dobey scratched his cheek, his broad fingers digging into the rough stubble. “Did he, um . . . Did Starsky seem, ah, in any way . . . ?”

“He’s not crazy, if that’s what you mean.” Over the past few hours Hutch’s anger had faded sufficiently for him to begin logically analyzing Starsky’s behavior in the interrogation room. “I don’t know what’s gotten into that pinhead of his, but he’s acting this way deliberately. He was trying to get rid of me.”

Hutch paused thoughtfully. “Whatever he’s got himself into, he doesn’t want me involved. It was almost like . . .” He stopped. “It was like he’s in deep cover.” Hutch narrowed his eyes at Dobey. “But you’d know about it if he was. Even if nobody could tell me, you’d know, right?”

Dobey’s answer crushed even that faint hope. “I’d know, and he isn’t.”

“I didn’t think so.” Hutch reached for a pencil, rotating it between his fingers. He felt the old craving reassert itself, and imagined he held a cigarette. Starsky would be livid if he started smoking again.

Assuming he still gives a damn what I do.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve got so far,” Dobey suggested.

Hutch’s training kicked in, allowing him to present the case in an impersonal manner. “The victim’s driver’s license identified him as Gene Williamson, age 61, currently residing in Brooklyn. A return airline ticket was found in his jacket, indicating that he flew into Bay City this afternoon . . . I mean, yesterday afternoon now. The return flight to New York is in a week.”

He took a deep breath before reporting the most troubling detail. “Williamson also had a Policemen’s Association card in his wallet. I called the main information desk of the NYPD, but the girl answering the phone wasn’t able to tell me anything. She gave me the extension of a Lieutenant Billings, and told me to call him in the morning.” Hutch had already calculated that with the three-hour time difference between Bay City and New York, if he called after five thirty a.m. he should catch the lieutenant at his desk.

“Brooklyn,” Dobey repeated. “Do you think there’s an established relationship between Starsky and this Williamson?”

“Maybe,” Hutch conceded, “but Starsky moved here when he was eleven. He plays up that accent, and talks about New York like it’s his home town, but he’s spent most of his life right here in Bay City.”

“Some connection with his family then,” Dobey said, his eyes tracking the revolving pencil between Hutch’s fingers. “Starsky’s father was NYPD . . .  Maybe he knew this Williamson.”

“Hopefully I’ll find out when I call later this morning. But it still wouldn’t explain how Starsky’s behaving.” Hutch shook his head. “He told the officers on scene that he’d tried to kill Williamson, but according to the arrest report, Starsky was the one who called for the ambulance. Now why would he do that if he wanted the guy dead?”

Dobey grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Hutch. “This is going nowhere,” he said. “Go home and get some sleep.”

“But Sir, I can . . .” Hutch’s protest died of its own accord. He knew perfectly well that all he was doing right now was spinning his wheels. Over the last hour, he’d been reduced to reading the same words again and again as if he could tease meaning out of the blank spaces between the lines. More than once he’d been sorely tempted to dig up a rubber hose and question his partner again. With a sigh, Hutch pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.

Dobey stood and clasped his shoulder. “Wait a minute, son.” The captain had to rummage through his pockets for a minute before he found what he was looking for. Somewhat embarrassed, he handed it to Hutch.

Hutch stared at the object in his hand. “Starsky’s watch,” he said, puzzled. Turning it over, he noted that the hinged metal strap had snapped off on one side.

“Found it. Figured you could hang onto it for him,” Dobey explained.

Hutch examined the watch and noticed that the pin keeping the strap in place was bent. “I think I can fix this,” he said, trying not to think about how the watch had been damaged, probably ripped from Starsky’s wrist in the struggle with Williamson. It occurred to Hutch that the watch should have been entered as evidence. He gave Dobey a curious glance.

His captain’s expression was unreadable. “Get out of here. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Hutch nodded, but as he left the squad room, watch in hand, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was abandoning Starsky. The man had made it more than clear that he didn’t want help, and his behavior had been enough to test the bond of any friendship. Still, guilt dogged Hutch all the way to the parking lot.

Hutch climbed into his LTD, and rested his arms for a moment against the steering wheel. He still found it difficult to believe that his partner didn’t trust him with whatever he was carrying. When their positions had been reversed, when Hutch had been facing charges for the murder of his ex-wife, Starsky had stood by him with unwavering loyalty.

His biggest regret from that time, Hutch mused as he started the car, was that for a few minutes he’d actually believed that Starsky was prepared to arrest him. It had only been a moment of doubt, and he’d kicked himself afterwards, because it hadn’t been based on anything rational. Starsky would have turned the city upside down to keep his partner from going to prison. Yet, for some reason, he wasn’t willing to allow Hutch to do the same for him.

If you think I’m going to give up on “me and thee” that easily, partner, you’re an even bigger dummy than I thought you were.

*****

3:41 a.m.

A white slip of paper was waiting for him when he got home, folded into the doorjamb just above the lock. He pulled it out and discovered that it was half of an envelope. A message had been emphatically scratched onto the back with a fading ball point pen, tearing through the paper.

Ken,

Don’t ever call me again.

Carol

Shoulders slumped, he opened the door to his apartment, where the cold remains of his evening awaited him.

Shit, did I really kick her out of my apartment, in the middle of sex, and then shove a ten at her? Smooth, Hutchinson. He thought he’d really been falling for her too, for she’d not only been beautiful, but smart and funny too.

A small cynical voice in the back of his mind suggested that he’d only been looking for consolation in the aftermath of Vanessa’s death. But even if that were true, he argued, it didn’t mean that the relationship couldn’t have become something special, given half a chance.

With a heavy sigh, he sat down on the couch. Knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to stop himself, he retrieved the phone from the coffee table. Balancing it on his knee, Hutch dialed, and prepared himself for the explosion.

“Hi, I’m looking for information on a Gene Williamson. He was brought in–.” He winced as a strident voice cut him off. “Right. No change.” This time he didn’t feel quite so guilty for forgetting the social niceties when he hung up, cutting off the tirade at the other end.

He fished Starsky’s watch out of his pocket. It was new; the last one had been destroyed during a fire fight on a farm last month. Afterward, when Starsky was recovering from the bullet wound in his calf, Hutch had teased him for acting as if the watch had nobly sacrificed itself in the line of duty.

Nonetheless, Starsky had bounced back from his loss with good humor, throwing himself into the search for a replacement with characteristic enthusiasm. Staring at the watch in his hand, Hutch could once again hear his partner bragging about his new purchase. “This, my friend, is not just your average, ordinary watch. This is a racing chronometer. It’s got separate dials for minutes, and seconds, an auxiliary thirty minute dial at the top and tachymeter markings around the face  . . .”

When Hutch had irritably accused him of memorizing the owner’s manual, Starsky had just smiled at him, neither confirming nor denying the charge.

Hutch now squinted at where the band had come loose from the watch. He tried to unbend the pin, but the spring holding it in place had jammed somehow. He knew he should be able to fix it, but he was too tired to try.

Hutch got up and turned on the TV instead. He found himself part way through an old movie; something to do with a platoon of soldiers pinned down in a desert bunker during World War II. Incapable of sleep, and unable to think of anything better to do, he settled back down on the couch to watch.

An hour had passed before he realized that the movie had ended and he’d been staring at a test pattern for an unknown length of time.  The only thing he’d absorbed from watching the film was that Starsky probably would have liked it. He also discovered that he’d chewed the knuckle of his right thumb until it was raw.

To hell with what Starsky wants.

He got up and pulled on his jacket, pausing to call the hospital one more time before he left.

The streets were nearly empty—it was long past the hour when the bars closed and still too early for the garbage trucks and city workers to appear. He parked his car in front of the twenty-four hour pharmacy, and ignored the halfhearted offer from the bored streetwalker outside as he pushed the door open.

The woman behind the counter was old enough to be his mother, but there the resemblance ended. The flower pattern on her shapeless, polyester dress was painfully bright under the fluorescent lights, and her lipstick was fire engine red, staining the lit cigarette dangling from her mouth. He hated that he could hear his mother’s voice in his head, condemning her as common.

The scent of burning tobacco had Hutch teetering on the edge of craving and nausea. He hesitated, eyeing the rows of cartons behind the counter, his hands jammed into his jacket’s pockets.

“Well, hon, whaddya want?”

He blinked at her. Winstons had been his preference, up to two packs a day at his worst. “Um . . .”

A memory ambushed him, of waiting just last week for Vanessa to meet him in The Pits . He’d been torn between hoping she would show up, and praying that she wouldn’t. Huggy had walked by with a pack of smokes sticking out of his shirt pocket, and he’d tried to snag one. Hutch could still hear Huggy’s voice rebuking him as he slapped his hand away: “You don’t smoke.”

Only because Starsky had insisted that he quit once they’d started undercover work together. He wasn’t going to put up with his beloved car smelling like a tar pit, and he certainly had no intention of driving around in Hutch’s heap all the time. During the worst of the cravings, Starsky had shown amazing tolerance of his meanness, and had fed him coffee until Hutch was nearly jumping out of his skin. Throughout it all, his partner had kept smiling, getting him off of tobacco with the same gentle persistence he’d show years later when he’d got Hutch off of heroin.

“Are you on drugs?”

“No, Hutch. That’s your deal.”

He wanted to kick something, but instead grabbed a pack of gum at random from the nearby rack, and dropped it on the counter.

“Tryin’ to quit, hon?” The woman asked, sympathy in her gravely voice.

Hutch rubbed his mouth, disgusted with himself. “Trying to start.”

*****

10:07 a.m.

Hutch had only one phone call left to make, and had run out legitimate excuses for putting it off. Still, he got up first, stretched, checked the time on Starsky’s watch, and refreshed his coffee. He noticed that everyone in the crowded squad room was going out of their way to avoid him. Everyone, that was, but his temporary partner, who’d obviously been given orders to stick close. Hutch got him out from under foot by dumping a huge stack of files on him.

Literally.

The other officers were amused at the sight of the kid scrambling to collect them all, but Dobey’s expression was thunderous.

“I’ll deal with you when I get back,” he growled as he left the squad room.

Unable to procrastinate any longer, Hutch returned to his desk, looked up the number, and dialed. He held onto the handset tightly, ashamed of his hope that no one would be home.

“Hello?”

Hutch instantly recognized her voice. “Mrs. Starsky, it’s Ken Hutchinson, Stars — I mean, David’s partner.” Hearing her sharp intake of breath, he hastily reassured her. “He’s fine. Don’t worry, I’m just calling to –,” but she cut him off.

“If David’s fine, then why isn’t he calling me?” Her anxious question reminded Hutch of his own suspicions when Dobey had tried the same line on him last night.

“He’s taking care of some other business, Mrs. Starsky, so I thought I’d make the call for him.” Hutch forged ahead before she could interrupt him again. “I’m just looking for some information on a retired Police Lieutenant by the name of Gene Williamson, and one of his friends recommended I talk to you.” He cringed inwardly at the enormity of the lie he was telling. It was one thing to mislead a perp, but doing it to Starsky’s mother felt criminal.

With some guilt, he recalled how much he always enjoyed watching Starsky trying to get a word in edgewise during his weekly phone calls with his mother. He thought of the first time he’d spoken to her himself, in the hospital that very first time Starsky had got himself shot in the line of duty, when his partner had shoved the phone at him. “Tell her I’m fine, will ya! She won’t believe me.” And he thought of the small, kind lady who’d welcomed him like a member of her family during his visit to New York with Starsky just this past Christmas.

Hutch suddenly noticed that throughout his extended self-flagellation, the line had been silent. Worried that they’d been cut off, an all too common occurrence with long distance connections using the police switchboard, he asked, “Mrs. Starsky?”

“Put David on the line.”

Hutch was taken aback by this soft demand, but quickly recovered. “Ah, he’s not here right now.”

“You mean he doesn’t know you’re calling me.”

Shit. Hutch slid further down into his chair as he admitted, “No, he doesn’t.”

“What’s happened, Kenneth?”

He winced at the name; it always made him feel eight years old. “Starsky got into… a disagreement with Williamson, and I’m just trying to get all of the facts straight. Now, Lieutenant George Billings told me –.”

“Has David been arrested? Is that why he can’t talk to me?”

Shit, shit, shit!

“Kenneth, I know my boy, he’s always preferred using his fists over words. Just tell me.”

And I always thought Starsk inherited his talent at interrogations from his father. “No charges have been laid as of yet, ma’am, but he’s being held in custody as a material witness,” he hesitated, and then conceded, “ . . . to the assault on Mr. Williamson.” There, Hutch thought, just a small omission, barely a lie. After all, he soothed his conscience, if Williamson lived, then he would have just worried her for nothing.

Dobey returned to the squad room, glowering at Hutch as he crossed to his office. He was followed by Detective Turner, one of the men who’d been assigned extra shifts to cover for Starsky. Hutch leapt on this convenient excuse to end the conversation before it got any worse. “I’ve got to go, Mrs. Starsky, but I promise I will call you as soon as he’s released.”

Remembering why he’d called, he made one last attempt. “You wouldn’t happen to know why Gene Williamson came to Bay City?”

There was another long pause before she answered; her voice cold. “I can’t help you, Kenneth. Neither of my sons nor I have had any contact with him in at least twenty years.”

The line went dead, and startled, he realized that she’d hung up on him. As Hutch replaced the receiver and made his way to Dobey’s office, he reproached himself for handling the call so badly. If you were capable of snowing a single member of the Starsky clan, she wouldn’t be so shaken up.

He opened Dobey’s door and stuck his head inside the office. “Hey, Turner, give me a minute with the captain.”

At Dobey’s nod, Turner rose from the chair and shot Hutch a dirty look on his way out of the office.

Dobey scowled at Hutch. “I thought I told you to go home and get some rest.”

“I went home.”

“And according to the desk sergeant you were back here three hours later.” Dobey watched Hutch as he rapidly paced the length of his office. “Sit down!” he barked. “You’ll give me whiplash.”

Too wired to comply with the order, Hutch headed for the water cooler in the corner instead. “I’ve made the phone calls to New York,” he said, helping himself to a Dixie cup from the dispenser.

“What did you find out?”

“Get this,” Hutch gestured with the cup, sloshing cold water over his hand. “Williamson not only worked with Starsky’s dad, he was his partner when he got shot! What if he had something to do with Starsky’s dad dying, or maybe he’s hiding what went down . . .”

“Slow down, Hutchinson. What did the NYPD tell you about Williamson?”

“That he’s a saint,” Hutch admitted reluctantly, wiping his wet hand against his jeans.

He finished his water, and reviewed what he’d learned. “Williamson was on the force for thirty years, and retired with an exemplary service record. He’s been volunteering in the community for decades, mostly working with troubled kids. Lieutenant Billings claimed that Williamson was not just Mike Starsky’s partner but his best friend, and that after the shooting, he took the family under his wing.” Hutch grimaced, crushing the paper cup in his fist, as he recalled Billings’ words about Starsky.

“Davy Starsky? Yeah, I remember that kid, a real troublemaker. He was always getting into fights and kicked out of school. Gene tried to be a father to him, after Mike died. Guess what they say is true—no good deed goes unpunished.”

“The Brooklyn PD isn’t real happy with Starsky at the moment,” Hutch told Dobey.

He tossed the balled up paper cup into the wastebasket. “But I was just on the phone with Mrs. Starsky and she told me that they haven’t had any contact with Williamson in over twenty years. She sounded like she wanted it kept that way. If Williamson was such a great partner and friend of the family, why aren’t they speaking anymore?”

Starsky and his mother were two of the warmest human beings Hutch knew, and yet they’d both transformed into frigid strangers because of this guy.

Hutch began pacing again, trying to work it out. “Maybe Starsky’s dad was involved in something dicey and Williamson has been blackmailing them.” He knew he was clutching at straws, but felt helpless to stop himself. “Or maybe they blamed Williamson for Mike Starsky’s death, maybe he set his partner up.”

“We better hope that’s not the case,” Dobey said.

Hutch met his captain’s worried eyes, and nodded. Revenge would be a motive that Simonetti would love to expose. Ever since speaking with Billings at NYPD, Hutch had begun to fear that if he ever found out what was really going on, he might end up making things worse for his partner.

No, this is Starsky, not some street thug, no matter how well he plays the role undercover.

Dobey sighed heavily, and looked Hutch over. Self-conscious, the detective ducked his head and checked his clothes, giving his chin a quick rub. After his abortive attempt to buy cigarettes, Hutch had returned home briefly for a shower and shave. He knew he looked presentable, but would his captain be fooled by this surface appearance?

“Are you sure you can handle this case? I can assign someone else –.”

Hutch’s head snapped up, and his body tensed. “Starsky’s not a case! I can –” but the phone on the captain’s desk cut him off.

Dobey answered the call. “Yes, patch them through.” He listened, periodically grunting in acknowledgement. “I’ll send my man over.” He hung up and met Hutch’s eyes. “That was the hospital. Williamson regained consciousness several hours ago, and the doctor has cleared him to talk to us.”

Hutch was halfway out the door, when Dobey’s shout pulled him up short. “Don’t forget your partner!”

Hutch turned back, confused. How could he possibly forget Starsky?

Dobey scowled. “Your temporary partner,” he clarified, “Puckett.”

Oh. Hutch looked around and spotted the man still struggling with the old filing cabinet. “Alright, Pluckett, come along.” He motioned to the kid, who, despite a bizarrely pained expression on his face, abandoned his task with enthusiasm.

Hutch felt a surge of energy as well. Now he might finally get some answers.

CHAPTER THREE

Sunday, February 26, 1978

11:15 a.m.

As Hutch made his way through the halls of the trauma ward, he hoped he was only imagining the reproachful expressions he saw on the nurses’ faces. He couldn’t remember if Carol was supposed to be working this morning, but he kept a vigilant eye out anyway, prepared to take an alternate route to avoid her. He strongly doubted that his temporary partner would provide backup in dealing with the justifiably outraged woman.

Turning the corner, his babysitter close on his heels, Hutch recognized the person coming out of a room halfway down the hall. He tensed. As his adversary spotted him and killed the distance between them, Hutch wondered if Simonetti would appreciate being categorized as the lesser of two evils.

“Detective Hutchinson and Detective . . . ?” Simonetti prompted, as he was joined by Dryden.

Hutch answered for the young man. “Detective Plunkett.”

The junior detective’s voice sounded strangely resigned as he said, “Please, just call me An–.”

“I do hope, Detective Hutchinson, that you’re not planning on pressuring Lieutenant Williamson into changing his story,” Simonetti said with casual malice.

“What story?” snapped Hutch. “Starsky’s a good cop–”

“He’s a loose cannon!” Simonetti’s eyes narrowed. “Now that I’ve seen and heard the evidence, I’m going to recommend to the DA that he be charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder. Your partner’s going to lose his badge, and if it’s a good day, he’ll lose his freedom for a very long time.”

Hutch’s fists tightened. Behind him, he heard a soft noise in warning.

“Now, now, remember what your captain said,” Simonetti chided with false sincerity. “We wouldn’t want you up on charges as well!”

Hutch forced himself to hold his position as the IA officers strolled past. Before turning down the next hall, Simonetti paused. Raising his voice, he added, “Hutchinson, you’ll be happy to know that the nurse confirmed your alibi. Although, based on her statement, I wouldn’t count on getting another date with her anytime soon.”

Dryden laughed, dryly.

Hutch repressed the urge to turn and answer. He waited until the sound of their footsteps had faded into the distance. Only then did he drop his head and rub the bridge of his nose. Between his disastrous date with Carol and the number of her colleagues that he’d harassed over the phone, he’d already figured out that he wouldn’t be dating any more nurses from Memorial Hospital in the near future.

Then again, remembering Nurse Diana Harmon, who’d tried to slice and dice him in his shower, maybe he should stick to stewardesses from now on anyway.

“Um, shouldn’t we–.”

“Let’s get this over with.” Hutch cut him off, and strode down the hall to Lieutenant Williamson’s room. He pushed the door open, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Despite everything he’d read in the arrest report and heard from the nurses, Hutch only now realized how much he’d been minimizing the seriousness of Starsky’s crime. He’d envisioned a punch thrown in anger, causing the old man to fall and hit his head. Remorseful, Starsky had then called for an ambulance. Guilt over injuring an old family friend had temporarily unhinged his partner, but soon Starsky would come to his senses and defend his actions. While this theory was admittedly more than a little bit shaky in parts, it had seemed like a workable hypothesis.

Hutch’s first sight of Lt. Gene Williamson, Retired, utterly disabused him of this fantasy.

First, regardless of his age and Starsky’s comments in the interrogation room, Williamson was not a “little old man.” There was nothing frail about the large, heavyset man sitting up in the hospital bed. If anything, he resembled an aging star quarterback, recently gone to seed.

Second, Williamson looked like he’d been bounced off the hood of Starsky’s Torino and then backed over a few times for good measure. Both of his eyes were blackened, the surrounding flesh so swollen his eyes were reduced to mere slits. The bruising around his throat showed that he’d been pinned down with a strong right hand, while his face was pummeled from the left.

Shock twisting his gut into knots, Hutch nonetheless retained enough composure to assess professionally the splints on the fingers of Williamson’s right hand, and the dark purple bruises mottling his forearms. Defensive wounds, gained from trying to ward off a brutal, ruthless attacker.

But Starsky’s not like that!

Stepping down hard on his turbulent emotions, Hutch forced himself to address the man politely. “Lieutenant Williamson, I’m Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson.”

“You’re Davy’s partner, aren’t you? They told me you’d come by.” The man’s voice was painfully hoarse, but Hutch could sense a cool intelligence in the eyes that appraised him.

Davy? David and Davy, these names sounded like they belonged to someone other than his partner. Maybe they did belong to the cold stranger who had taken Starsky’s place. “Yes sir. Starsky’s my partner. I’m hoping you can answer some questions for me.”

“Fire away.” Williamson sounded resigned. As a cop himself, he would know how many times he’d be required to repeat his story, over and over again.

Hutch studied the bruised face, but there was too much damage to read the injured man’s expression. “Tell me what happened last night.” Tell me something I’ll believe.

Williamson nodded, the pain of the movement revealed in the care he took. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Davy. I promised his father that I’d look after him, but I couldn’t do much after his mother sent him out here. But I was always curious to see how he’d turned out. I’d saved up a small amount from my pension, and I thought I would surprise him. We could catch up on old times.” Williamson picked up a glass off of the table beside his bed and took a sip of water.

Tired of holding the door open behind Hutch, the junior detective squeezed past him into the room. Hutch stepped to the side, and tried to ignore the appalled look that crossed the young man’s face at his first unobstructed view of Williamson.

Williamson put down the glass, and continued, “I had no trouble finding his address through the Policeman’s Association. When I got to Davy’s apartment he wasn’t home, but his door was unlocked. I decided to settle in and wait for him.”

“He wasn’t expecting you.”

Williamson attempted a smile, but it was made gruesome by his injuries. “He didn’t mistake me for anyone else, if that’s what you’re thinking. He came inside and stopped as soon as he saw me. I stood up and said hi.” Williamson paused, and Hutch watched the man replay the memory in his head. “I teased him a little, in a friendly way. About leaving his door unlocked – it’s not the smartest thing to do if you’re an undercover cop.”

“What did Starsky say?”

“You see, son, that’s what was so odd. He didn’t say anything at all. Not then, and not when he knocked me down.”

It was too much. Hutch turned away and leaned a hand against the nearby wall. Almost to himself, he muttered, “It just doesn’t make any sense.” None of it did. Starsky’s behavior, the evidence of the attack in front of his eyes, nor Williamson’s story, for all that he’d told it in such a calm, reasonable voice.

Williamson rasped, “I’m also on Davy’s side, Detective Hutchinson.”

Hutch wasn’t buying this either. “You’re pressing charges, though.”

His temporary partner cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable, but Hutch ignored him—he didn’t care how cold he sounded. Starsky’s career was on the line here, even his freedom, and no matter how bad it looked, he must have had a good reason for what he’d done.

Even if what he’d done was turn this guy’s face into hamburger?

“Davy’s fallen off the edge. He needs help, son.” Williamson’s breath hitched as he tried to shift himself into a more comfortable position on the bed. “He’s not going to get it if we cover up for him. He needs to face the consequences of his actions.”

“Starsky was fine . . .” Still braced against the wall, Hutch thought back over the last few days. Had there been any signs of imminent breakdown, anything that he’d missed?

“He’s been through a lot, recently.” The concern in Williamson’s voice was evident, despite the damage his neck injury has caused to his vocal cords. “You both have. He brought Callendar in when you had the plague – I saw that on TV. John Blaine was murdered. He mentored Davy after he moved out here, didn’t he? Davy’s girl was killed. He was kidnapped by Simon Marcus’s cult. All that in the past year, and that’s just what makes the papers. I know how much of a cop’s life never reaches the public eye.”

“You . . .” Hutch stopped himself, but he was disturbed by how much Williamson knew about the events in Starsky’s life. As an old family friend, a continuing interest might be understandable, but Mrs. Starsky had been clear about how she’d distanced herself from him.

Too many things didn’t add up. Sure, all of those events had been covered in the news, but Starsky’s name had, for the most part, been kept out of print, as had his own. Regardless, the last thing Hutch wanted was to get dragged down memory lane with Williamson as he speculated on Starsky’s mental fitness.

His hand slipped into his pocket and he felt the smooth crystal face of Starsky’s watch. I know my partner.

It was time to regain control of this interview. Straightening, Hutch turned back to face Williamson. “That isn’t the whole story. What aren’t you telling me?”

Williamson hesitated. “I’ve told you everything.”

“No,” said Hutch, with sudden conviction. “No, you haven’t. And neither has Starsky. And one of you is going to tell me, if I have to–” Next to him, the young man, probably getting nervous, shuffled his feet, and Hutch took the hint.  He couldn’t go threatening an injured former police officer in a hospital bed. Especially in front of the department babysitter.

He tried once more. “I’m not going to stop until one of you tells me the truth.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” said Williamson, but there was something other than honesty in his eyes this time.

Fear, perhaps. Hutch stared long and hard at the man his partner had assaulted. He moved a few steps forward and then leaned on the metal railings at the foot of the hospital bed. As his smile formed, Hutch knew he was drawing on Starsky’s bad cop persona, always more effective than his own. “Sure there is, but I understand. You want more privacy before you open up to me. Don’t worry. I can arrange that.”

As Williamson shrank back against his pillow, Hutch winked. “See ya, Williamson,” he added, as he left the room.

Behind him he could hear the other detective nervously trying to make the usual courtesies, acknowledging Williamson’s assistance, and so forth. Hutch picked up his pace; he’d already decided to ditch his shadow.

Williamson is safe from me for now, but Starsky, old pal, you’re fair game.

*****

1:20 p.m.

Hutch found Campbell, the officer on duty, in the visitor’s area of the precinct holding cells.

“How’s Starsky doing?”

Campbell grimaced.  “You know what they say about doctors making the worst patients?”

Hutch nodded, unsurprised.

He waited in the empty room while Campbell went to get Starsky. Hutch knew this part of the building intimately. It was bright, well-lit, with large reinforced glass windows, and booths where counsel could talk semi-privately with their clients. The space was as conducive to conversation as the department had been able to make it, and a damn sight more comfortable than his partner deserved.

It’s a shame they don’t actually stock rubber hoses here.

Officer Campbell returned with an apologetic expression. “He doesn’t want to talk to you, Hutchinson.”

Hutch felt the pulse in his temple begin to throb.

Campbell stepped back. “Hey, you know, it’s no skin off of my nose if you wanna just go deal with him yourself. It’s been at least half an hour since there’s been any excitement down there.”

Hutch gave him a curt nod, and pushed open the heavy door that marked the boundary between the public visiting area and the precinct’s cells.

He couldn’t help but notice how hot and claustrophobic it was, especially in contrast to the bright, spacious room he’d just left. The windows were small and set high in the wall, covered with fine wire mesh and a film of brown grime. It was nothing he hadn’t seen a thousand times before, but now he wondered how the prisoners ever got any fresh air. The stench of sweat, vomit, and urine was overpowering. Many of the toilets had been blocked to overflowing, and that couldn’t be healthy.

He had a sudden urge to go and speak to someone about the conditions inside the cells, but he knew that he only cared because his partner was here. Hutch tried to tell himself that it was what Starsky deserved, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

I wonder what they gave him for breakfast?

Hutch found his partner in a cell near the end of the corridor. Starsky was draped over one of the benches in an extravagant sprawl, taking up four times as much room as necessary. The five other occupants of the cell were all crowded onto a small bench on the other side, as far away from Starsky as they could get.

Frowning at this bizarre scene, Hutch took a moment to size up his partner, who appeared to be stubbornly oblivious to his presence. Starsky looked far more rumpled than Hutch had expected, even for someone who had spent the night in a cell without a change of clothes. There was a scrape high on his left cheekbone, and the skin under his right eye was purple and swollen.

“You look terrible,” Hutch said. Any desire he’d had to beat the truth out of Starsky had completely vanished.

Starsky slowly moved his head and took in his partner. “You look worse.” His flat voice gave no indication as to whether this was an insult or a simple observation.

“So, ah — I don’t know if they’ve told you, but –.”

“Save your breath,” Starsky interrupted him. “I’ve already heard the bad news.”

Hutch tried to reassure his partner. “They won’t be able to make attempted murder stick, and we should be able to get assault knocked down to a misdemeanor if you’d just tell us the extenuating circumstances . . .” His voice trailed off at the strange expression on Starsky’s face.

“Nah, I meant the bad news that Williamson woke up. Shit, all those years of being accused of police brutality and I can’t even beat an old man into a decent coma.”

Hutch glanced worriedly at the other occupants of the holding cell.

“Don’t sweat it. Simonetti visited a while ago and made sure he addressed me as Officer Starsky in front of these good citizens.”

“That son of a bitch!”

Starsky’s pose remained nonchalant. “It was kinda fun instillin’ a respect for the law in these guys after Simonetti slithered off. ‘Course every time they toss in someone new, I gotta reinforce it.” He shrugged. “Passes the time.”

Hutch noticed for the first time that Starsky wasn’t the only occupant in the cell who looked rough. If anything, most of them appeared worse off. One man sported a shiner, another a split lip, and the biggest inmate had one of each. Hutch wasn’t reassured, though. Starsky was putting up a good front, but he still looked seriously worn down.

“I almost forgot,” Hutch said, reaching into his jacket’s right pocket. Being a cop had some benefits, like not getting frisked for contraband. He pulled out the pack of gum, so he could dig down further.

Starsky abruptly sat up. “Hey, wait a minute!”

“What?” Hutch jammed the gum back where he’d found it, and patted his rear pockets. Wallet, badge, broken watch . . .

“You’ve started smoking again!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah? Then what’s with the gum? I know you, Hutch. You don’t chew that stuff for fun.”

“You know what, Starsk? You’ve finally lost what’s left of your mind.” At last he found the candy bar he’d managed to coax out of the upstairs vending machine. It was only a little mangled. “Here.” He shoved it through the cell bars at his partner.

Surprised, Starsky stood up and took it from him, but he stared at Hutch like he was from outer space. “Aw, man, what is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?”

Starsky shook his head at him. “Do ya get off on being kicked around or somethin’?”

Hutch had a sudden vision of the night Vanessa had accused him of having a martyr complex. Screaming at him that he’d deliberately picked a job where he was constantly getting hurt and risking his life, then holding his sacrifices over her head whenever she complained.  He also recalled a late night drinking session shortly after the divorce, when Starsky had bluntly asked him why the hell he wanted Van back, when she’d made him so damned miserable.

Memories like that usually made Hutch angry, but in his current overtired and overstressed state, he suddenly saw the weird humor of it all. Maybe they were right. His lips curled upward. “Maybe.”

Starsky snorted. “Just my luck to be saddled with a mascotist.”

“Masochist,” Hutch corrected automatically.

“Masochist college boy.” Starsky turned the candy bar over in his hands. “Does it at least have a file inside?”

Hutch smiled some more, suddenly too tired to spar. “They were fresh out.”

The largest man on the opposite bench piped up hopefully, “Hey, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

Starsky silenced him with a frigid glare, then slid the unopened candy bar into his back pocket. He looked back at Hutch with studied disinterest. “So where’s your new partner? What’s his name . . . ? Fuckett?”

“He’s not my partner!” For a brief moment, he thought he saw a flash of pain in Starsky’s eyes.  Hutch took a steadying breath, finding a certain perverse pleasure in the knowledge that, whatever Starsky thought he was accomplishing with this charade, at least he was hurting too. “They’ve scheduled your bail hearing for eight a.m. tomorrow. We’ll get you out, and you’ll be back on the job before you know it.”

“Since when are you the optimist in this partnership?” Starsky glanced away. Before Hutch could take advantage of this opening, he added sourly, “Even if Simonetti can’t make this one stick, Dobey won’t want me in his department anymore.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. If it was me, maybe. But you? Dobey lets you get away with m–.” Oops.

“Murder?” Starsky asked with an evil grin. “Tried that one. Didn’t pull it off.”

Hutch stepped forward, his hands gripping the bars. “I don’t buy it, you know.”

Starsky gave him an aggravatingly innocent look. “I’m sellin’ somethin’?”

“The line of goods that you were trying to kill Williamson.”

“Gone psychic all of the sudden on me, Hutch? Gonna bend some spoons for your next act?”

“You didn’t use your gun. If you’d wanted him dead, you could have finished him off with a bullet.”

There was a long moment of silence. Starsky returned to the bench and flopped down on it. “Would’a been too messy.” Grimacing, he pulled the now thoroughly crushed candy bar out of his back pocket, and tossed it down beside him. “Brains are hell to get out of shag carpeting.”

“Funny.” Hutch didn’t smile. “Instead you called the ambulance and saved Williamson’s life.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You’re not a murderer, Starsky. There’s no way in hell you could have brought yourself to kill a helpless man –”

Starsky shot to his feet, and slammed his hands against the bars. Hutch stepped back involuntarily.

“Don’t you ever –” Starsky shouted. He cut himself off and with visible effort pulled back from the cell door.  He sat down, glaring at the other occupants. They cowered back from him.

Down the corridor, Officer Campbell’s head appeared through the door. “Problem, Hutchinson?”

Hutch looked at Starsky, who was leaning back on the bench, his arms crossed, clearly intent on ignoring him.

“Not anymore.” Hutch left the holding cell without another word.

Ignoring Campbell’s concerned look, Hutch headed back toward the squad room, because he just couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

He nearly collided with Dobey, only stumbling out of the way at the last moment. Hutch managed to keep on his feet, and update his superior in a steady voice, but the captain was having none of it.

“Hutchinson, you’re dead on your feet. Go home!”

Hutch waved him off. “Yeah, everyone’s trying to get rid of me these days – you, Simonetti, Starsky, the entire nursing staff at Memorial.” His lips tightened in annoyance at the hurt he heard in his own voice.

“Well, I’m succeeding! Get your butt home now, before I have them lock you up with your idiot partner!”

With no energy left to fight his captain, Hutch surrendered and headed for the parking lot.

To hell with all of them.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

Monday, February 27, 1978

8:12 a.m.

Starsky’s eyes marked him the moment he entered the courtroom, and Hutch cringed under the silent accusation. He was late.

He’d tried to go to sleep at a decent hour the night before, but his mind wouldn’t stop running in helpless circles, trying to untangle the Gordian knot that was Starsky.

Once again, Hutch had found himself at the counter of the all-night pharmacy in the early hours of the morning, staring at the cartons of cigarettes like an addict yearning for a fix.

The same woman had been behind the counter, this time bedecked in a neon green and yellow muumuu, the ever-present cigarette dusting everything within reach with ash. She’d given him an approximation of a motherly smile, and said, “Why don’t you tell me about the gal that broke your heart, hon?”

Blindsided by the question, Hutch had grumbled a hasty denial and bought three packs of gum, not noticing until he got home that they weren’t sugar free. Giving up on sleep, he’d parked himself on the couch with a paperback Starsky had left behind, only to wake twenty minutes before the hearing, his cheek resting in a puddle of cold drool.

It occurred to him that the cause of Starsky’s displeasure might not be his lateness, but the fact that he’d shown up at all.

But court was already in session and there was no opportunity to demand an explanation from Starsky or to issue an apology to him. Hutch pushed his way into the packed gallery. There was no available seating to speak of, but then a very large woman shuffled to the side enough to clear a few inches at the end of a bench three rows back. Hutch nodded politely at her as he sat down. She gave him a bright smile and whispered in a husky voice, “Who are you here for, darlin’?”

He glanced at her and then did a double-take, noting the Adam’s apple bobbing just above her lace collar. When he didn’t answer immediately, the drag queen folded her hands primly over her purse and said, “I’m here as surety for my husband.”

Hutch dismissed her, his attention already back on Starsky. He was seated at the left-hand table before the judge, next to a very young public defender. They appeared to be arguing fiercely, in low whispers, while the judge glowered at them, his fingers tapping the surface of his bench.

Hutch’s seatmate patted him on the thigh, startling him. “Are you here for the curly one, darlin’, or are you just appreciating the view?”

He gave her an irritated glance. “He’s . . .” Hutch stopped himself. Just because Simonetti had outed Starsky in the holding cell, there was no reason to announce publicly that a cop had been dragged in on an assault charge. “Yes, I’m here for him. But he’s definitely not my husband!”

She straightened, and tossed her head with an offended air. “Oh, well, if you want to be like that. No need to get all huffy, Sunshine.”

“Mr. MacDonald.” The judge’s voice overrode the noise of the gallery. “I’ll ask you one last time: Are you prepared to make your submission on the subject of bail, or would you prefer that we adjourn and reconvene at a more convenient time? Shall we say, next week?” He raised his bushy eyebrows in clear warning to the two of them not to test his patience further.

MacDonald stood, and scowled down at his client. Starsky crossed his arms and glared right back. Hutch generally held defense lawyers in little regard, unable to understand how a person could spend their lives protecting the guilty from the justice they deserved. Still, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the lawyer who had ended up having to represent his obstinate partner.

“Your honor,” said MacDonald. “I’d like to request that Mr. Starsky be released on his own recognizance. He’s employed, has a residence in the city, and no criminal record at all. He called the ambulance himself, which pretty much negates the attempted murder charge. I don’t think he’s a flight risk.”

The judge propped his chin on his hand and regarded the young lawyer. “You don’t think so, hmm?”

MacDonald quailed under the judge’s gaze. “I don’t believe so, sir.”

Hutch winced. Man, this kid’s green.

“How about a surety? A character witness? Mr. MacDonald, am I going to have to walk you through another case?”

“No, no sir!” Starsky’s lawyer fumbled through his papers, and then glanced back at the gallery, his expression anxious.

Hutch rose to his feet. “Excuse me, your honor, I’m, uh . . . ” He paused, wondering how to explain himself without broadcasting his occupation to the entire courtroom.

Starsky tugged down on his lawyer’s sleeve and whispered something to him, jerking his thumb in Hutch’s direction. The lawyer gave Hutch a quick glance and then turned to the judge. “Your honor, may I approach the bench?”

The judge waved a careless hand at him. “Sure, why not? I just love conspiracies.” He leaned forward to listen to Starsky’s lawyer for a moment, before looking over at Hutch.

“Mr. Hutchinson, are you prepared to stand as surety for Mr. Starsky?”

Relieved that the judge was willing to keep his working relationship with Starsky under wraps, he answered, “Yes, sir.”

“You understand that this means you will be responsible for making sure he shows up for his court date, otherwise you will be liable for the full amount of his bail?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I object!” Starsky protested. His lawyer gave him an astonished look.

“Excuse me, Mr. Starsky?” said the judge, his brows drawing together ominously.

“I object, uh,” Starsky floundered momentarily, “on the grounds that Mr. Hutchinson prob’ly can’t meet any kind of bail. And I don’t want his money anyway.”

The ADA gave an amused sniff. “And here I was going to object on the basis of their relationship, and the likelihood that Mr. Hutchinson would do anything to protect his partner, up to and including helping him leave the state, if not the country.”

“Both of you up here, now!” snapped the judge, glaring at the ADA.

MacDonald protested, “He did that on purpose!”

Hutch’s neighbor poked him in the hip. “Not so far in the closet as you think, hey lover boy?” she muttered.

Oh, for God’s sake. Hutch flushed and gripped the back of the bench in front of him, trying to ignore her. He told himself that it was better if the people here believed that the two of them were lovers rather than police officers. He grimaced at the thought of what Starsky would have to say about that.

Finally, the judge dismissed the two lawyers, and they returned to their respective tables. McDonald appeared worried, while the ADA was looking more smug than abashed.

The judge dragged his hands down his cheeks before bringing them together in front of him. “Let’s see if we can make this simpler for all of us. Mr. Starsky, I strongly recommend that you accept Mr. Hutchinson’s offer. Either that, or I will order that you be placed into solitary confinement for your own protection.”

Starsky muttered something unintelligible at the scarred tabletop in front of him, looking like a recalcitrant seven year old who’d been dragged in front of the principal for fighting on the playground.

Hutch held his breath. Buddy, I think the judge is having a bad day. Let’s not piss him off, okay?

“Mr. Starsky, I am old,” said the judge, in a reasonable tone of voice that was somehow far more threatening than any of Dobey’s bellows. “My hearing isn’t as good as it once was. Have some pity on an old, half-deaf, and very impatient man. Stand up and speak clearly.”

The entire courtroom fell silent. Starsky shot to his feet, his hand folded behind his back, and wary respect in his bearing. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll . . .” He stopped, his shoulders tensing. “ . . . accept the offer.”

“There now,” said the judge with intimidating congeniality. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Starsky opened his mouth, and then jumped, giving his attorney a startled glance. Hutch had to suppress the hysterical urge to laugh when he realized that MacDonald had just discreetly kicked Starsky in the ankle.

“You may sit down now, Mr. Starsky.” To the court reporter the judge said, “Mr. Starsky has graciously agreed to allow Mr. Hutchinson to act as surety. Make sure you get that down, dear.”

“Yes, sir,” said the woman at the stenograph machine, without looking up.

“Your honor!” protested the ADA. “Mr. Starsky poses a clear risk to the community. He admitted to assaulting an old man with intent to kill . . .”

“Does the victim reside with the accused?”

The ADA frowned, puzzled. “No sir, he’s at the hospital, where I must point out he’s being treated for serious injuries inflicted by this man–.”

“Yes, yes,” the judge cut him off with a wave of his hand. “In other words, it’s highly unlikely that Mr. Starsky will march into the hospital and assault him again, correct?”

“Ah, I suppose not . . . ”

“Well, that’s a relief.” His sarcasm was far from subtle.

Starsky looked as if he was about to interrupt the judge again, when he flinched instead, and gave his lawyer an aggrieved look. Hutch smirked. That ankle’s going to awfully sore by the end of this hearing. MacDonald’s showing some promise, after all.

The judge cleared his throat. “Bail is set for five hundred dollars. The date of our next delightful get-together to be determined later.” He slammed his gavel on the podium. “Mr. Hutchinson, I am releasing Mr. Starsky to you. You will ensure that he appears for his next hearing.

The ADA looked outraged, and pointed at Starsky. “Your honor, this man is a dangerous felon!”

MacDonald took vehement exception to this impugning of his client’s character. “Mr. Starsky has an impeccable record of service to this community, and is an upstanding citizen!”

“Do I have to remind the both of you whose courtroom this is?” thundered the judge. “The bail has been set! This is clearly a matter of simple assault. I strongly recommend that you two get your act together and work out a plea bargain, before wasting any more of my time!” Banging his gavel again, he shouted, “Next!”

The court bailiff called out, “Mr. Enriquez and counsel!”

As the man and his lawyer made their way through the crowd, Hutch’s flamboyant neighbor bounced to her feet and shouted, “I’m here for ya, honey!”

On the other side of the gallery, a short, fat man popped up. “What are you doing here? This mess is all your fault. My brother doesn’t need you here!”

“I’m his wife; of course I’m going to be here!”

“You’re not his wife; you’re just a fat, ugly man in a dress!”

A terrified Mr. Enriquez looked first at his brother and then at his lover, before bolting for the door, only to be stopped by a sternly frowning court officer. The judge reached into a drawer and withdrew a small bottle of pills. He shook several out into his hand and swallowed them dry.

Starsky walked through the gate favoring his left ankle. He stopped next to Hutch with a smirk on his face. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for the floor show?”

Fuming, Hutch grabbed his partner by the arm. He dragged him out of the courtroom, down the hall, and then shoved Starsky through the swinging door of the men’s restroom. A man in a three piece suit was washing his hands in the sink.

“Out!” Hutch barked. The man fled without drying his hands.

Starsky reached over and turned off the tap. “Geez, Hutch, what you gonna do? Kiss me? I didn’t know you missed me so bad.”

Hutch slammed his hand against the frame of the door. “Christ, Starsky! The way you’ve been acting lately I’d rather slug you!”

Starsky glanced at himself in the mirror, and then turning toward Hutch with a challenging expression in his eyes. “You wanna hit me? Go ahead. I think I even saved a spot for you right here.” He tapped his left cheek.

“Don’t tempt me,” growled Hutch, his hands tightening into fists.

Starsky grinned at him infuriatingly.

Hutch hit the door frame again, instead. “What the hell were you trying to do in there? Get yourself thrown into prison?”

Starsky jammed his hands into his pockets, his face expressionless. “That was the idea.”

Hutch was suddenly aware that Starsky had acquired several new bruises overnight, and was nursing a fat lip. “Why?”

“I didn’t want you bailing me out, Hutch. I didn’t want . . . aw, hell.” Starsky’s mouth twisted and he buried his hands in his hair, his fingers tugging at the unruly curls. “You can’t afford five hundred any more than I can.”

Hutch pushed himself away from the wall, suddenly disinclined to look his partner in the eye.

Starsky regarded him with suspicion. “You are secretly rich!” he accused.

“No.” Hutch shook his head. “It’s just . . .” Embarrassed, he reached into his pocket and groped for a stick of gum. “Vanessa had a life insurance policy, and she never changed the beneficiary. It hasn’t been paid to me yet, but I can borrow against it.”

Starsky’s eyes widened. “You mean, you’re bailing me out with Vanessa’s life insurance?” He started to laugh. “I’d think you’d be able to hear her shriek all the way from the graveyard.”

Hutch gave him a half-hearted smile, and unwrapped his gum.

After a minute, Starsky sobered and perched on the edge on the sink. “There’s no getting rid of you, is there?”

“Nope.” Hutch looked at the sugary pink stick in his hand with revulsion and tossed it into the trash can.

“I was afraid of that,” Starsky muttered.

*****

7:08 p.m.

Hutch had always believed that he carried the bulk of the workload in the partnership with Starsky, at least when it came to the paperwork. Between Starsky’s painfully slow hunt-and-peck manner of typing and his convoluted style of reporting, it wasn’t worth the time it took to turn in a report just so Dobey could have fits of apoplexy over it.

Over the last several years, they’d settled into a familiar routine. Hutch would grumpily bang away at the typewriter, while his partner, cheerfully unfazed, propped his feet up on the desk and lounged back in his chair as if enjoying a day off.

At times, he had resented how little of the work Starsky seemed to do, but if he was spoiled rotten, it was Hutch’s fault for letting him get away with it. So, rather than look for a solution to the problem, Hutch had carried on typing reports, while Starsky continued to fold paper airplanes in his quest for the perfect aerodynamic form.

It wasn’t until now, as he tried to do the work by himself, that Hutch began to appreciate just how much he’d come to rely upon Starsky’s constant presence. By the third time Hutch had glanced up with a question on his lips, only to find an empty space where his partner ought to have been, he’d figured out what Starsky’s job had been.

“Starsky, what was the color of that car, the second car in that smash-up, was it red or orange?”

“Neither, it was flamingo.”

“Flamingo.”

“Yeah. My mother had a ’47 Studebaker, was the same color.”

Hutch wanted to kick himself for his blindness.

With Starsky around, Hutch rarely needed to check his notes. All the details of the cases they’d worked on, the make of every car, the timing of each incident, down to the minute – all resided somewhere in his partner’s mind. The filing system was a little on the eccentric side, but it had never let either of them down.

With a curse, Hutch yanked the half-completed report out of the typewriter and slapped it down on his desk. He began digging into the stack of manila folders piled high by his elbow, searching for the name of a particular witness. Hutch knew that the only place he was likely to find it, other than in Starsky’s brain, was on a tattered scrap of a cocktail napkin, buried in an unnamed file.

A hamburger on a paper plate dropped onto the desk in front of him. It was immediately followed by a small carton of chocolate milk and another plate stacked high with French fries.

Startled, Hutch looked up. His elbow inadvertently hit the plate and several fries slid off.

“Eat,” said Dobey, taking a generous bite of his own burger, by way of illustration.

Hutch picked the scattered fries off of his report and frowned at the grease spot forming in the center of the first page.

Dobey sat on the corner of the desk, and glanced at the paper. “Is that the report on the Mulroney holdup? That was due two weeks ago. I should make you rewrite it just on principle.” He pointed at the hamburger. “Eat. That’s an order.”

Looking around the quiet squad room, Hutch realized that it was later than he’d thought. His plan to keep busy had been more successful than he’d intended, and both lunch and dinner had passed by without his notice. Evidently, Dobey had marked his lapse, and taken matters into his own hands.

Hutch looked down at the wretched excuse for a hamburger in front of him, and then at the ruined report in his hand. Feeling a sudden rush of irritation, he waved the paper at Dobey. “Where the hell is Fuh–?” He stopped himself just in time.

Hutch couldn’t remember the junior detective’s real name, but he was damn sure it wasn’t the one Starsky had given the kid. “Where’s that babysitter you assigned to me? The least he could do is make himself useful.”

Dobey’s expression darkened and he tore another chunk off of his burger. After swallowing, he said, “Puckett was in my office first thing this morning with a transfer request. What the hell did you do to that boy?”

Hutch was baffled. “I didn’t do anything to him.”

“Don’t give me that!” snapped Dobey. “He described your partner as a menace to society, and he said you were psychotic. While I’m inclined to agree with him about Starsky; you only scare people when you want to, Hutchinson. So, what the hell were you playing at?”

There was nothing Hutch could say. He honestly didn’t know what the kid’s problem could have been. He’d hardly exchanged more than a handful of words with him.

After a few minutes, Dobey’s glare softened. Finishing the last bite of his burger, he said, “I heard you bailed Starsky out this morning. Is he talking to you yet?”

Hutch poked unenthusiastically at the fries. Dobey sounded so damn certain that Starsky would open up to him. How had he put it only two nights ago? “You’re the only one who can talk sense into that mule-headed partner of yours!”

“No,” Hutch admitted, unhappily. “He’s not talking.”

Dobey grunted, acknowledging his frustration. “If you need a day off, to stay with him . . . .”

Dobey’s voice had sounded nonjudgmental, but Hutch felt the implied criticism anyway. He knew perfectly well that by remaining at the office he was avoiding having to face Starsky. Some friend you are.

Trying to convince himself as much as Dobey, he said, “Starsky’s okay. I dropped him off at his place. He said he wanted to grab a shower and then take a nap. I don’t think he had much of a chance to sleep when he was in . . . .” Hutch stopped, choking on the word “jail.”

In the face of Dobey’s continuing silence, he added defensively, “I’m going to check in on him after I finish up here.”

“I’d say you’re already finished here. Except for that.” Dobey nodded at the cooling burger sitting untouched on Hutch’s desk.

With a sigh, Hutch picked up the hamburger, and took a bite.

By the time Hutch left the precinct, the burger was an indigestible lump in his stomach, along with the chocolate milk and half of the fries. Feeling queasy, he started his car and pulled out of the lot. He’d fully intended to drive to Starsky’s place, but at the last minute he took a left instead of a right turn at Fourth Avenue, and ended up in front of The Pits instead.

The bar was already crowded, despite the relatively early hour. Appreciating his relative anonymity, Hutch found himself a seat at the end of the bar, and let the buzz of voices flow over him. He couldn’t remember another time when he’d felt so desperately tired.

Hutch thought about trying to call Mrs. Starsky again, but couldn’t work up the requisite energy. He soothed his guilt by reminding himself that he had tried twice this afternoon to reach her, so he hadn’t entirely broken his promise to contact her once her son was released. Besides, now that Starsky was free he’d probably gotten in touch with his mother himself.

A familiar snap and the acrid scent of a lighter brought Hutch out of his reverie. He glanced to his side in time to see a short, balding man apply the small flame to the end of a cigarette. The familiar longing tugged at him, but Hutch knew perfectly well that it wasn’t smoking that he was really missing.

Thinking of Starsky reminded him of their last exchange. Driving back from the courthouse, there’d been an awkward silence between them. Pulling up outside of Starsky’s apartment, Hutch had reached out to touch his friend’s shoulder. “Do you want me to . . . ?”

“Damn it, Hutch!” Starsky had ducked the contact, and glared at him with sudden fury. “Do yourself a favor, okay? Quit tryin’ so hard.” He’d climbed out of the car and slammed the door before a shaken Hutch could respond.

The recollection brought with it a bone-deep weariness. It was getting harder to believe that there wasn’t something personal in how Starsky was pushing him away.  Hutch’s conviction that he himself had done nothing to cause the rift was beginning to waver.

It was too much. Turning to his neighbor, Hutch asked, “Can I bum a cigarette off of you?”

“Sure.” The man shook the package and held it out. Hutch reached across to help himself to a cigarette when a lean black hand snatched the smokes away from them both.

“Attention, please!” The crowd fell silent as Huggy brandished the cigarette package at Hutch. “This man does not smoke. Anyone I catch giving this man so much as a used butt out of his ashtray will be banned from The Pits for life.” Huggy handed the cigarettes back to their owner and gave him a look that reminded the man of pressing business elsewhere. The noisy hum of the bar resumed.

Embarrassed by the amused looks people were giving him, Hutch glared at Huggy. “Cutting addicts off from their suppliers, Hug? When did you become a cop?”

Huggy checked to make sure no one was within immediate earshot, before leaning forward on the bar. “There’s no need to get insultin’. I know that eventually m’man Starsky will get out of the joint and he’ll kick my beautiful behind if I let you start up smoking again.”

Belatedly, Hutch realized that he hadn’t been keeping Huggy up on the latest developments. “He’s already posted bail.”

“Ex-cel-ent.” Huggy enjoyed each syllable for all it was worth before dropping his voice. “You let me know if you need any help with that. I don’t got much, but . . . .” Huggy’s shrug was eloquent.

“Thanks, Hug, it’s taken care of.” Indeed, Hutch had spent a good portion of the day leaving messages with the bank and the executor of Van’s will. At least that had felt like useful activity. And I suppose if Starsky does go to jail, I’ll end up bringing him cookies, God help me.

Huggy’s eyebrows rose. “I wouldn’t even have to make the offer if you two took bribes like sensible people.”

Hutch felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “When have either of us ever been sensible?”

“Now, that’s the truth,” Huggy declared. A small knot of laughing girls made their way over to the bar, and he straightened up. “Well, what are you having?” he asked Hutch, all professionalism now.

Hutch hesitated. He was tempted to ask for a beer, but it occurred to him that he was going to need to be one hundred percent sober to deal with Starsky tonight.

“Just coffee, thanks.” Reluctantly, he added, “And I’ll have it to go.”

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Monday, February 27, 1978

8:21 p.m.

Hutch let himself into Starsky’s apartment quietly, just in case his partner was still sleeping. But when he glanced into the bedroom it was empty, the bedspread rumpled.

“Starsk?”

When there was no answer Hutch investigated further, walking toward the kitchen. The living room was a disaster area. The couch and coffee table were askew, the white chair and small table upended, and anything that had been on a nearby surface was now on the floor. Hutch felt a strange sense of dislocation as he surveyed the room; it wasn’t like Starsky to tolerate such as mess.

Hutch shook his head. What, do you still expect him to pick up after himself after everything that’s gone down? Get a grip, Hutchinson.

He glanced into the kitchen, but there was still no sign of Starsky. With increasing concern, he headed for the deck, hoping that he wouldn’t have to search all of Bay City for his errant partner. Starsky wouldn’t really go back to the hospital to finish Williamson off, would he?

As he passed by the overturned chair, Hutch noticed stains on the white upholstery. It took him longer than it should have to recognize it as blood spatter.

He opened the balcony door and, at the noise of metal and glass colliding, his first thought was that he’d broken one of the door’s panels. Looking down, he discovered the true cause of the clatter. An impressive array of empty beer cans and alcohol bottles littered the deck, some of which he had knocked over when opening the door.

The overall effect was of a teenaged party gone terribly wrong, but his former neat freak of a partner was alone. Starsky was leaning back in a lawn chair, eyes closed, his limbs akimbo. An amber liquor bottle with a festive green bow around its neck lay in his lap.

Hutch walked onto the deck, leaving the door open, and surveyed not only the number, but also the variety of empty alcohol containers he was wading through. He stopped beside Starsky’s chair and looked down at his partner with disapproval.

“I thought you were going to bed to get some sleep.”

“I did. Couple of hours, leastways, but can’t sleep much during the afternoon.”

“What the hell have you been drinking?”

Starsky didn’t bother opening his eyes. “Well, the beer was first. When I ran out of that, the vod– no the rum was next, then the vodka. Then there was ‘bout quarter of a bottle left of the wine you brought over a while ago. And now,” he brandished the bottle with the ribbon, “the peppermint schnapps that Aunt Rosie gave me for Crish-Chris’mas . . .” Starsky paused, his face wrinkled in puzzlement. “Two years ago?”

Hutch raised his assessment of his partner’s intoxication level from moderately inebriated to hopelessly wrecked.

“So since this afternoon you’ve been systematically drinking your way through every ounce of alcohol in your apartment.”

Starsky opened his eyes and smirked at him. “Pretty much.”

Hutch counted to ten, suppressing the urge to smack his partner. “Great, this is sure to solve all of your problems.”

“You,” Starsky waved the bottle at him for punctuation, “need to relax, my friend. I’d offer you a drink but,” he took a pull from the schnapps and grimaced, “this is pretty goddamn awful stuff.”

Hutch grabbed the bottle away from him. “You have had enough.”

“Hey, gimme back my schlopps.” Starsky giggled at the slurring of his speech, and then started playing it up. “Ah, c’mon Otchicer Huffison.” He stood up, but had to clutch the back of the chair to steady himself. “Whoa, I don’t feel so hot.”

“Big surprise,” Hutch observed without sympathy. He found the cap of the bottle under Starsky’s chair, and screwed it back tight on the bottle. “Did you bother to eat anything during your drunken spree?”

“Probably,” Starsky shot back, indignant. He looked over the debris strewn across the deck. “I think I had some pretzels, anyway.” Starsky began to poke around in the chaos he’d created.

Hutch took a deep breath. This time he counted to twenty to make sure his temper was under control. “Drinking yourself sick isn’t going to make things better.”

“Yes, ma.”

“Damn it, I’m serious, Starsky! When are going to start working with me instead of against me? This mess isn’t going to fix itself.”

His friend’s expression turned belligerent. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?”

Exasperated, Hutch shouted, “Because none of this makes any sense!” He resisted the urge to pull out his hair, running his free hand through it instead. “Williamson is saying you assaulted him without provocation, IA is hanging you out to dry, you’re facing multiple felony counts, and you won’t tell me a goddamn thing.” He shook the schnapps bottle at him. “Do you honestly expect me to believe you would haul off and attack a guy out of the blue?”

“Like I’ve never smacked around a scumball before.”

He suspected that Starsky was just being flippant, but this was the closest thing to an actual motivation his partner had yet to offer, and Hutch leapt on it. “Was Williamson a dirty cop?”

Starsky started to laugh like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, infuriating Hutch.

“I swear Starsk, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to beat you into a coma myself!”

Starsky only laughed harder.

In disgust, Hutch stormed through the door back into the apartment, only to be tackled from behind. The attack was clumsy, but he hadn’t expected it, and they both tumbled to the living room floor. Starsky lunged for the schnapps bottle, “Gimme that.”

Wincing from a jab to the ribs, Hutch barked, “Watch it!”

Another desperate scramble, and Starsky managed to grab the bottle’s base, but Hutch kept a strangle hold on its neck, his fingers tangled in the now tattered green ribbon. They both slammed into the overturned chair.

“Le’ go!”

“Look, you moron–!”

The doorbell rang, and Hutch froze, suddenly aware of how ridiculous they looked, sprawled on the floor engaged in a tug-of -war over a bottle of peppermint schnapps. Taking advantage of his distraction, Starsky yanked the bottle out of his grasp. He clumsily rolled out of Hutch’s reach and, with a huge grin, held the bottle aloft in triumph.

The bell rang again. “Aren’t you going to get that?” Hutch asked, his voice tight.

“You get it,” Starsky retorted, struggling to get the cap off the bottle.

Satisfied that the schnapps was currently Starsky-proof, Hutch got up and straightened his clothes. He’d almost reached the door when his partner called out, “Hey, if it’s a cop, beat him into a coma for me, will ya?”

Without thinking, Hutch spun around and stabbed his forefinger at him, this warning eliciting even more laughter from his unrepentant partner. Great, now he’s going to rag me about my “taking you to the woodshed” look.

Sure enough, Starsky crowed, “Oooh, I’m in trouble now!”

Doing his best to ignore him, Hutch opened the door. Shock robbed him of speech for several moments, but he finally managed to choke out, “Mrs. Starsky?”

Behind him, he could hear his partner’s confused mumble. “’m not married.”

“Kenneth, I thought I’d find you here.”

Hutch stared at Starsky’s mom.  She looked careworn but otherwise as he remembered her. Her long hair, dyed black, was pulled up in a bun, and a conservative dark blue dress was visible under her camel hair coat. No luggage was in evidence, beyond her oversized leather purse.

Abruptly, he realized he was blocking the doorway, and moved aside so she could enter the apartment.

“Please come in,” he mumbled.

Hutch was certain that the surprise on his face at seeing her was nothing to the expression on Starsky’s.

“Ma,” Starsky breathed, scrambling to his feet, still gripping the schnapps. He glanced at Hutch for an explanation, and then his whole body sagged. “Aw Ma, what are ya doin’ here?”

Hutch couldn’t get over the fact that she had flown all the way here on such short notice, instead of waiting at home. Then he realized that he’d expected Mrs. Starsky to stay clear until everything had settled down, because that’s what his mother would have done, if she’d bothered to come at all.

The thought of his mother brought with it the uncomfortable realization that he’d forgotten to offer to take Mrs. Starsky’s coat and bag. He moved forward to do it, but her attention was entirely focused on her son.

“Kenneth was good enough to call me and tell me what was happening.” She sounded worried, but there was a definite edge to her voice.

The look Starsky shot him was deadly.  “How thoughtful of Kenneth.”

Hutch returned the glare. He wasn’t sorry, not in the slightest.

Starsky retreated to the small dining table by the kitchen, and his mother followed, with Hutch close behind. The schnapps bottle was set on the table with a bang. Starsky kept his back to them, leaning against the table’s edge as if it was the only thing keeping him standing.

“Don’t blame Kenneth,” Mrs. Starsky said. “Was I supposed to wait for my Friday phone call to find out my son had been arrested?”

“I didn’t… I just didn’t want to involve you.” Starsky’s voice was subdued, but his shoulders radiated tension.

“Of course I’m involved, I’m your mother.”

Hutch was beginning to feel like an intruder.

“I’m not going to allow him to hurt you again, David.”

The response from Starsky was immediate. He reeled around to face her, his expression panicked. “Ma, shut–” but even in his drunken state he knew better. He swallowed. “Just don’t, Ma, don’t.”

She knows what’s going on. Relief made Hutch feel lightheaded.

“Don’t what? Don’t help my son?” Her voice was like steel. “He almost ruined your life once, I’m supposed to stand by and let him succeed this time?”

Starsky moved back into the living room, clearly searching for an escape route. He stumbled over some of the debris on the floor, and Hutch moved closer to his partner in case he collapsed.

“Ma… just let me handle it, will ya?”

“I can see you’re doing a fine job so far.”

“I can handle it!” But Starsky was turning as green as the alcohol he’d been consuming, and a moment later he lurched toward the bathroom with surprising speed. Hutch heard painful-sounding retches, and then a very wobbly, “Oh hell, I missed . . . ”

With a glance at Mrs. Starsky, Hutch made his reluctant way over to the bathroom. The smell hit him with a palpable force, and he had to swallow once, to settle his own stomach. “Christ, Starsky, that’s foul!”

His only answer was more retching, and a moan. Pushing his way into the room, Hutch found his partner clinging white-knuckled to the toilet. Hutch hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should get a washcloth or a mop first.

Starsky lost his grip on the porcelain bowl and sagged backward onto his haunches. He listed to the side, suddenly in real danger of ending up face first in a puddle of his own vomit. Hutch lunged forward and grabbed him under the arms, hoisting Starsky back up over the toilet, just in time.

From somewhere deep in his gut, Starsky managed to heave up more of the noxious brew. Hutch turned his head away, gagging despite himself.

Somehow there had to be a special reward in heaven for police detectives who hold their partners while they puke their insides out after an all-afternoon drinking binge. Especially considering that he could now feel a fetid dampness soaking the right knee of his jeans.

Hutch felt a warning twinge in his back and settled down onto his heels, supporting Starsky against his chest. Starsky’s left hand flailed, eventually finding purchase on Hutch’s thigh, as he continued to retch into the toilet.

He was into the dry heaves now, his body still unwilling to abandon the effort to purge itself. Hutch reached forward and flushed the toilet, only then realizing that he’d been muttering reassuring words the entire time. “Easy, easy now, just relax . . . ”

Mrs. Starsky leaned through the doorway of the bathroom and handed Hutch a damp facecloth. He had just begun to apply it to Starsky’s sweating face, when another convulsion seized him. Starsky lurched forward, and gagged helplessly into the bowl.

A moment later he sagged back against Hutch’s chest, limp with exhaustion. “M’ a mess, Hutsh . . . ”

“It’s okay.” Hutch’s irritation vanished, replaced with something he suspected might be compassion, or possibly just pity. Starsky was shaking now and had broken out into a cold sweat. Knowing it would still be a while before his partner would be able to support his own weight, Hutch shifted slightly, trying to relieve the cramp in his back. Why can’t I ever stay angry with you?

Mrs. Starsky returned. “I’ve changed the sheets on his bed,” she said. “When he’s able to stand up, we can put him to bed.”

“Can you get him a large glass of water?” Hutch asked, knowing that the best way to prevent a crippling hangover was to get Starsky rehydrated as soon as possible.

“Good idea.” She nodded, and disappeared.

“Hutch?”

“What, pal?” Hutch looked down to find that Starsky’s eyes had opened a slit, staring up at him in bleary confusion.

“D’ya see her too?”

Hutch couldn’t help smiling. “You’re not hallucinating. Your mother is here.”

“ . . . ’kay,” but Starsky didn’t look terribly reassured.

A few minutes later, when Starsky’s shivering had subsided, Hutch asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Dying. Much too slowly.” He made a smacking sound. “Though doesn’t taste as bad as usual. Kinda minty.”

“Okay, time for bed.” Hutch got to his feet carefully, lifting Starsky up with him. They staggered together out of the bathroom, past Mrs. Starsky, who was waiting just beyond the doorway, mop and bucket in hand. Despite his aching back and Starsky’s lack of balance, Hutch managed to get his friend around the corner and into his bedroom without either of them falling down.

Fortunately, Mrs. Starsky had turned on the lamp nearest the door. By its light, Hutch saw that not only had she changed the sheets and pulled the covers back in preparation for tucking her son in, but she’d also found a pair of blue pajamas. A glass of water waited on the shelf behind the bed. Hutch decided that after all this was over, he was going to be the first WASP in history to nominate a Jewish mother for Catholic sainthood.

Starsky was determined to crash on the bed, but Hutch held him back with one hand, and began undoing the buttons of his shirt with the other. He wanted at least to get him into clean pajamas. A shower would have to wait until morning. The state his partner was in, he’d likely drown himself if he tried to take one now.

It took Starsky a moment, but once he realized what was going on he began to bat clumsily at Hutch’s hand. “Aw, no . . . .”

“Shut up, and let me get this off you. You stink,” said Hutch, ignoring Starsky’s incoherent protests. He pulled a limp arm out of one sleeve and then stopped, appalled.

Starsky’s chest and sides were covered with darkly mottled blotches, the more recent bruises overlapping the old. Wincing in sympathy, Hutch finished removing the shirt and felt for cracked or broken ribs. His first thought was that Williamson had put up more of a fight than he’d supposed, until he realized that these injuries were much more recent than the struggle with Williamson. I’m going to strangle Simonetti when I see him again.

A sharp intake of breath from the doorway caught Hutch’s attention. He glanced up to see Mrs. Starsky enter the room.

His thoroughly anesthetized partner giggled at the feel of Hutch’s fingers exploring his ribs. He tipped his head back to give Hutch a bright, unfocused grin. “Ya should’a seen th’ other guy . . . uh, guys.” He swayed and Hutch had to abandon his inspection to grab Starsky’s shoulders again.

Mrs. Starsky examined her son with a critical eye. “That’s right, David. Just kill my last hope that you’re ever going to grow up.”

“Ma . . . ” he whined.

But she ignored him and began skinning his filthy jeans off him. Hutch continued to steady his partner as Mrs. Starsky dressed him in the blue pajamas.

Putting his semi-comatose partner to bed after a night of too much drinking was something Hutch had done before, and Starsky had returned the favor more than once, since it was an unspoken rule between them that only one of them at a time could get completely wasted. Huggy had even helped Hutch with the task on occasion, but it definitely felt weird to be doing this with a guy’s mother. Mrs. Starsky, however, appeared perfectly at ease, and it occurred to Hutch that she might have performed the same task for her husband.

Hutch was proud that he felt no bitterness in recalling that Vanessa had always just left him wherever he’d collapsed.

Once Starsky was dressed for bed, Hutch propped him up against the headboard and made him slowly sip the water until it was gone. Only when he was reasonably certain that the water wasn’t going to come right back up, Hutch let his partner slide down under the sheets, and pulled the blanket up over him. Starsky was completely out in seconds.

Mrs. Starsky bent over to brush back her son’s curls, and kissed him on the forehead. Then she whispered to Hutch, “I’ll go make some tea in the kitchen.” Hutch nodded, but didn’t follow immediately. Instead, he watched his unconscious partner breathing steadily for several moments.

“It’ll be okay, pal, I promise,” he said quietly.

 

CHAPTER SIX

Monday, February 27, 1978

9:42 p.m.

Hutch turned off the water and stepped carefully onto the bathroom floor, still damp from its recent mopping.  He dried himself and then reached for the jeans hanging over the towel rack. They were his own jeans, though they weren’t the same ones he’d been wearing earlier.  He’d found them at the bottom of Starsky’s dresser before taking his shower.

Mrs. Starsky had come in while he’d been rummaging through Starsky’s closet with the jeans over his shoulder, and he had felt a brief moment of panic at what she’d think.  He’d tried to stammer out an explanation, but she had simply patted him on the arm and told him to take one of her son’s shirts as well.

Having now finished dressing, Hutch retrieved his keys, badge, and wallet from beside the sink. He hesitated a moment over the watch. Starsky would probably want it back, but the strap was still broken. Hutch slipped the watch into his pocket, next to his keys.

He pushed his damp hair back and went to join Mrs. Starsky in the kitchen. She took the kettle off the stove and poured boiling water into two mugs. Hutch wondered how old the tea bags were.  When she opened the fridge and looked inside, he roused himself and got the sugar out of the cupboard.

“Do you have a place to stay, Mrs. Starsky?” Hutch asked, breaking the awkward silence.

“It’s Esther, remember?” She responded, checking the expiration date on the milk. “I have a hotel room. I didn’t think this would be a good time to stay with family.”

The look of wry humor on her face almost made Hutch smile. He’d long since given up on getting her to call him Hutch or at least Ken, but she had not yet abandoned the effort to teach him to call her Esther, apparently oblivious to the double standard.

They took their cups from the kitchen to Starsky’s small dining table. Hutch automatically pulled out the folding chair closest to the kitchen for her, and then tried to settle into the other one, without folding himself in half. Starsky had probably bought the stupid things because they looked like director’s chairs, he mused, trying not to tip it over as he reached for his mug.

“I’m going to need your help to see him privately.” Mrs. Starsky said quietly.

It took a moment for Hutch to realize that she was talking about Williamson, not her son. “I can probably get you in to see him, Mrs. — I mean, Esther.” He frowned. “But Williamson is pressing charges against your son. The ADA’s probably already advised him not to meet privately with anyone related to the case.” Not that Hutch was going to allow that restriction to stop him the first chance he got.

“What if you were there with me, in your capacity as an officer of the court?”

Hutch considered her question. As Starsky’s partner, it was a stretch for him to act as an observer for Williamson’s protection. But, not even the judge wanted to see this go to trial, and it wasn’t as if Hutch gave a damn about observing the proprieties. Plus there was the added bonus that it would make Simonetti’s blood boil when he found out. “I think we could get away with that.”

She released a breath. “As long as it’s just you, Kenneth.”

Hutch was surprised by how much this soft remark moved him. “I promise. I can meet you at your hotel at nine tomorrow morning and drive you over to Memorial.”

She pulled the tea bags out of the mugs, adding sugar and milk to hers. Hutch took his black. As he sipped his tea, Hutch struggled to find a way to raise any one of the million questions he wanted to ask without making it sound like he was a cop pressuring a snitch to give up a bad guy. He was beginning to think that Dobey should have assigned someone else, after all. Not only had he failed to get a single useful thing out of Starsky, he couldn’t even bring himself to question the man’s mother.

Disheartened, Hutch fished Starsky’s watch out of his pocket and laid it on the counter. If he could somehow straighten the pin, he might be able to reattach the band.

Esther took a breath, as if about to speak.

Hutch looked up. “I was going to give it back . . .” But Esther’s focus was inward, and she seemed to be struggling with herself.

“Before we see . . . him tomorrow,” she hesitated, but then with an expression of resolve, set down her mug. “I had better tell you the whole story before we go in there.”

Hutch recognized the surge of adrenaline he felt; it was the one he always experienced when a difficult investigation was about to break wide open. He remembered his avowal to Dobey that Starsky wasn’t a case. You’re not here sitting with his mother because you’re a cop, you’re here because he’s your best friend.

Reluctantly, Hutch said, “Maybe, you shouldn’t tell me, if Star — if David doesn’t want me to know.” He pushed his repair project aside, his attention on Mrs. Starsky.

“David loves you like a brother, more than his brother.” Mrs. Starsky shook her head. “If he was capable of telling anyone, he’d tell you.”

She took a deep breath. “When you called and asked me about Gene Williamson, it was like returning to a nightmare.”

“I didn’t mean to handle it so badly.”

Mrs. Starsky patted his hands, and said, “Don’t be ridiculous, you couldn’t have known.” She looked down at the table for a moment, and then began to speak in an emotionless voice. “Mike knew Gene longer than he knew me; they were friends even before they were partners. He was best man at our wedding.  Both of our boys called him uncle. After Mike died, I honestly don’t know how I would have got through the first couple of weeks without him.”

Hutch kept his own counsel, understanding that Esther had to work her way into what happened, and that questions would only slow the process down.

“For the first time in my life I was on my own, and even with my widow’s pension, it was so hard. I needed to hold down a job, while trying to raise my two boys. Nicholas, he just became more withdrawn, he’d always held things inside, but David . . .” She shook her head. “He’d always been difficult to manage, but with Mike gone, he was out of control. He was only eleven, but it was like he turned into a hoodlum overnight. He was always getting into fights, running around with God knows what gangs after school, when he bothered to go at all.”

“When Gene,” she took a steadying breath, “when he offered to spend more time with him I was so . . . grateful.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “And it seemed to help, David settled down, he stayed at home more, didn’t mouth off. And I–” she met Hutch’s eyes, “He was so quiet. So changed. I should have known something was wrong. But instead I was grateful.”

A sick feeling was growing in the pit of Hutch’s stomach, and he had to bite his lip to remain silent.

“Then one afternoon, David’s school called me at work. I was used to the phone calls by then, even though I hadn’t had one in a while. It was a Monday, I remember, and he’d been at Gene’s all weekend. I hadn’t even seen him that morning. But all can think is that it’s another suspension, and how am I going to pick him up in the middle of the afternoon without losing my job? I don’t even realize right away that it’s the school nurse who’s calling me, and not the principal’s secretary.”

Hutch had a sudden memory of how squirrelly Starsky had been around Guy Mayer.  How at first he’d kept trying to convince Hutch to stay clear of the case. How he’d left the school room the moment he’d seen the marks on the kid’s back. Now it made sense. Shit, Starsk, why the hell didn’t you tell me? I’d have beaten the ever lovin’ crap out of the guy myself.

Esther pulled him back into her narrative. “David had been hurt, they said. Badly. He’d gotten into a fight with another boy during a basketball game. By the time the coach got to him, the other boys were laughing and pointing and saying, ‘Looks like Davy Starsky got the shit beat out of him this time.’ And David . . . my David ran.”

Locked in place in Starsky’s god-awful chair, Hutch sensed the denouement rushing toward him like impending doom. Starsky never ran away from anything his whole life.

“So what could I do?” Esther continued. “My boy was in trouble. Again. Only this time he had gone too far, they said. And I suppose they were right, in their minds, because he had locked himself in a bathroom stall and they couldn’t make him come out. I get there while they’re trying to take the door off the stall, and I can hear my boy screaming and cussing and crying. All I did was say his name . . . and he collapsed. We all heard him hit the floor, and he didn’t say another word after that.”

Hutch’s hand tightened on the watch, the broken piece digging into his palm. He had no memory of having picked it up.

Esther said, “It was easy then. The janitor grabbed his feet under the door and pulled him out on his belly. And we saw it. What the boys had thought was sh—What the boys had seen . . . there on the back of David’s white shorts . . . it was blood.”

Hutch stopped breathing. He swallowed hard, unable to free the words that clogged in his throat.

Esther Starsky had never sounded so fragile. “My boy had been raped.”

I’ll kill him.

“Please sit down, Kenneth.”

“That bastard –.”

“I said, sit down.” Her voice sharper this time. Hutch realized that he was standing, his hands curled into fists, still clutching the watch in his right. With an effort, he picked up the chair he had knocked over and forced himself to settle back into it. Carefully, he placed the watch back down on the table, afraid that if he kept it in his hand, he might damage it further.

Esther’s eyes returned to her hands, clasped on her lap. “The nurse, she made me wait outside the infirmary while she . . . she cleaned him up. The principal came down to speak to me. He said that a boy like David, because of what had happened– that David wasn’t a normal kid. He said he didn’t know what to do about ‘a boy like him,’ and that it would be in everyone’s best interests if I just took him home. Like David had some terrible contagious disease and needed to be kept away from regular folk.”

Hutch pinched the bridge of his nose. It was too late for tears.

Esther flashed a concerned look in his direction and he felt a single bead of sweat break free, running down along the line of his temple.

“The nurse brought David out then but he wouldn’t say what had happened, I asked him, the nurse asked him, even the principal, but he wouldn’t tell us a thing. The nurse took me to one side and . . . the nurse was the worst. She said . . . How did she put it – she was concerned about the nature of his injury. Especially as there wasn’t — that other than a couple of bruises from the fight–” Esther drew a shaky breath. “She was concerned because she thought he hadn’t been forced. That he had simply done what he was told to do. And the way she looked at me, I know she thought that I–”

Hutch’s fist connected with his leg, but he remained seated.

Esther gave Hutch a shaky smile, devoid of humor. “And this is the point in my story where I am supposed to say that I slapped the nurse, and spat in the principal’s eye and that we walked out of there with our heads held high, me and my son. I wish I could tell you that . . .” She took a deep breath. “ . . . But that’s not how it was. We left like thieves, making sure no one saw us. Because I was ashamed, not of David, not of what had been done to him, but because I never knew.”

“I tried in the car to make him talk to me . . . but he wouldn’t say anything, not a word. He disappeared into his room; he wouldn’t even let Nicholas in when he got home. He refused to come down for dinner. He snuck out in the middle of the night to steal food from the refrigerator.”

Trust Starsky never to miss a meal, not even in the middle of a crisis. Hutch swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I left him alone. Gave him some time. Gave myself some time . . . The next night I sent Nicholas over to my sister Deborah’s, and I forced myself into David’s room.” She met Hutch’s eyes briefly, her expression wry. “I don’t think there was a single thing left unbroken in that room by the time we were through, and I’m not sure which of us smashed the most.” The faint smile disappeared. “I’ve never hated myself as much I did for the things I threatened my son with that night. Sometimes, I wish . . .” She shook her head, and whispered, “I’d said nothing.”

She stood up, and now it was Hutch’s turn to try to get her to sit back down, but she pulled away from his hand. Turning her back to him, she surveyed the wreckage of the living room. “I wish I’d never found out that it had been going on for years.”

Hutch kept telling himself to get up, to do something, but he felt helpless, paralyzed.

“Mike trusted him, I trusted him, he was a cop, my husband’s best friend and all that time, he’d . . . And my son is telling me that it wasn’t so bad, that –.”

Her voice fractured, and finally Hutch’s body obeyed him. He went to her side, gently guided her back to the chair, and clasped her shaking hands in his.

“That he just used to touch him a lot, that it had been okay until . . .” She looked up, meeting Hutch’s eyes. “Can you imagine listening to your own son defending someone like that? Saying that if he hadn’t been such a rotten kid to me lately that his uncle Gene wouldn’t have made it hurt so bad. As if he deserved such a thing.”

The fury in her voice matched the rage building in Hutch. He kept all of his focus on her, not allowing himself to think about anything, anyone else.

“The next day I went to see my cousin Leonard, he’s a lawyer, and I told him everything.” She took a deep breath. “And he told me that it would be the word of a juvenile delinquent against a cop’s.” Another breath. “I slapped him so hard, he almost hit the floor. And then I cried for hours, curled up on his office floor. I cried until I didn’t have a single tear left in me.” Her hands now gripped Hutch’s so hard that it hurt, but he didn’t pull back. “Because, I knew that Leonard was right.”

A cold horror trickled down Hutch’s spine as he remembered Lieutenant Billings praising Williamson’s record, and not just as a cop. How the man had spent years volunteering with troubled kids, counseling them. A wolf in the fold.

“And even if we did manage to prove it, Leonard told me that in the eyes of the law. . .” she shook her head. “He told me that David would end up with a juvenile record; that he might even be taken away from me, sent to juvenile hall or . . .” She looked up at Hutch, pleading. “You have to understand Kenneth, I couldn’t do that to my son. I couldn’t let them punish him.”

Hutch pulled her into a hug, lifting to her feet when the chairs began to tip over. He tried to swallow down his rage, so he could focus on comforting her, but his mind kept suggesting bloody scenarios. It scared him how badly he wanted to kill Williamson. How much he wanted to kill every judge who had ever sent a raped kid – a victim, not a criminal, goddammit – to juvenile hall.

He held her until he felt some of the tension ease.  When he released her, she asked in a shaky voice, “Is there anything stronger than tea to drink here?”

He motioned at the bottle of schnapps.  “I think all Star — all he left us was this.”

She shook her head, and sighed. “Rose always did have the worst taste in alcohol.” Still, she went into the kitchen and retrieved two glasses. Hutch filled both of them halfway, and for several minutes, they sat in silence, grimacing as they drank.

Finally, she put down her glass. “So that’s why I sent David to live here with my sister and brother-in-law. It was the only thing I could think of to do. Even if I could have convinced the principal, David wouldn’t have gone back to that school, not after what the other kids had seen, what they’d said . . .  Even though I told him they probably didn’t understand.” She shook her head again. “Sending him as far away as possible seemed the right thing to do. I moved to a different apartment, and I made sure that Gene came no where near Nicholas.

“But I’ve always wished I could have done something.” She picked up her glass, but only stared at it. “Leonard and I, we both regularly made anonymous phone calls to the charities Gene volunteered for, but they didn’t always listen. Why would they?” She took a sip, and frowned. “I still have nightmares about other mother’s children that he must have . . . but I had to protect my boy.”

“It’s not your fault.” He clutched his already empty glass, and resisted the temptation to pour himself more.

She straightened, and there was firm resolve in her voice. “This time I’m going to do what’s right.”

Hutch inhaled sharply. “No, you can’t. Starsky — he’ll never let you.” Hutch now fully comprehended why his partner was willing to lose his career and go to jail rather than divulge the motivation behind the attack.

He turned his head away, hating himself for this urge to cover it up. But he knew what would happen if this came out into the open; it would destroy his partner, as a detective and as a man. Starsky’s reputation with other cops, with every hard case on the street would be destroyed. Men weren’t raped, not as children, not as adults. Which is how predators like Williamson keep getting away with it.

Hutch began to understand how torn Mrs. Starsky must have been; knowing that protecting her son would mean protecting his abuser as well. And it was worse now, he thought helplessly. Either Starsky went free as a social leper, or he would be jailed as a cop who’d gone over the edge. Where he’ll be locked up with men who would love to ream a cop a new one. Hutch closed his eyes, unable to cope.

But a warm hand touched his cheek, gently turning his head forward. “Please, Kenneth, don’t worry. Please trust me.”

Hutch opened his eyes and met hers. In them he saw resolve, and an echo of his partner’s spirit. “Who do you trust?” Hutch found himself nodding against his will.

He watched in silence as she retrieved her coat and purse, then wrote down the address of her hotel for him. As she disappeared into the bedroom, Hutch retrieved Starsky’s watch and slipped it back into his pocket. He returned the milk to the fridge, and then waited for her by the door. When she came into the hall, he opened it for her, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Esther — are you sure?”

Again the warm hand soothed him. “Just take care of David, Kenneth, and I’ll take care of the monster who did this to him.”

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tuesday, February 28, 1978

5:03 a.m.

Hutch woke to the sound of a flushing toilet. Ignoring his cramped muscles, he pulled himself up off the couch and headed to the kitchen. He had a glass of water ready when Starsky stumbled out of the bathroom, clutching a bottle of aspirin. Wordlessly, Hutch exchanged the water for the bottle, opened it, and shook out two tablets for him.

As Starsky leaned against the bathroom doorway, swallowing the pills, Hutch looked him over. Mildly hung over, he concluded, but otherwise not much worse for wear. You mean, he doesn’t look like he was raped as a kid.

As he took back the glass, Starsky glared at him. “Fuck.”

Startled by his vehemence, Hutch took a step back.

“She told you.” Starsky spat. It wasn’t a question.

“What?” Hutch asked, but the protest sounded unconvincing even to him. He tried going on the defensive. “What makes you think your mom told me anything?”

“Because you’re looking at me like I’m a puppy that’s been hit by a Mack truck, that’s how the fuck I know.”

He stormed past Hutch into the living room. “What’s with you anyway? Is there something about your pretty face that makes women spill their guts to you?”

“Starsk, I –” Hutch tried, but he was cut off.

“I don’t wanna hear it!” Starsky rammed into the wicker chair, knocking it to the floor. The lamp on the nearby end table rattled but stayed standing.

“Starsk, please,” he tried again.

“Not going to talk about it.”

“I understand.” The moment the words slipped out, Hutch knew he’d screwed up. He barely ducked in time as the lamp careened past his head and smashed against the wall.

“No, you fuckin’ don’t understand! I already dealt with this!”

This time Hutch stayed silent, watching as his wild-eyed partner grabbed a small Peruvian pot off the shelf and pitched it against the wall, no longer aiming at him.

“Don’t ya fuckin’ get it? It was over twenty years ago!” The books were cleared from a shelf, and the bookends went flying. “Over, done with, out of my fuckin’ life!”

As Starsky grabbed the plant from the next shelf, Hutch couldn’t stop himself from protesting, “Not the philodendron, Starsk!”

He tensed for an explosion, but instead, Starsky let loose a bitter laugh. “Jeez, Hutch you can’t even stand to see a plant get hurt, how’d the hell you cope when you saw what I did to Williamson’s face?”

Still holding the plant, Starsky waded through the new detritus to the couch. He pointed at the overturned white chair. “The bastard was sittin’ right there when I came home. As cool as a cucumber, like he had every right to be there, like he’d be welcomed.” He ground out the last words.  Starsky’s hands tensed around the philodendron, but he still didn’t throw it. Hutch resisted the impulse to try to take it from him.

“And he’s kidding me about leaving my door unlocked,” Starsky continued, his voice softer now, far deadlier in tone, “like we’re long lost pals. Then he started goin’ on about how proud he is of me, like he was my mentor or something.” His voice gained in volume. “John Blaine mentored me, not that sick fuck. John –” He looked down, and for a moment, misery predominating over fury in his expression. “Oh god, if I’d known about John . . .”

The lost look on his partner’s face made Hutch’s insides twist. “But John . . .” he began, but Starsky shouted him down, the plant trembling in his grip.

“John never touched me! He was good to me!” His voice broke, and the rest was a hoarse whisper. “He was a good man.”

Hutch silently agreed, remembering how Maggie Blaine had used the exact same words to defend her husband.

Starsky cleared his throat, and returned to recounting Saturday night. “And what am I doin’? I’m standing right here like a useless fuck. I can’t move, can’t say a goddamn word while that piece of garbage brags about what a great role model he must have been. And all I’m thinkin’ is what the hell’s wrong with me?”

Starsky took a deep breath. “Then the bastard stood up, walked over and put his hand on my shoulder.” He paused, and bewilderment crept into his voice. “And I completely lost it.” Starsky looked at his partner, and shook his head. “I know I’ve lost it on perps before, but this time I really went off. I still can’t remember — one moment I’m frozen solid, the next thing I know, I’ve got the bastard pinned down by his neck, and I’m pounding his face into hamburger.” The tension left his body, and genuine satisfaction imbued his voice. “And it felt so damn good.”

Starsky collapsed onto the couch, all of his energy gone. He rotated the plant in his hands, as if seeing if for the first time. “You know what, Hutch? Even when I thought I’d put him in the ground, it still felt damn good.”

Hutch couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Why did you call for the ambulance, Starsk?” I would have got out my gun and finished the bastard off.

Starsky shook his head, as if the answer was obvious. “Cause it’s what you would have done.”

Hutch closed his eyes. Shit, partner, what did I ever do to deserve your belief in me?

“Just go home, Hutch. You don’t need to hang out here with me.”

Hutch opened his eyes, and stared at the pain etched into Starsky’s features, the certainty of rejection in his eyes. A dozen things occurred to him to say, but he couldn’t open his mouth. Don’t be an idiot, Hutchinson; you know what you need to do.

Picking his way across the living room, Hutch sat down on the couch beside Starsky. He took the plant from him, and placed it out of harm’s way, and then, without hesitation, he reached over and pulled him into his arms. Starsky’s body tensed, trying to pull away, but Hutch held on, stubbornly. Eventually his partner stopped resisting the embrace, and with a long shuddering sigh Starsky relaxed against Hutch’s chest.

Hutch felt the tension drain out of his own body as well—he needed this as much as Starsky did. So many assumptions had been shattered last night; it felt like the world he knew was slipping out of his grasp. What Starsky had gone through growing up was too much for Hutch to process all at once. And if he couldn’t bear to think about it, what must it be like for Starsky?

Hutch’s arms tightened, Starsky’s fierce avowals that it was all in the past echoing in his head. He wished it were true, but even if Williamson had never shown up, Starsky hadn’t dealt with the abuse, he’d only buried it out of sight. He took a deep breath, trying to figure out how the hell he could help his partner, when a soft snore startled him out of his thoughts.

Starsky had fallen asleep again. Hutch felt a sudden hysterical urge to laugh. It was so much like Starsky to just blow up, get it out of his system, and move on. Hutch rested his head against the back of the sofa and let himself drift, content for the moment to stop thinking, to simply feel the warm, living weight of his partner in his arms.

After a while his leg went to sleep and his back began to ache, but Hutch remained where he was until sunlight filtered through the windows, and the sound of traffic drifted in from the streets outside.

*****

9:15 a.m.

Hutch pushed open the door, letting Williamson get a good look at him before he entered the hospital room. The nervousness in the man’s eyes was satisfying, but Hutch was far too focused on controlling his rage to enjoy it. Remaining silent, he stepped aside and allowed Esther Starsky to enter the room.

Williamson’s eyes widened in shock. “Esther?”

“Gene.” She coolly evaluated the damage her eldest son had wrought. “I don’t think I’ve seen you look better.”

“Your boy always did have a mean left hook.” Williamson tried to smile, but the effort lapsed as he realized his charms were wasted on this audience.

Hutch pulled one of the chairs over to the bedside for Mrs. Starsky, and lowered himself into a seat against the wall facing Williamson, so he could observe both of them. Hutch’s shoulders and back were still cramped from the night before, and he tried to ease them, but the tension refused to dissipate. He still had no idea what Esther had planned, and he wasn’t certain what he would do if she failed.

The familiar weight of his gun under his shoulder was both comforting and disturbing. Starsky was so sure he’d always do the right thing, and here he was nursing fantasies about shooting an unarmed old man. Simple assault wouldn’t count for much, weighed against murder one.

Damn, Vanessa was right. I really do have a martyr complex.

Mrs. Starsky had settled into the chair by the bed. Her purse rested on her lap, and her hands clasped the leather bag. She cleared her throat. “You’re going to drop the charges against my son, Gene.”

The certainty in her voice was intimidating, but Williamson rallied. “Now, Esther –.”

“I no longer take advice from you about what is best for my son.” The chill in her voice intensified.

“Now, I don’t know where you ever got that idea, Esther, but I never once hurt Davy –.”

Hutch released the safety on his Magnum.

“Kenneth . . .”

Starsky had always teased him about being too slow on the draw. “It’s ’cause ya think too much, college boy,” he’d laughed. Holding the gun in his hand, with no memory of making the decision to draw it, Hutch finally understood what Starsky had meant.

“Kenneth!”

Hutch met Mrs. Starsky’s eyes and took a deep breath. Reluctantly, he lowered the Magnum, engaged the safety, and rested it against one knee.

Esther returned her gaze to Williamson who looked on the verge of fainting. “I’m afraid Kenneth really hates liars.”

Hutch directed a cold smile at Williamson, willingly taking the role of bad cop to support her. She was Starsky’s mom, and deserved first crack at this bastard. He wouldn’t break his promise and deny her that privilege.

“Now, Gene, listen very carefully to me.” Her voice was steady. “Twenty years ago, you were the respected police officer and David was just a punk kid that no one would have believed. But things are different now. David is the decorated police officer, and you’re just a sad, washed up retiree with a drinking problem.”

She leaned in closer. “If you allow David’s assault on you to go to trial, every single thing you did to my boy will come out into the open.”

Williamson opened his mouth, and Hutch watched with interest as the man visibly rejected numerous defenses, apparently having learned better than to lie. Unfortunately, the truth he spoke was far more worrisome. “Davy won’t say a thing.”

Undeterred, Esther shook her head at him. “You don’t understand. He’s not going to be the one on the witness stand. It will be his frail, little, old mother up there in front of the jury, crying her eyes out. And by the time I’m through telling them all about my poor boy and how the trusted friend of his dead father brutalized him, there won’t be a dry eye in the courtroom.”

Esther Starsky was one of the least frail people Hutch had ever met.  He had no doubt that she’d pull it off. Damn, I’m glad she’s on our side.

Williamson swallowed. He glanced at Hutch, who just stared at him coldly, until the man looked down at the hospital sheets.

“You’d ruin us both.” Williamson whispered.

Esther shook her head again. “No, David will be ruined if I allow you to send him to jail. He may be willing to sacrifice his life to preserve his macho reputation, but I’m not. I know that David will be loved by friends and family regardless of what the rest of the world thinks of him, and because of that he’ll survive. You, on the other hand—I’ll make sure you end up in prison. As a cop and a child molester, I don’t rate your chances of survival terribly high.” She took a deep breath, and added with a chilling sincerity, “And I hope whoever does my family that service really takes his time while doing it.”

Hutch had stopped breathing, impressed to his core. However this went down, he thought, he’d back her to the hilt, for she was right. Last night he’d been so damned worried about how the rest of the world would react, but when had that ever mattered to them before? Those who really loved Starsky would never abandon him. I don’t care if we have to go to Bolivia to build you a new life, partner, we’ll do it.

The tense stalemate between Mrs. Starsky and Williamson lengthened, fraying Hutch’s nerves.  He was seriously wondering if he needed to contact a travel agent after all, when the man broke. “What do – do you want me to do?”

Esther turned to Hutch, handing him the lead.

Hutch nodded, accepting it. “You’re going to pick up the phone and call the ADA’s office, and tell them you’re dropping the charges.”

“Yes, okay.” Williamson agreed eagerly, like the cowed bully he was. “I’ll do it.”

“You’ll do it right now.” Hutch indicated the phone by the man’s bedside, and rattled off the number to the ADA’s office.

Williamson picked up the hand receiver, but then hesitated. Hutch leaned forward, and pressed the gun against his leg, resisting the powerful urge to lift it. Williamson cleared his throat, and asked, “What do I say?”

Hutch’s smile was icy. “Say it was all a terrible misunderstanding. Starsky came home, and found a guy he didn’t recognize sitting in the dark. He thought you were a burglar or a hit man, but when he realized his mistake, he stopped and called the ambulance. Due to your head injuries, you were confused, but now you remember how it went down.”

Meekly, Williamson did as he was told, but Hutch didn’t holster his gun until the man was through convincing the ADA. He imagined Simonetti’s face as he found out that Williamson had changed his mind, and the image caused a pleasurable rush.

When Williamson hung up the phone, Mrs. Starsky stood up, and Hutch automatically rose to his feet. She regarded the man on the hospital bed, her expression one of contempt. “Don’t change your mind once we’ve left. I meant every word I said.”

Mrs. Starsky headed for the door, but as she opened it, he began, “Esther, I’m –.”

She turned back, and snapped at Williamson, “Don’t you dare. Any apology from you would be as worthless as your soul.” The door swung shut behind her.

Williamson watched, his eyes opening wider, as Hutch approached his bedside. Hutch leaned over him, pushing his forearm down against Williamson’s splinted right hand, pinning it to the bed.

“Soon as the hospital lets you go, Williamson, you’re changing your ticket and catching the next flight out. And you’ll never set foot in this city again, because if you do,” Hutch pressed harder against the injured hand, “you won’t be waking up in a hospital. You won’t be waking up at all. Do you understand?”

Williamson nodded, his eyes glazing from the pain.

“I didn’t catch that,” Hutch prompted, increasing the pressure on Williamson’s right hand. You’re right, Starsk, hurting this scumball feels damn good.

“Yes. I — understand.”

“Good.” Hutch released Williamson, and straightened up. With a deep breath, he forced himself to leave the hospital room, knowing he couldn’t trust his self-control for much longer.

Once in the hall, he looked for Mrs. Starsky, and found her seated near the closest nurse’s station. When she didn’t rise at his approach, he sat down beside her.

She smiled at him. “I didn’t hear a gun shot, so I assume we’re not on the lam.”

Hutch smiled back; for the first time in days it felt genuine. “Are you all right?”

Mrs. Starsky nodded. “I just need a moment.”

She looked a little shaky. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

Hutch fetched a coffee from the nearby machine, but before he could sit back down beside her, she said, “I’m curious, Kenneth, why does that nurse over there keep giving you the evil eye?”

He turned his head. Oh shit, Carol. Hutch realized that not only hadn’t he noticed the aggrieved nurse, he hadn’t even thought to keep an eye out for her.

He dropped his head. “We, um, dated.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Starsky exhaled as she accepted the coffee from him.

The understanding in Esther’s tone made Hutch wonder just what Starsky told his mom when he wasn’t around to listen in on their Friday phone calls. He didn’t have time to plot his revenge, however, because without warning Mrs. Starsky stood up and faced him.

“Officer Hutchinson,” she announced, her ability to project as excellent as her son’s, “you saved my boy’s life this past weekend.”

Hutch stared at her, stunned. Officer wha–?

“They say the police in this town only care about themselves, but you’ve proved them wrong. I won’t forget your selfless sacrifice on behalf of my family.”

“’kay,” he mumbled.

“Now,” she whispered, “escort me to the car.”

Still thrown by Esther’s behavior, Hutch offered his arm. As they walked down the corridor, he risked a glance back at Carol, and noticed that she looked uncertain, but a lot less hostile.

Once they reached his car, Hutch could no longer restrain himself. “Why’d you do that, Mrs. Starsky?”

“Esther.” She corrected. “The way you two boys go around foolishly risking your lives, I can’t risk having the nurses of this hospital disconnecting the life support on you, now can I?”

Hutch knew that the proper thing to do would be to thank her, but he couldn’t help asking, “You think police work is foolish?”

Mrs. Starsky rolled her eyes. “No, what’s foolish is driving around with my son behind the wheel of that hotrod he loves so much.”

He smiled again as they climbed into the car. They were silent during the drive to Starsky’s place, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

Hutch parked the car. “I’d like a list of any charities Williamson is still involved in.” A police officer’s warning, Hutch knew, even from one calling from out of state, would be taken seriously.

Mrs. Starsky nodded. “I’ll get the information to you.” She reached for the door handle.

Hutch felt foolish for his concern, but he had to ask. “Mrs. — Esther, do you want me to . . .”

“Don’t worry, he’s not going to shoot me. I’m his mother.”

Before letting herself out of the car, she surprised him again by leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. She disappeared inside Starsky’s apartment building, and Hutch pulled away from the curb.

I wish you’d been mine.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

Tuesday, February 28, 1978

10:45am

“Hutchinson!”

Hutch flinched. He’d hoped to make it to his desk without attracting Dobey’s attention.

“Sir?”

“My office, now!”

With a deep sense of foreboding, Hutch made his way into Dobey’s office.

“Close the door!”

He’d barely complied, when Dobey launched into a tirade. “I just had a call from Internal Affairs, and they’re hopping mad. They’re saying you coerced Williamson into dropping the charges against Starsky.”

Hutch opened his mouth, but the memory of drawing his gun on Williamson cut off his denial.

“Well?”

Hutch swallowed. The chill in his captain’s voice told him that this wasn’t just another routine dressing down for ignoring protocol. “What does Williamson say?”

“He says it was a misunderstanding – a case of mistaken identity.” Dobey’s frown deepened. “But I think you already know that.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Hutch looked down at the floor. He knew he ought to feel guilty about violating his code of ethics as an officer, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret what he’d done. The trouble was, he couldn’t think of a way of explaining it, either.

Dobey’s voice dropped to an uneasy rumble. “I know what Starsky means to you, but pressuring a witness to change his story . . .” Hutch heard the captain shift, his chair creaking. “Hutch, I trusted you to know where to draw the line. Otherwise, I’d never have assigned you his case.”

The accusation hurt, not because it wasn’t true, but because, in protecting his partner, he’d betrayed his captain’s trust and Dobey damn well knew it. Hutch straightened and confronted Dobey’s worried gaze. “I know exactly where that line is, Captain, and I hit it last night when I heard what Mrs. Starsky had to say.”

Puzzlement replaced some of the disappointment on Dobey’s face. “Mrs. Starsky?”

“Starsky’s mom flew in from New York last night. I took her to Williamson this morning at her request.” Hutch paused, and rubbed his jaw. “She did most of the talking.”

It occurred to Hutch that it was Mrs. Starsky who’d convinced Williamson to change his story. Not that it mattered, IA wouldn’t appreciate the distinction, and Hutch was more than willing to share culpability. What we did wasn’t legal, but it was right.

“And?”

Hutch had lost the thread of the conversation. “And what?”

“What did she say to him?”

“Oh.” Hutch thought hard. He couldn’t tell Dobey the whole story—even if he wanted to, he didn’t have the right. “She informed Williamson that she would take the stand in Starsky’s defense. That there were . . . things that she would say that he wouldn’t want a jury to hear.”

Dobey slapped his hands down on the top of his desk, half-rising from his seat as he roared, “You stood there and allowed her to blackmail him!”

Hutch stepped forward, his fists clenched. “Captain, he had it coming! She didn’t say a single thing that wasn’t true, and you know what? I think it’s a crying shame that Williamson will never get more than what he got at Starsky’s hands!”

A heavy silence descended. Finally, Dobey released a sigh. “But if that’s true, then why aren’t we bringing Williamson up on charges?”

Hutch shook his head, sick at the thought that he’d revealed more than he’d intended. “Don’t. It’s ancient history.”

“Hutchinson, it doesn’t matter how long ago it was, if Williamson was a dirty cop, it shouldn’t be swept under the rug.”

He thinks Williamson was corrupt! Struggling to keep the relief out of his voice, Hutch said, “Captain, you’ve got to trust me. Bringing this out into the open will do much more harm than good.”

“I don’t like being kept in the dark,” said Dobey. He fidgeted in his chair, his brows drawn together. He reached into a drawer, withdrew a jar of antacids, tipped a few into his hand, and tossed them into his mouth, crunching loudly to cover the growing silence.

Hutch was well versed in procedure, which demanded that Dobey put him on suspension and begin an investigation into the charges of coercion. Dobey had bent the rules for them in the past, but this was asking a lot. Hutch was gambling on friendship and trust, but he didn’t know if it would be enough.

He drew in a long breath. “What if I were to tell you that what happened . . . had nothing whatsoever to do with Williamson being a cop? Consider it — a family thing.”

And that wasn’t a lie, because twenty years ago Esther and Mike had trusted Williamson and had accepted him into their family. Deep within, Hutch felt a wrenching jolt as if something had been torn from him. Another little piece of my idealism, perhaps.

Dobey looked doubtful. “A family thing,”  he repeated. “And Mrs. Starsky . . . ?”

Steadily, Hutch met his eyes, and pushed back. “Mrs. Starsky would like it kept that way.”

Dobey pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead with it. “Family.” He spoke the word with low reverence. “Family,” he added, as if delivering a sermon, “is everything.”

Maybe that was what clinched it, because Dobey dropped his eyes to the stack of paperwork in front of him: arrest reports and requisitions, time sheets and sick forms. “Well, Hutchinson, I’ve got work to do and you’ve got work you haven’t been doing these past couple days, so get back on it. Your partner can have the rest of the day off, since his mother’s in town.”

He scowled at Hutch. “But don’t go thinking you’re off the hook. I want to see the both of you in here at 8:30 sharp tomorrow morning or there’ll be hell to pay.”

Hutch recognized the absolution buried within Dobey’s exasperated grumble. The depth of the relief he felt was staggering. “Yes, sir!”

Dobey huffed. “You two are going to be the death of me yet. Now get back to work, before I change my mind and have you both shot at dawn.”

Family was a wonderful thing, Hutch thought, as he fled Dobey’s office. Because sometimes they saw everything, and sometimes they saw just enough to see nothing at all.

*****

11:32 p.m.

“You’re . . . celebrating.” Huggy repeated Hutch’s explanation, his tone eloquent in its disapproval.

Hutch pretended not to notice. “I am,” he confirmed. “Didn’t you hear? Williamson said it was all a terrible misunderstanding, and the D.A. is withdrawing the charges against Starsky. Tell me that’s not something worth celebrating.”

Hutch poured himself a second shot from the bottle of whiskey he’d browbeaten the barmaid into selling him. Huggy hadn’t been anywhere in sight at time, but he’d shown up soon enough afterward.

“Hutch, right now you got all the celebratory joy of a man attending his own wake – alone,” Huggy said with an air of infinite patience tried to its limit. “Far be it for me to try to tell you anything.”

Unsmiling, Hutch saluted him with the shot glass.

Huggy released a melodramatic sigh. “Do try not to give yourself alcohol poisoning. It ain’t good for the business when my customers kill themselves.” Shaking his head, Huggy walked away.

Hutch absently picked at the label of the amber bottle. Huggy obviously thought he’d started drinking long before he’d even gotten to the Pitts. Probably the barmaid had thought the same.

They were both wrong. Hutch had never felt more sober in his entire life.

His brother cops had been whispering about him at work. Some were sympathetic, but he’d heard others gloating. “Hutchinson, yeah, he always acts like he’s such a straight shooter. But he’s not above running out on an arrest warrant, or putting the screws on a witness to protect his partner, is he?” Then the overheard response that had bothered him even more. “Yeah, I’d always thought that’d be more Starsky’s style.”

Hutch snorted derisively, and took another swallow, feeling the whiskey burn its way down his throat. Those idiots didn’t know Starsky at all. Unfortunately, between Vanessa’s murder and Williamson’s hospitalization, the last two weeks had left both of their reputations as clean cops in shreds.

At least they don’t suspect the truth behind the assault on that bastard.

All day, Hutch had tried not to think of how the other cops would have reacted to Mrs. Starsky’s revelation. His less-than-successful efforts had resurrected an old memory that he’d tried to banish back into the shadows of his mind. Downing another shot for courage, Hutch allowed the memory out and took a long look at the ugly little thing.

Eighth grade, health class. The boys went to one room and the girls to another to learn all of the facts of life every young person needed to know. Mostly the curriculum had consisted of lectures about “nice boys don’t” and “jerking off causes insanity,” delivered by a stern man who looked like he’d never had sex. There’d been films too, including one on VD that caused half the class to swear off sex for the rest of their lives. A vow that lasted about thirty seconds after the bell had rung and they were once again mingling with the female half of the school population.

But the film that haunted him now was one about predatory strangers stalking boys.

Even though Hutch hadn’t thought about the film in years, he could still hear the narrator’s smooth, confident voice, describing “homosexuality” as a contagious disease, inciting men to seek out intimate relationships with young boys. The man in the story had gone to jail, while the boy had ended up released on probation with a juvenile record. The message had been clear; the man was sick, but the victim was culpable for allowing it to happen, for not being careful enough.

Hutch poured himself another shot. Even as a fifteen year old, he’d been pretty sure those films were all full of lies. Besides, every boy in his class knew that jerking off didn’t make you go insane, and nice boys certainly did if any girl would. So why bother to believe the rest of what they told you anyway?

But how must Starsky have felt, watching sick propaganda like that when he was just a kid in high school? Being told that he was responsible for his own molestation and rape?

More whiskey was downed, the shaking of his hand ignored. At least, in college it had seemed as if there wasn’t a single conventional belief left that couldn’t be challenged. Even though homosexuality had still been on the books as illegal and a mental illness, his peers and his psychology professor had agreed that consensual love between adults of either sex was an entirely different animal from predatory pedophilia.

But Starsky hadn’t gone to college; he’d been drafted instead. Despite what his partner claimed about spending his entire tour getting high on marijuana, Bob Dylan, and the Rolling Stones, the army wasn’t renowned for broadening a man’s horizons.

No wonder John Blaine’s death had hit Starsky so hard, Hutch reflected. The man he’d admired and tried to emulate – a genuinely good person – had been exposed as a closeted homosexual. Starsky must have had to re-evaluate his entire perception of Blaine, and Hutch couldn’t imagine how hard that must have been.

Hutch froze in the act of pouring another shot, suddenly aware that he was doing exactly the same thing to Starsky right now. He was reassessing him in the light of disturbing new information.

Might as well be honest about it.

Hutch had long suspected that Starsky had been sent to live with his aunt and uncle in Bay City because of troubles back home. Still, he’d assumed that they’d been the result of having lost his father at such a young age, and he’d envied the close relationship his partner maintained with his mother, despite their separation. Hutch would never have guessed that Starsky had been an abused child.

After they’d worked on Guy Mayer’s case, Hutch had borrowed some books on abused children from Sergeant Peterson. He’d hoped that this reading would enable him to spot any warning signs in future cases involving kids. The descriptions of the lifelong impact of the abuse on its victims had left him thoroughly depressed, fearing that little Guy might never be all right. Hutch’s grip on the shot glass tightened. Were there signs of long-term trauma he’d missed seeing in his own partner?

He frowned at the alcohol in his hand. Starsky had a temper that was the scourge of furniture everywhere, and a tendency to be cynical when it came to people’s characters. Still, considering their stressful profession, all of that was normal. Hutch shuddered as he recalled his own initial naiveté, worn down by exposure to the streets of Bay City.

The fact was, Hutch decided as he tossed back the whiskey, that despite his partner’s occasional bizarre get-rich-quick schemes, Starsky was by far the sanest person he knew.

As far as Hutch was concerned, his partner coped better with their job than he did most of the time. Even Starsky’s frustrating behavior since his assault on Williamson made perfect sense now that Hutch knew why his partner had been pushing him away so hard.

He thought over what he’d read about the troubles that abused kids had later in their personal lives, but Starsky had never displayed any difficulty interacting or forming relationships with people. He sure as hell never showed any problem with physical contact, unlike so many other sexual assault victims that they’d dealt with.

Hutch froze as that thought triggered a memory from the last book he’d read. The author had proposed that, unlike adult or teenaged victims, abused children’s personal boundaries were violated before these boundaries had fully formed.

Ironically, at the time, he’d reflected that Starsky would have hated the book because of its thick jargon, but Hutch now realized that the author had described one of his partner’s salient traits: Starsky lacked all sense of personal space. It was a peculiarity that Hutch found alternately endearing and infuriating. He’d learned early on that the frequent touches, whether a casual pat on a knee or squeeze of a shoulder, were just his partner’s way of communicating strength and support. It had taken a couple of years, but eventually Hutch had become comfortable enough to return the contact, and then to initiate it – communicating in a way alien to his upbringing, but definitely good for his soul.

Sometimes though, Starsky would get right into his face, knowing full well that it made him uncomfortable. He’d also witnessed his partner aggressively crowding perps until they cracked, without ever having to lay a finger on them. Starsky knew that his deliberate invasion of people’s space unsettled them in a way that never bothered him.

Hutch reached for the whiskey bottle again, surprised to find it closer to empty than he’d expected. He poured out the last of it into his glass, and had to admit that he’d found no answers at the bottom of the bottle. Two psychology courses and a handful of books on child abuse were hardly sufficient background to figure out which aspects of his partner’s personality were the results of the trauma he’d suffered as a kid, and which were just Starsky: exasperating, lovable, and unique.

He reached into his back pocket to see if he had enough cash to bribe the barmaid into giving him another bottle of whiskey, but pulled out Starsky’s watch instead. He laid it on the table, feeling guilty for not returning it last night. Yet it had felt important at the time to fix the damn thing first.

Gripping the watch firmly, Hutch tried to push the pin back into place. He grimaced as the edge of the metal bit into his thumb. Retrieving the cap of the whiskey bottle, he tried to use it instead. With only a quiet ping as a warning, the pin abruptly came loose and shot across the table, propelled by the spring inside.

Cursing, Hutch scanned the table surface for the tiny piece of metal. He pushed his empty glass aside and ran his hands over the checked tablecloth. He bent down to search the floor, but the pin was gone.

He rested his spinning head beside the watch, and berated himself for trying to fix it on his own. Something like that needed an expert to repair it properly, not a drunken—if well-meaning—friend.

Damn, I’m an absolute idiot sometimes.

He pocketed the remains of the watch and pushed himself to his feet. Blinking as he experienced another touch of vertigo, Hutch decided that he must be more tired than he’d thought. He fumbled in his pocket for a dime, as he headed toward the bank of pay phones near the door.

Hutch had an idea, but to make it happen he needed serious help. Starsky was going to really, really hate the plan, which meant that his partner must never, ever find out that Hutch was the one who had come up with it.

Leaning against the wall, Hutch dialed the phone number, and tried to reassure himself that despite the risk of getting his lights punched out, his scheme was in Starsky’s best interests.

After five rings, the line was picked up, and a sleepy voice warned, “This had better be life or death.”

“Captain? We need to talk.”

 

CHAPTER NINE

Wednesday, February 29, 1978

7:46 a.m.

Consciousness returned. More or less.

His sleep-encrusted eyes still glued shut, Hutch experienced the all too familiar sensation of his grey matter trying to slide out of his ears, no doubt hoping to escape to some haven less soaked in alcohol. Hutch released a careful breath and tried to relax, hoping that he was overestimating the amount of pain lying in wait for him.

That must have been some party.

Morning light filtered red through his eyelids, and Hutch slowly became aware that he was uncomfortably hot. Further sensory information trickled past the throbbing pulse behind his eyes, identifying the source of the heat under his cheek as the living warmth of a body. Hutch gradually realized that his left arm was flung across a waist, and that the person he embraced did not have the generous, smooth curves of a female friend. Instead, his head was resting on the hard muscles of an unmistakably male body, thick hair tickling his nose as the chest beneath his cheek rose and fell in the slow rhythms of sleep.

Deeply confused, Hutch risked prying open his eyes. Ignoring as best he could the resulting surge in pain, he found himself squinting up at a stubbled chin, instantly recognizable despite the unfamiliar angle.

“Starsk?” Hutch’s voice was a barely audible croak. It felt like the sides of his larynx were scraping together.

The steady rise and fall of the chest beneath his cheek stopped for a moment, before resuming its rhythm, and the body beneath him began to stir. Which meant Hutch had less than a minute to figure out how he’d ended up in his partner’s bed, in nothing more than his underwear, clinging to Starsky as if the man had turned overnight into a large, sweaty teddy bear.

However it had happened, this was most definitely a compromising position. Hutch felt a sudden jolt of panic at the thought of what Starsky’s formidable mother would say if she caught him almost naked in bed with her son.

Hutch pushed himself up onto his arms, and whimpered as the monster lying in wait dug its sharp claws into his brain. Blinking through the agony of his crushed skull, he saw Starsky lift his head off his pillow, only half-awake.

“Starsk, where’s your mom?” Hutch told himself that the tremor in his voice was due to the throbbing in his head, rather than the terror in his gut.

Starsky’s face twisted into a grimace and he flung an arm across his face. From behind his elbow he groused, “Shit, Hutch. What crawled into your mouth and died?”

Hutch pushed himself back. Frantic, he looked around for his jeans, and spotted them neatly folded on the chair beside the bed. “Starsky, your mom!”

“Relax, already,” the muffled, sleepy voice scolded. “She caught the last plane back to New York yesterday. Our reputation’s intact.” A faint snicker. “Not that you ever had much of one t’preserve.”

Hutch’s brain was operating at somewhat less than 33 rpm. “Last plane?”

“Yeah, she has a life, ya know. When she’s not interfering with mine.”

Relieved, Hutch eyed his pants, and wondered if he had the energy to stand up and collect them. “You’re lucky she did,” he said without thinking.

“Am I?”

A chill ran down Hutch’s back, and he turned his head to find that Starsky had dropped his arm, and was regarding him with the same impenetrable expression he’d worn in the interrogation room on Saturday night. Despite the oddness of finding himself in Starsky’s bed, his partner’s initial banter had been so normal that it felt like a kick in the stomach to end up back there again.

Starsky broke the silence first. “What do ya remember about last night?”

Hutch tried to organize his fragments of memory into a coherent whole. He definitely remembered Huggy’s bar, but a close-up image of the dark wood grain of a table confused him. Where was the usual green checked table cloth? Hutch also recalled using his index finger to draw pictures in a sticky puddle of beer spilled on the . . .

No, that couldn’t be right. Though the disturbingly clear memory he had of the floor of The Pits might explain why he also remembered an extremely irritated Huggy.

Then, Starsky was there. Picking him up, and pouring him into the passenger seat of the Torino. Hutch recalled his amazement that Starsky had come to get him, and a wistful hope that perhaps his partner still cared.

Now, it occurred to Hutch that Huggy had probably called Starsky and insisted that he come and scrape his partner up off the floor of his bar. I’ll bet he said I was bringing down the tone of the place.

Meeting Starsky’s penetrating gaze, Hutch slowly shook his head, the care he took having as much to do with the sense of impending doom as it did with the semi-liquid state of his brain. “I – was in your car.”

“You got some pretty messed up ideas in that head of yours,” said Starsky, evenly.

“M-messed up?”

Starsky rolled over and swung his legs off the side of the bed, sitting next to Hutch. His expression was calculating, and Hutch felt the layers of his soul being peeled back and laid bare.

“I spend a few days locked up in jail and look what happens to you. You don’t eat. You don’t sleep.” He wrinkled his nose. “And you start smoking again.”

“I did not!”

“If you didn’t, it was only ‘cause Huggy threatened to ban anyone who gave you anything resembling a cigarette.” Starsky scowled. “Yeah, I heard about that. He also told me to tell you that you’re not allowed back in The Pits without a chaperone.”

Hutch shook his head again, this time in futile denial, and tried to stand up. His vision greyed at the edges and his head hummed. He swayed, but a strong hand caught his arm, steadying him.

“Go take a shower,” Starsky said. “We’ll talk later.”

Hutch felt ridiculously grateful for the compassion he hoped he wasn’t imagining in his friend’s voice. God, I hope he’s still my friend. Clutching a clean towel, his jeans, and a borrowed shirt, Hutch let Starsky steer him toward the bathroom.

Hutch helped himself to a couple of aspirin and several glasses of water. His stomach didn’t appreciate the latter, but at least his mouth and throat felt less like they were made of sandpaper. He stared blearily at his reflection, before deciding that was a mistake, and waited with closed eyes for the nausea to pass. He knew he’d probably feel better if he did vomit, he had no desire to compete with Starsky’s spectacular performance on Monday night.

Once his stomach had settled, Hutch decided he wasn’t up to shaving, and turned on the shower instead.  He stepped under the spray and then realized he’d forgotten to strip off his underwear. He was halfway through washing when his chemically battered brain suggested yet another reason to panic. They were both supposed to report to Dobey’s office at 8:30 this morning. He finished in a rush and, still dripping, retrieved Starsky’s watch from his jeans. It was 8:07.

Shit, getting shot at dawn would be merciful compared to what Dobey’s gonna do to us now.

Barefooted and with shirt untucked, Hutch emerged from the bathroom and noticed the changes he’d missed in his earlier post-alcoholic fog. Starsky’s place had been cleaned up, the furniture righted, and the smashed items discarded. Even the blood stains had been scrubbed out of the carpet. Some of the shelves looked conspicuously bare, and the white chair had acquired a noticeable tilt to the right, but otherwise all evidence of Saturday night’s violence had been erased.

There was a heavy smell in the air of eggs fried in bacon grease, and Hutch’s stomach lurched in protest.

“Sit.” Starsky was holding two plates. He gestured at the couch with his chin.

“I can’t,” said Hutch, certain that he’d never smelled anything less appetizing in his life.

“Sit down! I dunno when you ate last, but I know you’re going to eat now, if I have to shove it down your throat.”

Hutch swallowed, trying to settle his roiling stomach. If this was what Starsky always ate when he had a hangover, he really must have an iron constitution. “We’ll be late for Dobey . . .”

“I already called him and let him exercise his lungs at me. We’ve got an extra half hour.” Starsky advanced on Hutch until he was backed up against the couch. “You’re gonna sit your ass down, eat what I made you, and listen to what I got to say.”

Before Hutch knew how it’d happened, he found himself on the couch with a plate of bacon and eggs on his knees. He tentatively poked his fork at the yellow mass, and cringed when it slid sideways, leaving a greasy trail behind. He looked up and found Starsky looming over him with a threatening scowl on his face.

Resigned to the inevitable, Hutch speared a tiny curd of egg with the tip of his fork and placed it in his mouth, where he proceeded to chew it into oblivion, negating the necessity of actually swallowing. With a little luck, his stomach would never suspect a thing.

Satisfied, Starsky sat down in the chair opposite the couch and started in on his own breakfast.

Hutch rearranged the contents of his plate, and wondered what Starsky felt he needed to say. It occurred to him that his friend might want to talk about Williamson and the events of twenty years ago, after all.

Looking up, Hutch said, “You know I’m always here for you–”

The abrupt clatter of Starsky’s plate hitting the coffee table cut him off. Hutch flinched at the sudden fury on his partner’s face.

“That’s exactly your problem! You’re so busy trying to be here for me, even when I make it clear I don’t want you to, that you forget to look after yourself!”

“I don’t–”

“What? You don’t know what I mean? Of course not.” His voice became a low snarl. “Crawling inside of a bottle of whiskey at The Pits last night must have been for the good of your health.” He shook his head. “Saddest goddamn drunk I’ve ever seen.”

The injustice of the accusation, especially coming from a man who’d been puking his guts out less than two nights ago, ignited Hutch’s own temper. “Now, wait a minute!”

Starsky leaned forward, catching Hutch’s gaze with an intensity that stopped him in mid-protest. “Do you think I like seeing my partner in pain? Knowin’ I’m the cause of it?”

The raw emotion exposed by Starsky’s words robbed Hutch of his anger. He was paralysed, unable to speak or look away.

“What were you trying to do, huh?”

It took Hutch a moment to realize that he was referring to the previous night. “Um . . . celebrate?” he said. Starsky scowled, and Hutch hastily amended his answer. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Starsky slouched back down into his chair. “Yeah, that’s what you said last night, just before you declared you were never letting me out of your sight again. Which was about five seconds before you attached yourself to me like some kind of drunken giant squid.”

Hutch cringed. “Uh . . .”

“All night I was having nightmares that I’d be hitting the streets in the morning with my partner permanently wrapped around my waist. Now, where’s the dignity in that, huh?”

Hutch shook his head. His brain was still refusing to come to his aid either with memories of the night before, or with suggestions on how to mollify Starsky.

Fortunately, Starsky’s ire now vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He shook his head. “Aw, Hutch, what am I supposed to do with you? You got any idea what kind of responsibility this is? I didn’t know you’d fall apart if I ever tried to break us up. I thought I was doin’ you a favor.”

This sympathetic affection was worse than his anger. Hutch looked down, noticing his forgotten breakfast still balanced on his knees.

Starsky tapped the edge of Hutch’s plate, and commanded, “Eat.”

Obediently, Hutch took another tiny bite of egg. It was cold now, but his interest in food was at such an all-time low ebb that it didn’t make any difference. After a minute of unenthusiastic chewing, he heard Starsky collect his own plate and carry it back to the kitchen.

The moment he was gone, Hutch scraped his breakfast into the closest wastebasket and placed his plate on the coffee table. He then looked around for his jacket, finding it hanging off the mirror by the front door, smelling strongly of smoke and booze.

“Take my windbreaker,” said Starsky, coming up behind him. “You’ve already done your share of stinking up my car, you don’t need to make it worse.” His head tilted to one side, and that familiar cocky grin appeared on his face. “And don’t think I didn’t notice what you did with your breakfast.”

“I couldn’t eat it.” Hutch shrugged into the borrowed jacket.

“Never mind, we’ll stop somewhere on the way to work, and you can buy yourself one of those disgusting health shakes, while you get me something decent.”

“What?” Hutch protested, as he followed Starsky outside. “Why am I buying you anything?”

“I slept with you last night, and now you won’t even buy me breakfast? If this is how you treat all your dates, it’s no wonder you can’t get anyone steady.”

“Hey!”

But Starsky had picked up his pace and was already at the car before Hutch could extract any sort of vengeance. “Taking advantage of a man with a hangover, that’s just not fair.”

“Cry me a river, ol’ pal!”

But as good as his word, Starsky drove him to Mother Nature’s Buffet, and hauled him inside. Hutch peered at the choices for breakfast takeaway, and decided that a yogurt was probably the safest choice.

“Gimme one of those wheat germy bran muffin things,” Starsky instructed the young woman behind the counter.

Hutch’s eyebrows lifted, but Starsky just shoved it at him. “Like there’s anything here I’m goin’ to want to eat.”

“But –”

“Don’t care if you think eating yogurt will make you live to 140, you’re eatin’ more than that.”

Hutch obediently bought both, along with a newspaper for Starsky. Hutch started toward the door, but Starsky blocked him, steering him toward a table. “Uh uh, I’m not takin’ the chance of all that healthy crap coming back up all over my seats. You eat in here, keep it down, then you’re allowed back in the car.”

“But we might end up being—” Hutch placed his food on the table, and glanced up at the clock on the wall, “well, later.”

“Like Dobey isn’t going to yell at me anyway. I’m in for a penny, might as well be in for the whole enchilada. Now eat.”

Hutch sat down, not allowing his already aching brain to wrap itself around this latest example of Starsky’s mixed metaphors. Hutch managed to choke down the yogurt, and despite his partner’s grousing about the food here, Starsky’s glance over the newspaper looked satisfied. Hutch wondered how much the first greasy attempt at breakfast had just been Starsky getting back at him, and decided that he’d rather not know.

Starting on his bran muffin, Hutch decided that Starsky looked at ease, unconcerned about the upcoming confrontation with Dobey. Then again, Starsky was never truly scared of Dobey. He’d most recently proved that when he had gone on the lam with his partner, rather than arrest him for Vanessa’s murder.

Hutch reflected that Starsky had no reason to worry about being late today because, no matter how bad the chewing out, he was going to have his badge back at the end of it. Plus, Starsky had no idea about the plan his partner had set in motion last night. Hutch felt a twinge of guilt, but pushed it down, reminding himself it was for his partner’s own good.

He stretched, and sighed. Despite the hangover, he was happy, knowing that soon they’d be back on the streets together, just as it should be. He then realized that their legs were now brushing against each other under the table. Starsky continued to read the paper, either unaware, or not caring. But suddenly Hutch did, and he carefully retreated from the contact.

Hutch now remembered his realization the previous night that Starsky’d had all of his personal boundaries ripped away from him by a predator. Hutch’s conscience assailed him, because what had he done afterwards? He’d attached himself to his partner like a — how had Starsky put it? Like a drunken squid.

I didn’t just invade his personal space; I invaded his bed, for God’s sake.

The newspaper swatted his head. “Wake up, will ya? I’ve asked you twice already if we can go now.”

Hutch blinked. “You trust me in the Torino now?”

“Your color’s lookin’ a lot less scary—I’m willin’ to risk it. ‘Course, at the first sign of pukin’, I’m tossing you out.”

Hutch rose to his feet, and noticed that despite the residual pain and dizziness, he did feel a lot healthier. “Will you slow down first?”

“You wish.” Starsky got up, and turned his head as a pretty girl passed them. Hutch saw that a young man in a hurry was about to plow into his distracted partner, and he automatically extended his arm to maneuver Starsky out of harm’s way. Hutch snatched it back at the last moment. As he watched his partner avoid the collision on his own, he realized that giving Starsky personal space was going to be a lot tougher than he’d thought.

In fact, as they both headed out of Mother Nature’s Buffet, Hutch noticed that, as usual, they were practically walking on top of each other. Once again, he had to put distance between them, and it felt unnatural.

He walked over to the passenger’s side of the car, and was about to get in, when he noticed his partner glaring at him above the roof of the Torino. “’Fraid you’re goin’ to catch something, Hutch?”

Hutch’s jaw dropped, but Starsky didn’t give him a chance to respond. He slid inside the car, and slammed the door.

Cautiously, Hutch climbed into the vehicle, and closed the door. Starsky still hadn’t started the car, but was gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white. The silence extended, only to be broken when Starsky slammed the heels of his hands against the wheel.

“Damn her, I knew –” Starsky’s jaw clamped shut. The tension in his body was painful to see.

Hutch was appalled. Starsky thought he was avoiding contact because he was. . . was what? Disgusted by him? Considered him unclean, somehow? Part of him protested that surely his actions last night, and the previous morning had demonstrated that he wasn’t going to judge Starsky that way. But the saner half of his brain pointed out that some drunken declarations combined with a single, silent hug were unlikely to overturn decades of secrecy and shame.

Great going, Hutchinson, you don’t even need to open your mouth to really put your foot in it.

Starsky reached to put the key in the ignition, and Hutch lunged, grabbing his wrist. “Don’t ever think that, ever.”

Starsky wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“No.” Hutch’s hand released his wrist, only to clamp down on his shoulder. “Stop that right now. Would you hold it against me if Williamson had done that to me?”

Starsky squeezed his eyes shut, and he rubbed his left hand against his forehead. “I know what you’re doing, you’re using that backwards psychology on me. And if you don’t knock it off, I’m gonna belt ya one.”

Backwards? Rather than correct his partner, Hutch decided to use it to his advantage. “Here’s some forwards psychology then. I don’t blame you, I’d never blame you.” He squeezed his partner’s shoulder hard, “Look at me, Starsk.” When there was no response, he snapped, “I said look at me, damn it!”

Starsky obeyed, and Hutch hated what he saw in the man’s eyes. “Nothing’s changed. You’re my partner, my best friend, and no matter what stupid things I might do or say, trust me, nothing’s changed.”

Starsky shook his head, and glanced away.

Hutch’s index finger stabbed him in the chest. “Who do you trust?” He demanded.

“Aw, Hutch, that’s not –”

“Say it!”

Starsky closed his eyes, and mumbled, “Me and thee, same as always.”

“Don’t you dare forget that.” Hutch released Starsky’s shoulder, and leaned back into his seat. “Now, let’s get to the station, so we can get this partnership back in gear.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Starsky started up the Torino, and pulled out into traffic. Hutch forced himself to relax physically, and berated himself for his well-intentioned but utterly misguided idea. Regardless of how he’d ended up that way, Starsky was the way he was. The best thing to do was treat him as he always did.

Starsky parked the car in the lot. When he didn’t immediately open the door, Hutch decided a little extra reinforcement couldn’t hurt. “Nothing’s changed. Nothing could ever change what’s between us.”

“Heard you the first time,” his partner growled, and Hutch was relieved by how normal it sounded.

Starsky got out, and Hutch followed. He was surprised to find his partner once more eyeing him over the roof of the Torino. “Nothin’ huh?” he challenged. “Pretty damn confident, ain’t ya?”

Hutch looked closely, and caught the mischievous glint in Starsky’s eyes. “Why, you’ve got some other big, ugly secret I should know about?”

“Nope,” said Starsky. “I’m more worried about your deep, dark past.”

“Well,” Hutch leaned on the hood of the Torino. “I did cheat on my fifth grade civics exam, but then I wrote it again because I felt guilty about it. I also used to read comics in the drug store without ever buying them.”

“Well on your way to the FBI’s Most Wanted, you were.”

Encouraged by Starsky’s teasing, Hutch continued. “I once gave Christine Stevenson two sticks of gum in exchange for a look at her panties. I used the telescope I got for my thirteenth birthday to peep into Sara Kessler’s bedroom window. I got caught parking with Janey Faber when I was fourteen. Mostly, though, I got into trouble for smoking. I got caught smoking out behind the tennis courts, the swimming pool, the boy’s locker room at school, the girl’s washroom . . .”

As Hutch rattled off the long list of his juvenile crimes, Starsky’s eyes grew wider and wider. Finally, he began to grin. “Shit, Hutch. You were like some kind of chain-smoking, sex-obsessed Beaver Cleaver.”

Hutch jammed his fists into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “That’s because I didn’t have you around to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

The half-embarrassed but pleased expression on Starsky’s face was all the reassurance Hutch needed.

 

CHAPTER TEN

Wednesday, February 29, 1978

9:26 a.m.

Despite his residual hangover, Hutch enjoyed the sight that greeted him as he followed Starsky into the squad room. Simonetti and Dryden were leaving Dobey’s office.  Simonetti had a sour expression on his face, as if he’d just been told that his favorite pet piranha had died.

“You look like hell, Simonetti,” Starsky commented. “Haven’t you been getting enough sleep lately?” Before Simonetti could reply, Starsky answered his own question. “Nah, I’m betting it’s just lack of job satisfaction.”

Dobey hollered from his office, “Starsky, get in here!”

Starsky ignored the captain, continuing to address Simonetti in a helpful tone of voice. “Now, Hutch and me, we’ve got loads of job satisfaction. That’s how we stay so pretty.”

Impressed, Hutch watched as Starsky grinned smugly at Simonetti. The IA officer was sputtering with rage. Only Starsky could leave Simonetti speechless.

Dobey’s bellow became a roar, “Now, Starsky!”

Giving them a final wink, Starsky sauntered past Simonetti and Dryden and disappeared into Dobey’s office.

Hutch started to follow his partner, but Simonetti blocked his path. “Listen to me, Hutchinson, you’re not going to get away with –”

“No, you listen to me.” Hutch jabbed his index finger into Simonetti’s thin chest. “I’m going to file a complaint with your superiors. And if I ever hear of you deliberately endangering an officer’s life again, I’ll make sure it costs you your badge.”

Simonetti seemed genuinely taken aback by the accusation. “What the hell are you talking about, I’d never –.”

Dryden interrupted Simonetti. “You identified Detective Sergeant Starsky as a police officer while he was confined in the holding cell.”

Hutch’s eyebrows rose as Simonetti’s expression soured.

Dryden said, “We’ll be going now.”  He met Hutch’s eyes.

Hutch watched them leave, bemused to discover a decent person in Internal Affairs.  A loud protest from Dobey’s office pierced his still delicate head.

“Fuck that!”

Every head in the squad room swiveled toward the office door, facial expressions ranging from shock to amusement at Starsky’s outburst. Hutch just sighed. He’d known his partner was going to really hate the idea.

Dobey’s reply was equally heated. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Hutch assumed a long-suffering look for the other detectives, and made his way into Dobey’s office. Closing the door behind him, he took in the scene. Starsky was pacing the floor like a caged cat, while Dobey sat behind his desk, fuming. As his partner continued his protest at full volume, Hutch sank into the closest chair, and tried not to draw any attention to himself.

“I’m not going to do any of that primal screaming, ‘I’m okay, you’re okay,’ touching your feminine side, wheat grass drinking bullshit that Hutch is into!”

“This isn’t a request, Detective Sergeant, it’s an order! You’re going to see the department psychologist, and that’s that!”

Hutch decided he needed to do something nice for Dobey to make up for the fact that he was taking the brunt of Starsky’s rage. By rights, Starsky should be yelling at Hutch, since it had been his idea in the first place.

When Hutch had called Dobey from The Pits the night before, his only worry had been coming up with some plausible reason for why Starsky needed professional counseling. To his immense relief, Dobey had instantly agreed to his suggestion, and had even agreed to keeping Hutch’s part in the matter quiet. Hutch suspected that concession had less to do with altruism, than it did with the fact that counseling was voluntary unless your immediate superior deemed it otherwise. A cold day in hell didn’t even begin to describe the conditions necessary for Starsky to volunteer for something like that.

Maybe a box of chocolates, anonymously left on his captain’s desk . . .

“Cap, that’s not fair! It’s not like–”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, and I know better than to expect either of you . . . ” his glare encompassed both of them, “ . . . to explain. But Starsky, you assaulted someone right into the ICU, and then afterwards you wasted valuable department time by behaving like a stubborn idiot.” Dobey paused. “And Hutchinson, you leaned on a witness. Come to think of it, both of you should see a shrink.” A look of smug satisfaction crossed the captain’s face. “Yes, I’m going to give her a call and get her to book some sessions for you, Hutchinson.”

Hutch felt his jaw drop in shock at the unfairness of Dobey’s decision. Just because Starsky could use a psychologist didn’t mean he needed one, too. His psyche was in fine shape.

Scratch those chocolates! Dobey’s a double-crossing, back-stabbing . . .

Before he could mount a protest, Starsky had resumed his complaints. “Sure, head shrinkin’s right up Hutch’s alley, but there’s no damn way I’m setting foot–!”

“I wasn’t aware of any defect in your hearing, Starsky! Your ten mandatory sessions start tomorrow at nine a.m.!”

Hutch rubbed the bridge of his nose as this morning’s headache determinedly tried to make a comeback. Did the apocalyptic battle between the immovable object and the irresistible force really have to be this loud?

Thankfully, Starsky changed tactics to lower-volume cajoling. “C’mon Cap, I don’t have time for this sorta touchy feeling crap.”

Touchy-feely, Hutch corrected in his head. Frowning, he watched his partner walk around Dobey’s desk and begin rummaging through the top left-hand drawer. Dobey made no move to stop him. Hutch’s musings on why Starsky could get away with anything he liked where the captain was concerned were interrupted by Dobey’s bottle of aspirin abruptly flying his way. He fumbled the catch, but Starsky had aimed well enough that the bottle landed in his lap.

Starsky was now heading for the water cooler, his wheedling uninterrupted. “As you said, Cap, I’ve wasted a whole lot of valuable department time. Plus, Hutch and me have got a backlog of bad guys to catch, and I’m seriously behind on my paperwork, and you know how important that is.”

Hutch had to suppress a laugh as he removed the cap from the bottle of painkillers and tipped a couple into his hand. He accepted a paper cup of water from his partner.

Dobey was not an appreciative audience, his face darkening with anger. “Enough! Tomorrow morning you will be there, on time, and if I hear one complaint, if a single piece of furniture in that woman’s office is damaged, I’ll bust you down to traffic for the rest of your sorry career!”

Hutch swallowed the aspirins and tossed the bottle back to Starsky, who smoothly offered them to Dobey. The captain growled, and snatched the pills from the outstretched hand. Hutch decided that his partner was lucky to have all of his fingers still attached.

Starsky glanced at him, clearly seeking guidance. Hutch shrugged. Thanks to Dobey’s low-down decision to inflict counseling on him as well, it was easy to look as if everything was just as much a surprise to him as it was to Starsky. It occurred to Hutch that Dobey’s action might have nothing to do with him, but might instead be a shrewd bit of manipulation. Starsky was a lot less likely to disobey the order, if he thought Hutch was going to have to go through it, too.

Still got to see the shrink, but at least it’s in a good cause.

Looking thoughtful, Starsky turned back to his captain. “The shrink’s a woman?”

Hutch answered for Dobey, in a carefully neutral tone. “Yes. A very pretty one, too.”

Starsky was nonplussed. “Huh.”

Dobey glowered. “Am I to take that as an agreement to the conditions of your return to active duty?”

“If I haf’ta.”

Hutch bit back another smile. It wasn’t the first time he’d had this thought, but sometimes his tough as nails partner really did sound like a recalcitrant kid being dragged up in front of the principal.

Dobey yanked open the top right drawer of his desk and pulled out Starsky’s badge and gun. Hutch mused that his captain should just reserve the space for all the times one or the other of them had their badges pulled. Hell, perhaps Dobey already did exactly that.

“Remember Starsky,” Dobey warned, “Nine a.m. tomorrow. I don’t care if you’re dead, you’re still showing up!”

“Yeah, I heard ya,” Starsky muttered as he gathered up his gun and badge.

“What was that?” Dobey snapped.

Starsky apparently sensed that he’d pushed his luck too far, because his voice became much more respectful. “I meant, yes, Sir.”

Hutch couldn’t resist the opening. “Nice to see you don’t always get away with murder.”

“I bet I could get away with yours.”

Dobey slammed the drawer shut. “Don’t you two jokers have work to do? Get out of here!”

Hutch deliberately didn’t look at Starsky as he bolted from the office. He was struggling hard enough for self-control as it was. The moment the door closed, he turned and found himself eye to eye with his partner. Starsky snorted as a single giggle escaped Hutch. Sensing the impending explosion, Hutch grabbed his arm and propelled them both out into the hall. By the time they got there, they were both howling with laughter. Hutch leaned against the wall and braced his hands on his knees. After all the tension of the last few days, it felt incredibly good just to let go for a few minutes.

Starsky stopped first, and waited, grinning as Hutch struggled to sober up.

Once he’d caught his breath, Hutch rubbed his aching cheeks and asked, “So, do you want to clear up some of that very important paperwork?”

“Hell no,” Starsky responded predictably. “Let’s hit the streets.” He headed for the parking garage.

“Hey, isn’t that Pluckett?”

Hutch looked up, just in time to see the young man scuttle around the corner. “How’d the hell did you know his name?” He hadn’t been able to keep it straight. Hutch paused for a moment.  Was that his name?

Starsky grinned. “That’ll teach you who’s the real brains of this operation.”

Hutch remembered that Starsky had spoken to Dobey on the phone while he was in the shower. Trust his partner to ask after the kid.

As they headed to the stairwell, Starsky asked. “So why’d he take off like a scared rabbit?  Was it something I said?”

Said, did, take your pick . . .

Hutch shook his head. “It’s not you. Dobey said I scared him.” He still couldn’t figure that one out.

“Well, you’re a scary guy.”

Hutch glanced over in time to catch Starsky’s grin. Damn, he’d missed seeing that.

But in the stairwell, Starsky stopped and turned to face Hutch, bringing them both to an abrupt halt. “So, this shrink, she’s really pretty?”

Hutch was still on his euphoric high. “And single.”

Starsky’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “How do you know all this?”

Hutch immediately came back down to earth. He scrambled for plausible deniability. “You think I’d let them send my partner to a shrink without checking things out first?”

Starsky folded his arms, and waited.

Lacking the energy to fight the inevitable, Hutch conceded defeat. “I saw her a couple times after . . . after that whole business with Forrest.”

“Why’d you need to go talk to her about that?” There was an equal measure of hurt and confusion in Starsky’s voice, and Hutch felt like a heel.

“You’d done so much for me already, Starsk. I didn’t want to dump anything more on you.” Hutch ran his fingers along the stair railing, lost in the memory for a moment. Then he gave Starsky a shy grin. “Anyway, I couldn’t really explain why I was there, and she is cute, and, well . . .”

A slow smile broke across Starsky’s face. “You spent most of the session hitting on her, didn’t you?”

“Only a little of the session. And she did say a couple of useful things . . . before she kicked me out of her office.”

Starsky stared at him, and his smile faded. “This was all your idea, wasn’t it?”

This blunt accusation caught Hutch off-balance. “What?”

“Me seein’ this shrink lady.”

Shit! Hutch pulled himself together. “I don’t know where you get your crazy ideas sometimes, mushbrain.”

“From lookin’ at you.” Starsky’s eyes pinned him in place. “You’ve got that ‘I’m doin’ this for your own good’ look. The one you always get whenever you try to feed me one of those disgusting health drinks of yours.” A calculating expression crossed his face. “You know what I think, Hutch, buddy? I think Dobey only agreed to make me go to the shrink, so he could get you to see her.”

“That’s insane.”

“Oh yeah, Mr. Gonna-Pine-Away if my partner goes to jail.” Starsky stepped forward, his gaze never wavering. “Tell me, Hutch, which one of us was acting crazier these last couple days?”

Trying to come up with an effective distraction, Hutch shoved his hands in his pockets, and discovered the perfect one.

“Hey, I almost forgot.” Hutch pulled Starsky’s watch out and handed it to him. “I tried to fix it for you, but I think I made it worse.”

Starsky’s initial delighted grin dimmed at these last words. He held the watch up, examined the face for a minute, and sighed with relief. “I dunno what you’re so worried about, Hutch. The strap’s the only thing that’s broken. The watch still works great.”

“Yeah, but I thought I’d . . .” Hutch shrugged, unable to articulate his confused emotions regarding the watch.

Starsky turned to face Hutch, and smacked him in the chest with the watch. “Pay attention, partner. The strap isn’t important. Straps break all the time. It’s the stuff inside the case that makes the watch.”

Hutch took a deep breath. He wondered why his partner’s ability to turn the prosaic into profound wisdom still had the capacity to surprise him.

Whistling, Starsky resumed barreling down the stairs, and Hutch had to hurry to catch up.

In the parking lot, they’d almost made it to the car when Starsky announced over his shoulder, “Just so ya know, Hutchinson, the moment that pretty little shrink tells me to give up pizza and root beer for wheat grass and yoga, I’m outta there.”

Off the hook for now. “That’s fair.” Hutch felt relieved, despite knowing that Starsky would be revisiting this issue, repeatedly, over the next ten weeks.

They both climbed into the Torino, but instead of putting the key in the ignition, Starsky fiddled with his watch’s strap.

“You’ll have to take it to a jeweler,” said Hutch. “The pin’s gone.”

“Nah, I’ve still got the pieces of my last watch. Which you destroyed, come to think of it.”

Hutch’s jaw dropped open. “I did not destroy your watch!”

“You deliberately placed it in the line of fire.”

“It was me or the watch, Starsk.”

“You better hope I never have to make that choice, partner.”

“You know, Starsky,” Hutch rubbed his eyes, “maybe some wheatgrass and yoga therapy would do you some good.”

Starsky made a rude noise and pocketed the watch. However, when he still didn’t start the car, Hutch turned toward him.

“Hutch, I–” Starsky looked really uncomfortable. “I’ve been kinda putting you through hell these past few days.”

There was a part of Hutch that wanted the apology his partner was struggling to make, and the more painful for Starsky the better. But he knew that if he really wanted things to go back to normal, he couldn’t give in to his knee-jerk desire for payback. “That’s all right, pal, love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

Starsky pulled a face, and groaned. “If you’re goin’ to go all soapy on me, forget about it.”

Hutch grinned. “So partner, before we end up getting in touch with our touchy-feely feminine sides, do you want to get out there and find some scumballs we can legally beat into comas?”

A broad smile crossed Starsky’s face.

“Oh, yeah.”

The Torino roared into life.

 

Appendix

Da Rules for Da Macho Angst:

RC: Now we’re not saying that a fic can’t be good that breaks any of these rules

EH: Well, except for probably #1.

RC: Heck, both of us have broken the vast majority of these in our other fics.

EH: Although never, ever #1. Well, so far anyway.

RC: However these were the rules we developed to guide this exercise in macho angst.

 

Rule 1. No making it all better with hot man-on-man sex!

EH: No, this isn’t anti-slash manifesto. After all, I am an unrepentant slash-aholic, and Rebelcat enjoys reading it even if she’s too wimpy to write it.

RC: I did too write slash!

EH: G-rated. (rolls eyes) Anyway, what we’re talking about here are those stories…

RC: In way, way too many fandoms…

EH: Where nothing fixes having been raped or otherwise brutally traumatized than a hard one up the you know where, even if the character’s never done it before in a loving way.

RC: (Shudder) Although, to be fair, shouldn’t we say no making it all better with hot man-on-woman sex. Or hot woman-on-woman sex for that matter.

EH: I swear, I never would have written that story except for peer pressure.

RC: Uh huh. (rolls eyes)

EH: Fine, a revised rule:

 

Rule 1.1 While sex with people of the opposite, same or inanimate gender can be a transforming, heart-warming, and/or delightfully fun experience it is not an instant cure-all for psychological, physical and/or other forms of trauma.

RC: Jeez, just how long has it been since you’ve had sex?

EH: Shut. Up.

 

Rule 2. No tears, manly or otherwise.

RC: Not that we’re saying that macho guys can’t cry… especially as these guys did in canon!

EH: However, it’s easy to get carried away, so we outlawed it as dangerous behavior.

RC: Instead, we had Starsky & Hutch deal with strong emotions the tried and true manly way, through copious alcohol consumption and vomiting.

EH: Although, we had to keep the thigh-clutching, because that’s canon with those two.

RC: And that hug you insisted on. (rolls eyes)

EH: The way those two groped each other on prime time you should be grateful I only wanted them to hug once.

 

Rule 3. No all-night, soul-bearing, sensitive discussions of the psyche and/or how much they care about each other over copious amounts of ice cream and/or tequilas.

RC: It can be done well . . .

EH: But it can also lead to writing chicks with dicks. Ergo, verboten here.

RC: Hey, did you hear, Adrienne is going to deliberately break this one for fun.

EH: Mmmm, Giles/Ethan macho slash with ice cream. Oh baby.

 

Rule 4. No cowering in corners or other behavior of the regressive kind.

RC: Now, some authors have pulled these sorts of actions off magnificently, without the least hint of OOCness.

EH: I know I’m never going to recover from having my heart ripped out and stomped on by Daydreamer’s “Alone.”

RC: However, as we weren’t going to lock our poor macho man in a closet for two years, we couldn’t justify such a radical departure from normal behavior.

EH: After all, for S&H, it’s canon that these tough guys took out their feelings on the furniture at the first sign of angst.

RC: Not that we believe that seventies furniture deserves to be broken into little pieces.

EH: Well . . .

RC: Okay, so maybe we do.

 

Rule 5. No harrowing flashbacks.

EH: Normally, I’m an unrepentant harrowing flashbacker.

RC: However such devices could have led us to breaking rules 2, 3, or 4.

EH: So I had to let them go. (sob)

RC: Pull yourself together, I let you keep the flippin’ hug.

EH: It was a manly hug!

 

Rule 6. No apologies or expressions of gratitude.

RC: We first dreamed this one up to prevent us from breaking rules 2 and 3.

EH: To our surprise, this rule ended up being the absolute hardest to abide by.

RC: Although, it was a fun challenge for two Canadians to impose on themselves, what with our international reputation.

EH: As overly polite, beer-guzzlin’, pot-smokin’, gay-married terrorist beaver-lovers?

RC: Not. Touching. That. One.

 

Rule 7. The traumatized macho character(s) cannot be all better by the end!

RC: Trauma takes a long time to heal, especially given the macho man tendency to repress things, sometimes for decades.

EH: Plus, to be fair, we are denying our macho men the all-powerful, healing option outlined in rule 1. 🙂

 

Rule 8. No making up defensive rules to defend our approach to this story…

RC: Crap, too late.

EH: So bring on the flames, mon!

RC: Or alternately, you could write your own story. Either use these rules as written, or else deliberately break every single one of them. And then let us know where you’re posting it!

EH: Mmmm, Macho-Angst Fest, I’m lovin’ it.

RC: I’ve created a monster.