Razor’s Edge

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“Hutch knew that tone…It was Starsky at his most dangerous.”

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As the floor beneath him shifted, Ken Hutchinson stumbled and fell again, going down on hands and knees. The wooden flooring of the abandoned warehouse was rough beneath his palms. A particularly vicious splinter jabbed through his jeans into his knee, and he froze with a hiss. The room reeled about him like a ship on a storm ravaged sea while he fought the urge to be sick.

Damn!

Between the painful lump on the back of his head and the drug she’d injected into his veins, he knew he was in serious trouble.

His mind was cloudy, sluggish and slow, but it was his body that was proving the ultimate betrayer. He couldn’t keep his feet under him. Weak as a suckling kitten, he couldn’t get away.

And she was there. He knew it — could feel her presence prowling the darkness, staying just beyond his reach.

He smelled the cloying fragrance of her perfume. Heard the soft sigh of black silk as her short skirt brushed her thighs. Glimpsed the occasional flash of long, pale limbs in the shadows and the sheen of her dark waterfall of hair when it caught the light of the moon or the streetlamps shining through the high windows.

“Ken.” Her voice was a low, seductive purr — a siren song in the darkness. “Don’t struggle so. You know you can’t get away. But I can make it good. Oh, love, for you, I can make it so good.”

He remembered the first time he’d heard that silken, sensuous voice — he’d been standing beside his partner in Captain Dobey’s office, arguing with the gruff bear of a man over the need to have someone from Vice in on the operation.

“We can handle it, Cap’n!” Dave Starsky snapped, unruly curls seeming to stand on end, mirroring his agitation. “This is our case and we don’t need anyone from the pussy patrol tellin’ us how t’do our job!”

“I’ve got some kind of shiv artist on the loose and three dead men in four weeks!” Captain Harold Dobey retaliated, leaning his heavy bulk forward over the desk in an effort to out-shout the ill-mannered detective. “Three men with their throats cut, and now it looks like they may have been johns out for some action.” A sausage of a finger came down on the center of the desk, brooking no further argument. “Now, you need someone to work that angle! You are going to get help from Vice and you are going to cooperate!”

“But Cap’n…”

“No ‘buts’, Starsky! That’s the way it’s going to be!”

“Well.” A feminine purr broke in on the argument from behind. ” I certainly hope I’m not the cause of all this commotion.”

The voice, low and husky, had a devastating effect on the three men. Brains temporarily disconnected from their libidos, they turned to face the woman.

All legs, curves, pale skin, glossy, dark hair — and something more — a brazen self-confidence and underlying fortitude that bordered on dangerous. This woman was no china doll. The sweeping glance of her slanting green eyes seemed almost palpable.

“Gentlemen.”

Her rich, throaty tones sent a pleasant shudder down Hutch’s spine and a warmth spreading through his groin. Stumbling slightly, he reached out in practiced nonchalance to lean against the wall, assuring himself that his own smile certainly appeared more sophisticated and inviting than the sappy grin plastered across his partner’s face.

The shapely Sergeant in the blue, sweater-knit pantsuit took a few steps into the room, holding out a slim hand towards the Captain. “Veronica Talbot. Vice.”

The slender fingers were engulfed in Dobey’s great paw as he shook her hand with enthusiasm, his own round face breaking into a wide smile.

“Captain Dobey. It’s a pleasure Sergeant Talbot. Please…” He released her hand and gestured towards a chair. “Have a seat.”

She smiled, a slow curve of those sensuous red lips. “Please. Call me Ronnie.”

Then Starsky and Hutchinson were both rushing to offer her a chair, nearly falling over each other in their haste to appear chivalrous.

Detective Talbot had taken their fatuous behavior in stride, appearing to relish the attention lavished upon her by the two detectives. Yet, it had been Starsky she’d eventually latched onto and, surprisingly, Hutch had found he didn’t begrudge his friend the lady’s company.

Oh, he’d been willing to engage in a little friendly competition, knowing it was expected, perhaps even welcomed by Starsky, but the attentions Hutch paid the young woman were perfunctory and without substance.

Veronica Talbot was stunningly attractive, intelligent and, judging from Starsky’s enthusiastic play-by-play descriptions, dynamite in bed, but Hutch was never quite comfortable around her. He’d assumed it was her resemblance to his ex-wife that left him uneasy in her presence. However, thinking back, he wondered if he might have also sensed something of the darkness within her soul. Not that it mattered now; it was a little late to speculate.

A floor board creaked and the scent of her perfume reached his nostrils. She was behind him. Close. Too close.

Cool fingers brushed his collar — slid upward to feather through his hair.

He gave a small grunt of pain as her fingers encountered the sticky mat of blood and hair on the back of his head — damage left when she’d bashed him with a heavy object. What it had been, he’d never had the chance to see, let alone avoid.

Her breath tickled the back of his neck as she bent over him; her silken voice murmured in his ear. “Ken. There’s nowhere to run.”

Get away! He had to get away!

He staggered to his feet, determined to escape.

God. He felt as uncoordinated as a newborn colt, arms and legs all going in the wrong directions. One hand reached out for the wall to steady himself, but the wall wasn’t where he judged it to be, and he pitched into space. Off-balance and disoriented, he fell, crashing to the floor again. With a groan, he rolled onto his belly and began to drag himself painfully across the dusty planking.
He heard the echoing tap of her heels as she approached, the whisper of silk and nylon rubbing together as she knelt beside him. One of her hands tangled in his hair while the other glided upward along his thigh, over the curve of his hip, fingers trailing along his side, then slipping beneath to rub the flat planes of his chest.

He bit his lower lip with a whimper of frustration as her fevered mouth fastened at the nape of his neck, the tongue probing his skin in hot, slick circles.

The mouth drew away, leaving behind cool wetness. Her sweet fragrance seemed to cling to his skin.

“Ken.” The hand petted his hair. “I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted you to find out.”

The floor continued to sway and ripple beneath him. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face to the rough planking, fighting nausea. He was so dizzy. Up and down. Nothing seemed to have any meaning. The room. The world. Everything was spinning. He swallowed back the sour taste of bile, his body quivering. The drug? Fear? Did it matter?

“Leave me alone,” he managed to grate through clenched teeth.

“I can’t. Not anymore. I’m sorry.”

“You’re going to kill me.” The words escaped his lips in a breath that stirred the blurry threads of dust in his near vision.

Why had he said that? “You’re going to kill me.” Said it as if it were a given — as if the coin had already been tossed and his fate decided. She’s going to try to kill you, he told himself. That was the operative word —try. He still had a chance if he stopped pissing around and got his act together.

“Yes.” Her mouth was a close whisper, and a warm tongue traced the curving shell of his ear. “Yes. I’m going to kill you, Ken Hutchinson. But not like the others. The johns who use the boys and girls on the street then toss them away like so much trash. Suck ’em. Fuck ’em. Then home to the dear, sweet wife and kiddies.”

Poison crept into the voice. “They’re all scum. They deserve to die like scum. But you…” The tongue probed deep into his aural canal and he shivered in reaction. “I never wanted to kill you.” Teeth nipped at his ear lobe, tugged painfully. He felt her move, heard the soft brush of material as she straddled him, settling her weight on his thighs. Strong hands spread over his shoulders, pressing down, moving in languid circles as she kneaded at the tension running through his lean frame. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone, Hutchinson? Why did you have to keep… pushing?”

On the last word, her sultry voice hardened, taking on a dangerous edge as she slid forward, her hips riding against his ass, beginning to rock in a rhythm as old as man and woman. Her breath quickened and she moaned, obviously titillated by the motion. But the positions weren’t right. That realization trickled through Hutch’s muddled mind. It was almost as though she wanted to take him as a man would take another man.

He groaned and pressed his body flat against the wooden floor in hopes of holding his world steady. The dust was making his nose itch. “Starsky will figure it out,” he rasped. That surety was the one steadfast anchor in this sea of chaos.

Figure it out…

If Hutch had been smart, Starsky would already know — would be here backing him up. But telling his partner that his latest love interest might be a serial killer was not something Hutch had been prepared to do, not till he was sure. And now that hewas sure, it might be too late.

With a sense of deja vu, Hutch recalled a time Starsky had acted with similar intent to spare feelings, choosing to remain silent when he learned Hutch’s latest girlfriend was a high-priced call girl. Things hadn’t turned out very well that time either, and Hutch ruefully acknowledged he should have taken the lesson to heart. Instead, he had walked into this one alone, and now it looked like he was going to die alone. Not letting his partner in on his suspicions had been a mistake — perhaps the worst mistake he’d ever made, and quite possibly the last. As always, hindsight was twenty-twenty.

“I know,” Veronica sighed. “I have no doubt Dave will find the truth. He’s a good cop.”

“The best,” Hutch agreed. Under the circumstances, the small stirring of pride he always felt when he thought about his street-wise partner was almost painful in its intensity.

“Yes.” Her words sounded almost regretful. Fingers threaded through strands of his pale hair, the nails scratching his scalp. “I know. I can only keep him distracted so long, and when you turn up dead…” The hands slid back down his body, over the shoulder blades and along the ridge of his spine.

A quiver fluttered in his belly, and his skin seemed to shrink from her touch.

The hands stopped at his lower back, pressing into him as she leaned forward to nibble at the base of his neck. “I’m sorry, Ken. I really do like you, and Dave is very special to me. But you leave me no choice.”

The hands pulled away. The voice pulled away. The weight left him. He heard the click of her high heels circling, like a shark waiting for the perfect moment to attack.

Come on, Hutchinson, he goaded himself. Get up and get out, or it’s over.

But his body seemed deaf to the demand.

“We have a date tonight. Dave and I. He’s taking me to Le Citronnier. You recommended it. Do you remember?”

Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Hutch watched as his partner bid the attractive Sergeant Talbot a more than friendly good night and turned to enter the squad room.

“So,” he noted as he poured a second cup, holding it out to Starsky. “You and Ronnie are going out again?”

“Fraid so, partna.” Starsky grinned and waggled dark eyebrows playfully. “Looks like the better man won this time.” He sipped at the dark brew and his smile contorted into an unpleasant grimace. “I could clean my engine with this stuff.”

Hutch took a tentative taste of the coffee and pulled a face in agreement. “I think someone already did.”

Starsky braved another cautious sip, his swallow seeming almost painful. “Well, the worse it tastes, th’bigger the kick. Ain’t that what they say?”

Hutch peered skeptically into his mug. “They do?”

The two of them made their way to their desks, Starsky standing, absently fiddling with a pencil on his desk while Hutch flopped into his chair.

“Starsk. Veronica’s choice has nothing to do with the better man. How could it? Obviously, it was a forfeit. You’ve had so little action lately, I felt sorry for you.”

Starsky wagged the pencil at his partner. “That’s a crock, an’ you know it. You’re just sore ’cause she picked me instead’a you.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” Hutch muttered as an aside, deliberately pitching his voice loud enough for Starsky to hear.

“Hey.” Starsky reached out and snagged a chair, flipping it around so he could straddle it facing the back. “The lady knows what she likes, an’ she obviously prefers dark, charming and irresistibly attractive over All-American Boy Scout.”

“Oh?” Hutch’s whole body feigned surprise. “Then why is she going out with you?”

Starsky sneered in disgust. “Very funny. But it doesn’t change the fact that Ronnie is goin’ out with me, not you.”

Hutch’s smile was magnanimous. “Well, buddy. Take your best shot, because it won’t take her long to figure out what a proletarian you are, and come looking for something better anyway.”

Starsky’s brow darkened. “What’dya mean?”

Hutch leaned back in his chair, looking perfectly at ease. “Think about it, Starsk. Veronica’s not your type really, is she? She’s a classy lady. You usually go for the pizza, bowling and beer set.” He waved a hand in the manner of the worldly older brother offering advice. “Face it, buddy. She’s out of your league.”

“You think so, huh?” Starsky’s mobile face shifted restlessly, as though he were trying to decide whether to get angry or not.

Hutch shrugged. “I call it as I see it.”

The blond detective’s veiled amusement seemed to placate Starsky, whose manner was more teasing than angry as he half-rose in his seat to chide his partner across the desk. “You’re just jealous.”

His eyes met Starsky’s with a brief twinkle of affection before glancing away. “Possibly.”

Locating the report he’d been working on that morning, he scribbled his name at the bottom and pushed it across the desk towards Starsky. “So where are you taking her?”

“Why?” Starsky glanced up, gaze wary. “You thinking of showin’ up with tickets to the ballet or somethin’?”

Hutch gave him a bored look. “All right. Don’t tell me. Just trying to be friendly.”

Starsky took the report and began to skim through it. “Thought we’d bowl a few lanes, then maybe dinner someplace. Casa Tequila’s always got good chili.”

“Ah, Starsk, you see?” Hutch waved a finger in vindication. “That’s just what I mean. No class.”

“What’aya talkin’ about, no class?” Starsky griped. “I’ll have you know Casa Tequila is a very classy place. They got tablecloths, and live music.” He sat forward with an earnest expression. “They even got cloth napkins all folded up to look like flowers, huh?”

“Starsk…”

And then the clincher. “Hey, candlelight even! That’s classy.”

“Old candles stuck in empty beer bottles is not class. That’s crass!”

“Oh, yeah? Well, where would you take her, Mr. Sophisticated?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Hutch considered for a moment, face growing tender. “Some place romantic. Maybe on the beach, where we could sit outside and watch the waves. Or maybe up in the hills overlooking the lights of the city. Someplace like Le Citronnier.”

“Le Citronnier?” Starsky mouth seemed to struggle with the name. “Is that that new restaurant you keep wanting to drag me to? The one with d’snails?”

“Escargot, Starsk. It’s French.”

“You can call ’em whatever fancy name you want, buddy boy. They’re still the same slimy critters Mrs. Vandiver’s got in her garden.” Starsky scrawled his own name next to Hutch’s on the report. “You want ’em so bad, you can come on over and we’ll ask nice Mrs. Vandiver if we can round up a batch and have a cook out. Then maybe they’ll stop eatin’ her ivy.”

“These are special snails, Starsk. You don’t just pick them off your garbage cans.”

“A snail is a snail.”

Hutch’s mouth quirked in exasperation. “You know, for someone who puts barbecue sauce and pineapple chunks on ice cream, you sure can be finicky!”

“Sorry.” Starsky shrugged. “Just some things ain’t meant to be eaten, is all.” He carefully arranged the latest report with some other papers and attached them together with a paperclip. “But, aside from the snails, Le Citronnier sounds like a good idea. Guess I’ll take her there.”

“What?” Hutch’s pale eyebrows leapt towards his hairline then drew together peevishly. “Hey wait! Just because you have somehow conned the lady into spending time with you, does not mean you need to start stealing all my moves.”

“I ain’t stealin’,” Starsky clarified. “Just borrowin’. ‘Sides, you know what they say, partna. All’s fair in love an’ war.”

“So which is this?” Hutch inquired, blandly. “Love or war?”

“That’s easy. I’m in love with her, an’ I’m at war with you.”

Starsky’s grin was infectious, and Hutch couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped.

“You’re nuts. You know that?”

Starsky rose, completed report in hand. “This from a guy who eats snails.” Heading for Dobey’s office, he paused just long enough to deliver his parting shot. “Besides, I may be nuts, but I’m still the one takin’ Veronica out to dinner tomorrow!”

“Metro’s golden boys. Reckless, ruthless and righteous.” A soft sigh reached Hutch through the veil of darkness. “Why couldn’t you two have been a couple of keystone cops? It would have made things so much easier. But no, you had to figure it out. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you leave here alive tonight. And Dave…” The footsteps paused. “Dave Starsky will be dead before your blood cools.”

NO!

Fear for his partner did what self preservation had not, and Hutch surged to his hands and knees. Managing to stagger half-way to his feet, he pointed a finger at the pale specter wavering in the darkness. “You…” he snarled, “You stay away from my partner!”

Dammit! Why couldn’t the woman stand still! Then he realized she wasn’t the one moving. He was. Swaying like a man nearing the bottom of a bottle of whiskey.

“Ken.” She moved towards him, out of the shadows, arms reaching as though to embrace him. “Oh, Ken. I know it hurts. I know how you love him. He loves you too. Don’t you see? That’s why he has to die. Because he won’t give up till he finds your killer… till he finds me.”

He stumbled backwards, trying to avoid her touch, and ended up on his back, staring up at the bank of skylights overhead, luminous silver in the moonlight.

Why here? Why had she brought him here? Was this another part of her twisted game, bringing him to this place to finish him off? He remembered how the two of them had talked about this deserted warehouse, checking it out during a routine casing of the neighborhood when the fourth and latest victim had been found in a building next door.

While Starsky prowled the corners of the upper floor of the warehouse, kicking at loose boards and bending to sift through the occasional pile of debris, Hutch and Veronica Talbot drifted towards the center and stood gazing about the vast, airy space.

“You know,” Talbot mused, her cool glance assessing the spacious building, “there have been some recent efforts to fix this neighborhood up, convert these old warehouses into apartments.”

“Oh, yeah,” Starsky piped from across the room where he squatted, inspecting a pile of discarded cigarette butts and burned matches. “Just where your typical American family wants to live, on the corner of Murder and Mayhem.”

Hutch either didn’t hear Starsky’s disparaging comment, or chose to ignore it, responding instead to the dark haired woman at his side. “Yeah. This would make a terrific studio apartment. I mean, look at the square footage.” Eyes of clear, Wedgwood blue swept the room in speculative appreciation. “Solid wood floors. High ceilings. Wooden beams. The brickwork looks in good condition.”

“And just look at this skylight.” Talbot tilted her head back, rich cascade of hair falling nearly to her waist as she examined the overhead windows.

Grinning, Hutch stepped into the dazzling beams of light slanting from above. “It’s great!”

Talbot agreed. “It alone could sell the place.”

Hutch spread his arms, turning in slow circles. “My plants would love it.”

Talbot took a couple of steps back, a sly smile curling one corner of her mouth as she eyed Hutch, limned in the light. “That soft sunshine… ” she breathed. “Turns everything to gold.”

Starsky straightened, brushing dust from his faded jeans. “Hey, blondie,” he griped, strutting towards the two of them. “Give a guy a break, will’ya?

Hutch turned, looking confused. “Wha… ?”

Starsky’s expression was one of exasperated affection. “Stop standin’ there like a gold-plated Adonis. You’re dazzlin’ my girl.”

Hutch’s eyebrows went up. “Your girl?”

Talbot laughed, a throaty chuckle, and moved to encircle Starsky with her arms. “Your girl?” she teased, nuzzling his neck. “I would have thought that if you learned anything last night, David, it’s that I’m no girl.”

Starsky covered his embarrassment with a broad grin. “Guess you might hafta repeat that lesson.”

“Oh, really?” Talbot ran a slim hand up the front of Starsky’s patterned, polyester-knit shirt, fingers toying with his collar.

Turning from Hutch’s amused smile, Starsky returned the woman’s embrace. “Maybe several times. I’m kind of a slow learner.”

“He means lame brain,” Hutch supplied, watching as his partner and the stunning brunette exchanged a kiss.

Pulling free of Starsky’s arms, Talbot turned her gaze on Hutch. “You know, Ken, if they do renovate these places, you ought to look into buying one. The first few apartments should be fairly reasonable, you know, before they’re really in demand.”

Starsky snorted in disdain. “You mean while the neighborhood is still a war zone.”

Talbot folded her arms under her shapely breasts and gave the room an appraising once over. “Maybe you could even get this place.”

Intrigued, Hutch caught her look. “You think so?”

“Sure. If you get in at the ground floor. You know, help finance the venture.” She tilted her head to the side, her expression bordering on coquettish. “I have a friend in real estate. If you want, I could look into it.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Starsky interrupted, not at all pleased with the flirtatious byplay he seemed to detect between his partner and Veronica. “We’re supposed t’be investigatin’ a murder, not worryin’ about real estate deals.”

Hutch took a moment to share a lascivious smile with Talbot, not above teasing his partner a bit. “Come on, Starsk. She’s got a point. This place could be really great.” He swept one hand towards the far end of the large room. “You could put in a kitchen at that end.”

“And a utility room,” added Talbot. “Those are always handy.”

Hutch’s lips pursed in thought. “Bet that old freight elevator could be repaired.”

“Ceiling fans would look great, and help circulate the air.” Talbot examined the ceiling. “It’s a big space.”

Hutch craned his neck. “The ceiling is high enough. You could put in an upper loft if you wanted, for a bedroom maybe.”

“With a spiral staircase,” enthused Talbot. “Ironwork. Delicate, but masculine, you know?”‘

“And lots of plants,” Hutch declared in an adamant tone.

“Plenty of plants,” Talbot agreed. “Tropical ones. Palms. Ferns. Some bromeliads. Like a garden, indoors.”

“A jungle.”

She laughed. “You’ll need a house cat.”

“What?”

“You know. Your own jungle tiger.”

Starsky propped his hands on his hips, impatiently shuffling his feet as his companions renovated the building in their minds.

“Hey, you know what?” Talbot exclaimed. “You might even be able to convert the incinerator into a fireplace and chimney.”

“I don’t know. That would be a lot of work.”

“But worth it. Can you imagine? Sitting in front of your fireplace, wine glass in hand, listening to the sound of the rain on the skylight windows. Cat curled on your lap.”

“Fur on your cords,” added Starsky, but no one was paying him the slightest attention.

“Ken, it’s perfect for you!”

“Maybe.”

“No maybe. You belong here.”

Starsky had had enough. “Hey! Hold it, you two!” he barked. “Time out!” He joined his hands in the familiar ‘T’ sign for a moment’s respite. “Can we stop with the Better Homes and Gardens routine, huh? We got a meeting at Parker Center in twenty minutes, an’ I don’t think Gorman’s gonna be too happy if we’re late… again.” His blue eyes searched the two of them for acquiescence. “What’dya say we go see what the man wants?” He bounced on his toes a bit, gesturing towards the door.

Talbot glanced at Hutch, who spread his hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’

“Is he always like this?” she asked as they passed Starsky and headed for the exit stairs.

“Never,” Hutch answered dryly.

Starsky fell into step with his partner. “Dream house, huh?”

Hutch’s light smile brushed Starsky. “More like a castle in the sky.” The smile blossomed into a grin. “But it would be great, wouldn’t it?”

It was cruel, bringing him here, knowing he would remember. Or maybe she saw it as a kindness, offering him death in a place of pleasant daydreams. He didn’t know. He was confused and frightened, and it was too hard to think.

His head was pounding from the blow he’d taken. What had she hit him with? A piano? He vaguely remembered lying on her rug, staring up at the stucco ceiling, at all the pebbled bumps throbbing and receding in time to the thundering beat in his head. And then her face. The parted ruby lips. The slanting eyes. The dark tumble of glossy hair as she leaned over him. The hypodermic needle as she held it up to the light and tapped one perfectly manicured nail against the syringe. He had struggled…

hadn’t he?

And found that the sweet curves and velvet skin hid an athletic build of surprising strength.

then she’d pushed up his sleeve and jabbed the sliver of pain into the soft skin of his inner elbow.

He’d cried out at the violation and floated away…

waking up to find himself here.

Something moved, drawing his eyes away from the skylights. She had glided into his line of sight and stood watching him, her hair one with the night, her face a pale pearl of moonlight.

As she lifted one hand, he saw something flash, caught in the light cast by the street lamps and the shining glow of the first quarter moon through the windows and skylight. An old-fashioned straight-edged razor.

His breath froze, remembering the bodies of the victims, their flesh slashed to ribbons by multiple passes of a razor — throats sliced open and left gaping to spill their life’s blood.

“Ronnie?” There was tremor in his voice he didn’t like. It made him sound afraid, but dammit, hewas afraid!

She took a step towards him and he rose on his elbows, scuttling backwards in an effort to push himself beyond her reach.

Her voice taunted him from the dark. “Where are you going, Ken?” She followed, slowly, almost casually, sure in the knowledge that he couldn’t escape.

No! No! No!

A part of him continued to deny that it could end like this, would not accept that he was going to die, here and now, but she seemed to have no such illusions.

“I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little Davey, too!” She threw back her head and laughed hysterically, her long white throat rippling with the sound.

“Bitch!” he spat, feeling scared and resentful, needing to fight back somehow.

She moved in, crouching at his feet as she reached out to grasp him by one ankle. That touch alone, gentle as it was, seemed enough to still his flight. He fell back with a moan that was almost a sob.

“I know.” Her voice was honey and mead. “You’re scared. You don’t want to die, but you can’t get away.” Her hand slid up his calf, past his knee, tickling along his inner thigh. “The drug’s too strong. I made sure of that.”

He struck out at her with a kick. His foot connected with something and she fell back with a grunt; he rolled, pulling himself out of her reach on elbows and forearms.

But in moments she was back, heated now — no longer toying with him. She grabbed him by the hair, tangling her fingers in his pale bangs and jerking his head back. The blade flashed as she held it before his eyes, making sure he understood just how easy it would be to bring it slashing across his throat and leave him choking on his own blood.

“Don’t fight me, Ken,” she panted. “You’ll only end up getting hurt, and I don’t want it to hurt you. I told you that.”

Fingers still twisted in his hair, she yanked his head around and pushed him over onto his back. Spreading her thighs, she settled herself across his loins, holding the blade poised in the air above him. The hand in his hair began to pet, brushing sweaty blond strands back from his forehead.

“Beautiful man. Sensual man.” She ran one finger lightly over his lips. “David is my dark desire. But you… you make me wet.” She leaned forward, trying to catch his lips with her own, but he wrenched his head to the side and she only brushed the corner of his mouth. This seemed to provoke her, and she seized his face, digging her nails into his cheeks as she forced him to face her. “You’re being foolish. I could kill you right now.”

“Why… don’t you?” Hutch gasped, finding it hard to speak past her weight.

“Because it’s such a waste.” She ran her tongue over her lips and bent forward, her mouth closing on his, sucking at his lips. Biting.

He tasted blood, his own, mingling with their shared saliva.

“Because you are so beautiful.” Her tongue mapped the contours of his face, her breath hot against his skin. “Because I want to make you feel good.” Her free hand slid down between her legs and found the soft bulge beneath the fabric of his jeans. With a low sound in her throat she began fondling him with hungry fingers.

He gasped and tried to buck her off, his eyes going wide and desperate. Whatever she’d pumped into his bloodstream, it apparently didn’t kill sensation. The insistent caress of her fingers over his crotch was undesired, but he couldn’t find the strength to fight her.

“They talk about you, you know. The working girls. They call you a sweetheart. A soft touch. An angel.” Sweet words. Soft seduction dripping from ruby lips. “They say you’re always kind to them. Slip them a few bucks when you can. Treat them like they’re people, not trash. A real gentleman.” She nuzzled the base of his throat, her hand still rubbing over his genitals. “Gentle man. Beautiful man. I’m sorry.”

He groaned and tried to push her away. “Don’t… Stop…”

“Don’t stop?” She chuckled, a deep throaty sound. “Whatever you say, blond and beautiful.”

“No!” He writhed beneath her, trying to escape the burning touch of her hands, the moist heat of her mouth. “I don’t want this! I don’t want you!”

She drew back for a moment to gaze down at him, her face unreadable in the shadows.

“Enough of the games, Veronica,” he asserted with the little breath he had. “I’m not playing.”

One corner of her mouth curled and she leaned forward, bringing her face within inches of his own. “Okay, Ken. Your choice. No more games. Just a last request.” Her whisper was a whip. “Die for me.”

The first pass of the straight-edged blade was a shock. He saw the flash of the razor. Felt the diagonal sweep across his chest. Saw her sit back with a little smile of triumph.

And then the pain caught up and he gasped, tears springing to his eyes.

“Poor Ken,” she said, her full lips drawing into a mock pout. “Do you want me to kiss it and make it better?”

He panted in distress and tried to crawl from beneath her weight, his hands clawing uselessly at the wooden floor.

In desperation, he swung a lethargic fist. Felt his knuckles impact with the soft flesh of her cheek. Her head rocked to the side, but only slightly, and her answering back hand was enough to send stars shooting across his vision.

“Naughty boy!”

The razor slashed again, leaving a trail of fire below his ribs, and he moaned deep in his throat.

She wasn’t cutting deeply, he knew. She was still playing with him. The mortal wounds would come later, when she tired of the game. Then she would slash open his belly to let his guts spill out and slit his throat with her blade.

“Ken. Mon amour. ” She dipped a finger in his blood, used it to paint his lips, then bent to fasten her mouth on his. Sitting back she made a show of licking the smeared blood from her lips. “Do you believe in God?”

This time she carefully placed the blade at the base of his throat and drew it down his breastbone, moving slowly, sending searing sparks radiating outward from the center of his chest. “Do you believe in your own death?”

His breath became a series of shuddering half gasps. His head rolled weakly on the floor. “No…” It was a plea, a prayer, an anguished cry.

Her tongue ran over his chest, lapping at the blood seeping from the shallow cuts left by the razor.

“Ronnie…” He struggled to bring her into focus — to see through the tears and the haze of agony.

She leaned close, her hair falling like a veil over his face. “You know you’re going to die now. You finally believe it.”

He nodded, and let his eyes drift shut. “Yes.” It was a broken breath of sound.

Her fingers found the side of his face, feeling cool against his skin as they traced the line of his jaw. “God, you are so beautiful. I’m sorry it has to end like this.”

Dragging open heavy lids, he gazed into those alluring emerald eyes. “Ronnie…” he begged. “Please… Don’t kill Starsky. Please.” He shook his head, pleading with everything he had. “You don’t have to. He doesn’t know.”

“Oh, Ken. Dear, sweet, beautiful Ken.” She ran one finger down to the base of his throat. “He has to die. You know that. He’d figure everything out, in time. So I can’t give him that time. But in your memory, I’ll make a promise.” Gentle fingers, brushing the tears from his cheeks. Her honey whisper barely reached his ears. “I won’t hurt him. I’ll do him quick. No pain.” She smiled, almost tenderly. “Now say goodnight, sweet prince”

“Ronnie.”

Low, dangerous, and tightly controlled, the name cut through the shadows like a knife, shredding Talbot’s carefully woven web of dark seduction.

“Put down the razor.”

Starsky!

Hutch almost sobbed in relief. He might be drugged, dazed and racked with pain, but as long as he still lived that cherished voice would have the power to reach him.

Talbot sat back with a stunned expression, razor frozen in the air above Hutch as she gazed into the darkness behind him. Then, slowly, she let her breath escape with a hiss. The green eyes went from wide with astonishment to narrow and cunning. “Dave. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I said, drop it.”

Hutch knew that tone. Deceptively calm. Hushed and deliberate, masking a core of finely-honed steel. Starsky at his most dangerous. He craned his neck, but could make out little in the dark but the black of a silhouette against a lesser blackness.

Talbot shrugged, tossing aside the straight edged blade as if it were of no consequence.
Hutch heard the weapon hit and skitter across the wooden floor, the sound disproportionately loud in the vast emptiness of the warehouse.

Holding up her empty hands, Talbot seemed to be declaring herself harmless, but there was nothing harmless about the wicked smile that curled her lips.

“Hutch?” The name sounded harsh in the stillness, and perhaps only Hutch would have heard the trace of worry that underlay the illusory calm. “You okay?”

Hutch swallowed, trying to moisten his dry mouth and throat, seeking voice enough to answer — to reassure his partner. “Yeah, he croaked, hoping he sounded stronger than he felt. “Yeah, Starsk. I’m okay.”

Hutch heard his partner’s deep inhalation and slow release of breath. The relief was there, but none of it touched Starsky’s words as he snapped a command at Talbot.

“Get offa him. Now!”

Talbot bowed her body, thrusting her breast towards Starsky and rubbing her crotch against Hutch’s lower belly with a small sound of pleasure. “You crashed the party a little early, David. I wasn’t quite ready for you. Your partner and I were having such a wonderful time.” She turned that devilish smirk on Hutch. “Weren’t we, baby?”

“I said, get offa him!” This time the voice flared, the strain beginning to show.

Talbot pouted. “Jealous, Davey?”

She tossed her dark mane, then leaned forward, letting her hair fall in a curtain to obscure her and Hutch. Furtively, she slipped one pale hand into the low cut top of her black cocktail dress, reaching down between her breasts. Something flashed in the dim light as she lifted the hand to her lips, planting a sensuous kiss on the fingertips. The hand traveled to Hutch’s mouth, brushing lightly over his lips. Looking deep into his eyes she whispered a final request. “Just one last kiss, my sweet angel.” Wrapping slim fingers around Hutch’s wrists, she pressed his arms flat against the floor and bent closer.

Hutch caught the gleam of something silver winking in the faint light, a sliver of metal peeking from between those perfect, luscious lips.

He understood at the same moment he saw the feral gleam awaken behind her eyes.

A razor blade!

She tilted her head to the side, preparing to strike, and he drew in his breath with a gasp.

Her head whipped down and across even as the cry of terror was leaving his lips.

“Starsk!”

Her motion, his warning shout, and the crack of Starsky’s Beretta all seemed to coalesce into one event.

Talbot jerked, her lips parting in seeming surprise. Something glittered in the faint light as it fell from between her lips. With a sigh, she crumpled sideways, landing in a sprawled heap, her legs still tangled with Hutch’s own.

Hutch’s hands flew to his neck, finding a warm trickle of blood beneath his fingers. His legs kicked almost reflexively at the weight across his lower body.

He had to get away! Had to get away from her!

He was only peripherally aware of Starsky drawing closer, kneeling to check on Talbot.

She’d killed him. She’d slit his throat. He had only seconds to live.

“Starsk…” His words were a bare whisper, as though he were afraid if he spoke loudly, the blood would pump from his severed neck that much faster.

Starsky! I’m dying! Oh God, I’m dying! Help! Please hold me!

His partner was a still shadow in the darkness, bent over the lifeless form of the woman, and Hutch realized he was probably grieving for her. She had been his lover, and he had a right, but Hutch begrudged her even an instant of his partner’s attention.

He was dying! He needed Starsky now!

A panicked moan slipped from his lips, and Starsky seemed to sense his distress.

There was a sound as he shifted in the darkness and moved to Hutch’s side. Hands skimmed over his body, checking the wounds, applying pressure. His torn flesh and blood soaked shirt elicited a series of tight curses from his partner.

“Jesus. She sure did a number on you, buddy. But you’re gonna be all right. You hear? Hutch?” A catch of breath as anguish cut through the litany of reassurance. “Why’d you call out like that? For God’s sake, Hutch! I shot her!”

“She cut me… my throat… she had a razor… in her mouth…” The terror was alive inside him, twisting through his gut, fluttering in his chest, staining his words with hysteria.

Warm hands covered his own trembling fingers, tried to pull them from his neck. “It’s okay. Lemme see.” Hard won control — breathless fear soft in the dark. “Easy, babe.”

Hutch fought the touch, not wanting to let go, not wanting to reveal the wound, knowing that if he did, somehow it would all become real. By keeping the slash covered, he could pretend it wasn’t bad — that it would go away.

“I’m dying, Starsk… Oh, God…” Hutch’s voice broke on the words.

“Hutch. Take it easy. You’re not dying. You can still talk. You can still breathe. You’re gonna be okay. Now, let go! I need to see!” A measure of Starsky’s own anxiety was creeping its way into his tone and he wrenched at Hutch’s hands, forcefully wrestling them away from his neck.

Hutch felt fingers softly probe his wound. His eyes sought Starsky’s, trying to read an answer there, but in the faint light, his partner’s eyes were wells of shadow, telling him nothing.

“Hutch…” The voice was husky with emotion, and the fingers quivered against his skin. “It’s okay. It’s not deep. You’re all right. You hear me?” A tender hand caressed the side of his face. “Hutch?”

And Hutch began to shake as reaction to the night’s litany of terrors flooded through his body. Helplessly he reached out, wanting nothing more in that moment than to be wrapped within the safe haven of those arms.

Reacting instinctively, Starsky gathered Hutch up into a warm embrace. Gratefully, Hutch clung, his panting breath and the hot wetness of his tears damp against his partner’s neck. Starsky rocked him gently, murmuring soft words of comfort to quiet the tremors running through his lean body.

Gradually, the shudders subsided, and Hutch relaxed. Pulling back slightly from Starsky’s hold, he rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

Starsky eyed him critically. “How ya doin’? Huh, buddy?”

Snuffling softly, Hutch abandoned propriety to wipe his nose across his sleeve. “I’m okay,” he whispered, his voice unsteady and childlike in the dark. “Just dizzy… and kinda weak. She hit me with something.” His reached to probe the bump on the back of his head, as though testing to see if the damage was still there. “I don’t know what… and she doped me up.”

“Hutch? What?” Starsky grabbed his partner’s chin and held his head still as he peered worriedly into the pale eyes. “She drugged you? With what? What’d she give you?”

Hutch flinched from the sharpness of Starsky’s tone. “I don’t know. An injection. Something…” He waved a vague hand, then slumped weakly against his friend. “Starsk,” he murmured tiredly. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Shit! What am I doin’?” Starsky grumbled to himself. “I should be gettin’ you to a hospital!” He rose to his feet, pulling Hutch up behind him with an arm around the blond’s waist. Hutch staggered a bit and Starsky tightened his hold.

“Easy, boy. I gotcha.”

Hutch sighed and let himself sag in his partner’s grip as Starsky led him out of the building.

Somewhere on the way to the hospital he felt the darkness draw him downward into unconsciousness, but this time, he did not fight it. Starsky was with him — a warm, living presence beside him in the Torino, a soft voice murmuring words of support, a gentle hand clasping his chilled fingers. He could rest now. Starsky was with him, and as long as Starsky was with him, he was safe.

* * * * *

Coma. Not a pleasant word, and certainly not one Starsky wanted to hear used in the same sentence as the name of his partner and best friend. Its use however, curtailed any further protest the detective might have been considering when he learned he would not be able to take Hutch home from the hospital as soon as he wished. The doctors were very professional, and maddeningly concise. It would be necessary to monitor Hutch very closely over the next twenty-four hours, awakening him frequently to assure he would not succumb to the potentially dangerous combination of the strong sedative Talbot had used and the concussion resulting from the blow to his head. In short, it was going to be a very long, very draining, hospital stay. At least they would have time to talk…

And there were things that needed talking about.

* * * * *

Eyes tightly shut, face pale, Hutch leaned back against the pillow of his hospital bed and groaned. Sweat broke out on his brow, and he swallowed thickly.

“Hutch?” Leaning forward in the chair, Starsky reached out and placed a hand on Hutch’s arm, ready to remind his partner to stay awake.

Hutch’s eyes fluttered open again, and he offered Starsky a wan smile. “I’m still here.”

Starsky brushed tangled strands of corn-silk hair out of Hutch’s eyes, searching his face with concern, needing to know his partner was really okay. The dark shadows under the eyes and the slight downward drag at the corners of the pale mouth worried him, but Hutch seemed mentally alert, if slightly on edge.

“I know. Just making sure. Don’t want that nurse Thelma puttin’ me in a head-lock ’cause I let you fall asleep.” Starsky gave a nervous glance towards the door, as though half expecting the dreaded RN to make an appearance. “When did they start letting gorillas into nursing school anyway?”

“About the same time they started letting certified idiots into the police academy.” Hutch’s teasing grin evolved into a wide yawn, and he scrubbed at his face. “When I get out of here, I’m going to sleep for a week.”

Starsky nodded. “You and me both, buddy.”

Hutch lapsed into silence and turned to stare at the wall, studying it with unwavering intensity for such a length of time that Starsky began to wonder if it were possible to fall asleep with one’s eyes open.

“Hutch?” He reached out with the intention of shaking a shoulder, but Hutch blinked and turned to face him.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering about.”

“Yeah?”

Hutch frowned at his partner, as though delving for clues. “How… how did you find me?”

“What do you mean?”

“The warehouse. How did you know we’d be at the warehouse?”

“Oh.” Starsky considered for a moment and decided to start at the beginning. “I found out you pulled Veronica’s file. Sawyer mentioned it. And then I found the arrest report on the first victim on your desk. And the report from forensics showing those latest hair samples we sent in probably came from a woman. You’d scribbled some notes… about Talbot being the AO, and that bit about her blood type bein’ the same as the blood found under the victim’s nails. The first victim was her collar, right?”

Hutch nodded wearily. “Yeah.”

“And he got off.”

“They couldn’t get a case, but if you read her report, Talbot… She was convinced he was the one who put that hooker on a slab.” He searched Starsky’s face. “Did you read about Ronnie’s little sister? Ran away from home when she was sixteen. Started working the streets. They found her body in a dump. Some john picked her up, raped her with a broken bottle and left her to bleed to death. They never caught the guy.”

Starsky sighed and ran his fingers through his curls, leaving them in even more disarray than before. “And you figured she was on some kind of vengeance kick. I gotta admit, partna, I thought you’d really gone off the deep end. I mean, accusin’ my girlfriend of murder…” His voice trailed into silence, a grimace of pain passing over his features as he considered the brutal death of a woman he’d thought he loved.

“Starsk.” Hutch laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, his expression uncertain, as though feeling inadequate to deal with the situation. “I’m sorry. I… I didn’t want to be right…”

“I know.” Another wrung out sigh. “I know.” The eyes came up, held Hutch’s own. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I should have seen it sooner. I just didn’t want to believe…”

“I know. It’s okay,” Hutch reassured, voice soft with compassion. “Just tell me what happened.”

“I went by your place, all set to tell you t’get off Ronnie’s case and stop bein’ an asshole, but you weren’t there. And then I got to thinkin’ you might have gone to her with your pet theory. So I drove by her apartment an’ your car was out front. Hers wasn’t, and no one answered the door. Then I found the blood…” The eyes dropped again and for a moment, a shroud of silence wrapped around both of them.

“It was on the steps and driveway…” Starsky’s voice was low and muffled. “And I started thinkin’ maybe…” A deep, steadying breath. “I kept tryin’ to figure where you might’ve gone, when I saw something in the bushes. It was your pocket watch.” The eyes came up, filled with remorse. “And then I knew.”

Hutch reached out, rubbing a hand up and down Starsky’s arm in support, but Starsky pulled away, needing some distance to keep his fragile self control from shattering.

“Here.” To give himself time, he dug two fingers into the tight confines of a pocket and fished out Hutch’s gold pocket watch. “Guess you’ll want this back.” The gold watch spun in slow circles, gleaming in the overhead lights as Starsky held it out by the chain.

Hutch’s hand closed over the watch almost reverently, and he sat quietly turning it in his fingers, a wan half-smile brushing his lips. “My grandfather gave me this watch. He was dying at the time. I think he knew it, and he knew it was going to be hard on me.” He rubbed a thumb absently over the etched surface of the watch. “I sometimes felt he was the only one in the family who really cared, who loved me just the way I was.” His fingers tightened around the cool metal. “When I dropped it, I was hoping maybe you’d find it. I was so strung out, it was all I could do. I didn’t have any breadcrumbs…” His feeble chuckle died a swift death and he sighed, shaking his head. “I should have told you everything sooner. You’re not just my friend, Starsky. You’re a damn good cop, one of the best. I should have trusted in that.”

“Hutch…”

But Hutch forestalled his protest. “I fucked up, Starsk. Plain and simple. A partnership is just that, two people, working in tandem…”

Sensing that his partner was working himself up to one of his infamous bouts of self-blame Starsky took immediate steps to redirect the conversation. “Really?” He feigned surprise. “I thought we worked Bay City.”

Hutch sighed in exasperation, “Starsky, be serious. I’m trying to explain…”

But his partner was having none of it. “C’mon, Hutch,” he interrupted without apology. “We screwed-up, yeah. So what? It wasn’t the first time, and it probably won’t be the last.”

“Starsk…”

“Drop it, Hutch. I’m not gonna sit here an listen to you beat yourself up. Ronnie did a good enough job of that herself.”

Hutch sat back, apparently startled by the curtness of his partner’s tone. “Okay. I hear ya.” He watched Starsky in silence a moment, an affectionate smile slowly softening the corners of his mouth.

Starsky eyed him in suspicion. “What now?”

“We.”

“‘We’ what?”

“You said, ‘we screwed up’.”

“So? We’re partnas, right?” Starsky fixed his partner with a stern look. “Hate to break it to ya, buddy, but you’re not the only one who fucked up on this case. Yeah, you didn’t tell me what you suspected, but we both gotta admit I probably would’na listened anyway. An’ if I’d been thinking more with my head an’ less with my dick I mighta seen it too. We blew it, Hutch. Both of us. Me an’ thee, remember?” He waved a finger at Hutch, putting an end to the discussion, and sat back with a wry lift of his eyebrows. “Just be glad we’re both still around to admit we’re assholes.”

Hutch’s smile broadened, as he chuckled in fond exasperation. “Have I told you lately, how wonderful you are?”

Starsky grinned, slightly embarrassed. “Not lately, no.”

“Well you are. And you still haven’t told me how you found me. How you knew we’d be at the warehouse.”

“I didn’t… really,” Starsky admitted with some reluctance. “It was a hunch…”

“A hunch?”

“Yeah. I tried to get inside her head, y’know? Figure out where she’d go. I remembered how you two went on about this place, and I just thought…”

Hutch shot him a look of bemused incredulity. “That was some hunch!”

Starsky shrugged. “I had to start somewhere.”

Hutch answered with a low whistle. “I’d say we got lucky, babe.”

Starsky nodded in agreement, violet eyes teasing. “Yeah, I guess you could say it was a real close shave.”

Hutch froze in astonishment, then gave a snort of laughter. “You are awful!”

“Awful!” Starsky looked wounded. “I thought you said I was wonderful.”

Hutch just shook his head, and grinned. “A momentary lapse. I do have a head injury, remember?”

He studied the watch nesting in the palm of his hand, a ghost of a smile flickering as he opened the lid and gazed upon the clock face and slowly moving hands. “When my grandfather gave this to me, he told me that we are each given a only set amount of time, and we can’t do anything to change that, but we can choose how we spend that time and with whom. ‘Worthwhile causes and worthwhile friends, that’s how you beat time,'” Hutch’s tone deepened and slowed as he quoted his grandfather. “‘Always remember, Kenneth. Life is finite, but love is eternal.'” He trailed into silence, biting down on his lower lip to hide a slight tremble. When he glanced up once again, the blue eyes had gone soft and moist. Reaching out, he enfolded Starsky’s fingers in his own. “You know something?” he whispered, his voice husky with emotion. “He was right. Time is meaningless without someone worthwhile to share it.” He gave the fingers a light squeeze. “Thanks for sharing my time with me, Starsk.”

Starsky returned the pressure, his own reply none too steady. “Same here, buddy. Same here.”